If I come home after a certain time
I still stumble automatically
(out of habit)
I still fumble with my key in the lock
I still stagger up the stairs
I still fall asleep in my clothes
I still wonder where you are
There's Time To Be Alone Once I'm DeadI've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
I don't know if that's because
it allows me to keep you
at eight hundred thousand arms' lengths,
or whether it's because it rationalizes me
turning down every chance of happiness I find
closer to home,
or whether it's just because
I'm in love with an idea
whose reality I don't have
to deal with until October.
Or whether it's because I actually found someone who's worth waiting for.
Whatever the reasons,
I've never really been one for reality checks,
and I've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
Give Me Five YearsGive me five years to travel the world and then I'm yours.
Five years to grow;
get the wanderlust
out of my system
and learn how not
to want to be
My love will be all the better for it,
Give me five years,
and I will try to give you forever.
AliensYou told me once that your passion was for travel,
although you've never left the south of the country you were born in.
But I have a passion for passions
and collecting experiences
in compartments in my head marked 'adventure'.
So let's travel the world, you and me,
and turn two dreams into a living, breathing reality.
Making SenseIt's easy
(when they're not there)
to make somebody into the person you want them to be.
to fill gaps in language
with what you want to hear.
It's very, very difficult to walk away.
Surrounded By Dry LandIt is not mountains or cities that you will find in her heart,
but the deep, dark, depths of the ocean.
Her first language is temptation;
she speaks it fluidly,
but she never can be won
for her heart belongs to the tides.
Many have tried;
but no lover's arms can compete
with the swell
that washes her clean, clean, clean.
Dirt can be rinsed out,
but stains remain
that pull her down
to the only place
where she has ever felt
Thoughts On LeavingThings that I am afraid of:
Talking to people I don't know,
Falling in love.
(Doing all of the above at the same time.)
The Un-TitledThey work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They work in schools
and clean lecture hall floors.
They scrub tables.
They are adding experiences to the internal data bank.
They are quietly subversive.
They are counting change.
if they appear a little vacant,
for their minds are not on
(Though they will serve yours with a smile.)
They work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They are waiting.
UntitledGlide through the heavens
in hopes to evade
the crimson wings
that holds you down.
When will you shut the pearly gates
and walk away?
When will you cut the crying chains
that paint you grey?
είναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγής
που αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.
Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
Like a vagabond.
At a four-way
street, past any signs
that I comprehend.
If I had I had it my way,
I would cruise on the highway
and never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousands
of tongues i could
memorize; new words
for love tucked between
teeth often biting
my chapsticked lips
could learn to bow to
grammar laws in
i could master writing
symphonies in syntax,
spend hours penning
volumes in languages
of longing and love,
but i'll never find a
phrase that fits you
the way your body fit
to mine, back bent.
i'll never find a name
for how our lips tucked
together, for my hands
in your hair, for the
rapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the sky
and see the stars as millions
of possibilities for us to wrap our hands
around and try, picking and choosing
our favorite constellations like apples
in the fruit aisle of a grocery store.
We talk about our dreams
of leaving this town
far behind and far away,
but we don’t talk about how
leaving home means leaving each other
and each constellation we wrap our hands
around propels us into completely different
directions. We want to hold on to each other
as much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,
but we can’t have both,
and that scares us.
We look up into the sky
and see how big the galaxy is
even when we can’t see 90% of it
and we are suddenly aware of how
small we actually are, barely grains of sand,
barely specks of dust, barely here at all.
We stop looking up and look
down at our feet shuffling,
worried and afraid for each other
because we barely sleep and failing
a class means failing high school,
failing to get into the dream college,
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.
Sooner or later,
It'll mess with your head;
You'll be taking a shower, or
Lying in bed
When the "inspiration"
Hits you hard
And when you miss the bus and first hour
You have to use the
"I over-slept" card.
It'll have you thinking
At every point of the day;
Twisting words and making rhymes
Prodding until the language sways
To your fingertips
Lower case letters nip
In hopes that you'll use them
Abuse them until you are at
They will mock you until
You simply can't think;
The words swirling around,
They will push you to the brink
Of complete denial,
Of absolute insanity;
"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, I
Feel fine" are the words you
Have to beat.
You will not care how people
React to what you say;
What do they know of
What we do everyday?
You think that to yourself,
As a way to not seek help
In the comfort of real
Love and not the fake kind
You write of.
You will lie and you will
Cheat and scoff and say
For all your most
Important words are
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticks
Like the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than red
While others mourn the translation lost in between
The definition he wrote
And what they want to scream to the world.
All you know is a word,
The hell hidden beneath it is nothing
But the trace of a memory that doesn't belong
To you, and you're so glad it isn't yours
Because then that pain can just be a word,
A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen and
You deserve prettier words, better words, you think
Ones that stay silent, can be hidden across a page
Victimless and longer than the four letters they warn you about
You don't know how that word is strung
Or why they tie chords around their wrists
In protest, why the memories they drag are drugged and
Filthy with the crimes that can't be forgiven
You don't know how that syllable can hurt,
What it can do
You don't see the gashes in their organs
Or the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orange
and glowed in the fire
turning black and ash
not a single moment later
the scissors were cold
The embers were
glowing just the same
hungry for her tresses
the royal red burned
yet no burn was left
Her hair was short
uneven with amber roots
outgrowing the dye
showing her natural shade
mom and dad took the scissors away
Orange locks tickle her neck
fire cannot fight fire
mom and dad breathe easier
she does not touch the scissors
though she always looks
She is eighteen
leaving home is a blessing
her hair bundled in a hat
she does not like to see it
the brightness keeps her up at night
The hairdresser mourns her hair
more than she ever does
as it falls limply to the ground
the locks have lost their hue
she smiles as they fall
It is easier to tell people she is happy
now her hair is gone
orange roots don't show on a shaved head
she stands proudly now
she doesn't keep scis