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Sick and tiredi'm sick and tired
of words that turn to dust in your mouth
and still you spit them out
i'm sick and tired
of holding your hand, and your heart, and your demons off
all along with mine
i'm sick and tired
of being so cold
and colder because of you
i'm sick and tired
of fading faster
in the onslaught of your artificial sunlight
i'm sick and tired
of biting my tongue
after I've failed to keep it silent
To the parents of my generationSometime we need it a little louder so we can here the noise
Sometimes we need them drawn onto our skin before we can understand what the words mean
Sometimes we need to carry color in our hair so that we remember who we are when we are stripped of our childhood
Sometimes we need to decorate our bodies so that we throw off a light of our own
Sometimes we need to rebel in order to feel wanted/ valued/ remembered
Sometimes we need to scream at the only people we trust to love us when we're done
I will admitI
to waking before the sun rises and hiking into the hills, laying on my stomach in the dusty trail and sticking out my tongue to taste the early morning dew from the sweet grasses
to running and vaulting myself onto my bed at night in order to avoid the monsters under the bed-frame
to touching myself out of curiosity rather than in search of pleasure
to putting glitter in my bath
to running barefoot through mud of questionable origins without a thought
to eating strange things in strange combinations in strange places
to staying up reading and sleeping late
to chasing after birds and lizards
to believing in true love and mythical critters
to being an empath
to holding a grudge
to being afraid to dance
to singing in the shower
to giving in to distractions
to reading ahead
to putting on airs
to writing in books
to avoiding pain that needs to be faced
to playing the devil's advocate
to dyeing my hair because it makes me feel like a rainbow
to acting younger than I am
to not ta
Dont Call This NumberI am a self-admitted chronic eavesdropper.
because really, maybe the world DOES need more female truckers.
589-9320, you say? Sure, I'll call you back. Monday, right?
God, I KNOW! My last dog was picked up by a hawk too! That's living in LA for you.
No, babe, I didn't cheat on you, and her name was Sonya, not Sarah.
I wonder if these people realize they're not in a cone of silence on wheels.
I shake my head at you fools.
Scarywhen did I stop being nice
and became "scary"
was it when I started correcting others' grammar, other than just my friends?
or was it when I found my voice, am I talking too loud?
is my pushing people away too forceful, too pronounced?
instead of the weakness I am trying to hide, do they see cruelty that isn't there?
I never thought people would believe the front I put up so thoroughly
maybe I am too forward, too present.
I think it is time I sat back
and stayed quiet.
Poem In Progressmy daughter drowned in a pond impregnated with duckweed
less than knee - deep and cold, like a body just vacated
beneath the greenery little fish dark about
like a cross between your generic goldfish and a common minnow
they lie in wait
they flutter around the feet and legs of curiosity
they open their jaws, exposing rows upon rows of tiny needle-like teeth
and before you know it they've latched onto the skin
but they're not why my daughter drowned
the stoneturtles that lie for years undisturbed
their shells buttered by algae
bite (when stepped on)
but it wasn't the stoneturtles that killed her
teabirds dive-bomb wanderers
tearing out lost-ones' hair
raking skin with their claws
I'm dreamingI flew in my dreams for the first time
and quite honestly, its not all its cracked up to be
yes, there is a sense of freedom
but its not that amazing
I still felt lost
and no one told me I'd be running from something
something I know is not there
so my first flight was powdered with feelings of supreme stupidity
and weighed down by disappointment
even in my dreams
jeromeJerome where have you wandered
around which river and bend
upon which tree have you climbed and looked onward
which bird did you follow back home?
kidsmake no mistake, she is wind-kept
wild hair and blank eyes
she'll dance through your lungs
leaving you breathless
and colder (than before)
he is a child of mournings
skin a soft gray and the coo of a dove
as if a touch would push him
and he'd scatter like dandelion seeds
they are a pair of river rocks
twins - without gender or feeling
if ever there were hearts made of stone
I've found them
my children of earth and stone
my children of flesh and bone
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be one of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
Effluviawith a laugh like her's, like rain pattering on windowsills
i comment, watching arms the color of cream flail and reach for something not there
you'd think she'd sound better drowning
all i get is a shrug in response
bodies say more when they're silent
tongues and hands lie
eyes, not so much
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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