March 2012
1 post
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Panic Attack!
There’s no tell, but under my calm I’m shaking, There’s this grip over over me, I want to hold on to some- one tonight, cry into them and say I’m sorry. Just, I’m sorry.
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You Chose Him (Rewritten)
If given the chance to read your smile,
I wonder what they would reveal. Would
the stanzas tell me that your lips miss
me or have they changed?
If I could hear your laughter speak,
I could imagine what they would say.
Maybe that you’re feeling dim, slowly
fading into him.
Sometimes I wish I could listen in on
the speeches of your passionate heart.
Would they protest against me,...
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February 2012
154 posts
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Wanna Hear You Say
I just want to here you say;
Why are you so go to me? How come you treat me like I’m the only one? With those eyes you see me unlike any- one before.
But I just want to tell you-
Because you deserve it,
You are the only and I know
it, and even though you’ll
never tell me this, I can
make you feel far more
than the cheap sex you’ve
had with others, I could
close...
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Scribe V
She’d rather be a character in a book,
with a smile drawn with pencils, her pretty graphite eyes, grey and shallow,
she’d rather have a body made of words
and commas with periods at the end, no telling where she would start and begin,
I’d turn the page just to see where, but
she’s a draft in her writer’s hands, incomplete, just a girl stuck in a...
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Scribe IV: The Fourth
It’s something at all, nothing at most. If time would
submit to my will, I’d go back, and backspace each
one of my typed words, for you would be no letters,
and left of me would be my future, intact. But we
miscalculated the forces of you. And left to pay,
the price of unrequited, your beauty came at too
high a sacrifice. The ink, like the oil, the natural
resource of my soul is running...
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The ink, like the oil,
the natural resource of my soul is
running out and sooner than excepted
I’ll go dry.
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Scribe III: The Unread
Going Unread, spend the night with a pen, and see
it how it feels. You spilled your tears, kept them in
but let them run across the page. Over hours you
let the right words see through to an audience that
was never there, so behind the curtains you stand
and await to begin, but your spoken words will go
unheard, it’s absurd! Because I wrote this for you!
I wrote this for you! But...
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Marilyn Monroe
Why does every little girl want be like Marilyn
Monroe? Didn’t you get the message, what
she left was more. Her beauty was for sure,
but if you read her eyes in the glamour that
she sought, you’ll see it reads greater than
a pretty face in a small dress. Attention, love
and disorder is all that comes under lights
and stars.
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Tarot
And why did the cards keep spelling your name,
out of her hand, a solid deck, three cards, that
bared your soul, death, the living and the
damned. A curse brought on by the sight of you.
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Scribe II: The Second
And I don’t know, wish I knew. It hurts to cry but it feels good
to pretend. Lock me in a room and listen for hours, this story of
guilt, it evokes us all. When I come to, I’ll miss you so. With the
fires of sadness comes a chilling feel, a soothing soul and a
weeping hill. I talk of ropes, ache to hang, but speak of living,
when everything is left it’s time to heal. This...
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Every Boy Dreams Of His Wedding Day
If I could borrow your hopes, turn one
day into your dreams, every boy
dreams of his wedding day with you.
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A Spider's P.O.V.
There’s this spider crawling up your leg, probably
attracted by your body’s heat, maybe the scent of
your skin, or your peachy taste. Oh! What it must
be like to be him, to feel your blood rushing from
underneath you, to observe your reddish pink pixels
with multiple eyes, and to taste your flesh with a
mixture of venom.
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The Strings Of Poetry
Each poet pulls and tugs, like fishing
lines, waiting for a catch, in an ocean
so vast and open, we throw strings
so thin they hardly cut through the
water let alone sink, but we wait, we
know the words, the bait, will catch
something soon, and then we’ll be
pulled under.
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Gin & Confessions
Gin makes me confess truer truths than ink,
fewer lies. The bottle is more sacred than my
journals, no lock, it’s open and I’m free to
tell you how gorgeous you are, how I hate you
so, and love you more. In Mumbles and groans,
in pain and twirls, I tell you how I feel, it shouldn’t
be but, you are more to me on the opposite side
of the bottle.
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My Editor & My Structure
You are the editor in my hands, the structure
into which these words fall, to describe you
with pen and ink is to have a voice and lips,
you’re the reason for, a sentence more.
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The Legend of The Platinum Kiss
And there exists, it’s said a kiss of platinum!
In the deep foliage of a wild jungle, where
passion resides and love still bares, lips of
silver and hearts of gold still conquer the
soul’s of men; And as it were, this kiss
awaits not a poet with a bronze pen and a
wholesome poem, not an ignorant man
with false wisdom, it awaits a true lover,
with a sword bent on torment,...
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“What you feel is what you are, And what you are is beautiful”
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Take You There
If so you let it be, give me the chance to be
your pilot, in hand I have a ticket to anywhere,
I could take you far away but I’ll promise you’ll
always feel so close, we’ll never miss a moment,
swim in oceans of special occasions, take a trip
with me and I swear you’ll be okay, holding
hands as we go.
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Even Skeletons Leave Finger Prints
Even your frail little body left finger prints
all across me, we committed not to,
But as I found out even skeletons leave
prints, and dearest, they won’t
wash out, I believe these are permanent.
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Notice The Letters
Notice the letters as they thin out like withering hair,
against these breezes my sentences can be plucked
out easily, they’re weak and unaware that I’m falling
out of love with you, soon I anticipate there will be
nothing left, and I will be bald.
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Fabric
The thread of your clothes, the tattoos on your
skin, an irremovable piece of fabric, no hand can
slip under to feel the warm exhale of your touch,
no kiss can seep through deep enough to leave a
print, the fibers of you are stitched with needles
dipped in ink, we can look all day but there are
parts of your body that will never see the light
of day.
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Save Myself For You
I will save myself for you.
I won’t touch anyone,
won’t surrender for a
pleasure that isn’t you.
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The Problem With Poets (re-release)
The problem with poets is that they’re damaged goods, they spell out
their disabilities with emotionally stirred ink, they wear labels that classify
them as defective humans, they write poetry with scars across their
compositions. These people see the gorgeousness in everything, the
raw anger in the goodness of the atmosphere and translate it perfectly
across fields of paper. They’re the...
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Novel, Be The Death Of Me
I have to keep alive, because unfortunately I feel the
death of me coming on. Sooner than I anticipate, I
need to get my thoughts in order, my names, times
and places on index cards. No further influences,
all I know is me, I’m no philosopher, I’m not here to
say something important but what needs to be
said needs to be said, after I’m done do what you
will, discard me as you want. I...
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Sleepy
My Eyes Are Heavy,
But My Mind Is Light
With Rising Thoughts.
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I may not be all that much,
but I can treat you right.
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yousoothemysoul:
Intimidating even when you’re timid. That’s powerful.
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Write Like You
I often fantasize about writing like you,
formulating your saliva into ink, taking the
words from out of your lips and stripping
them down to paper, reading them as
my own, such a low feel, a poet’s
etch, my daily daydream, to write as
my own from words that I owe.
verbalejaculations:
I can’t trust myself with mountaintops- to be so high and not to fly… It’s dangerous.
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Tucked In Pages
So as when I walk the world,
I keep my love tucked in pages,
for no one to see, none to keep.
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