Hinging TimeAutumn's diarydances in the breeze--pages ripped from barren branches.My father's father's bloodwas the same color, once--an angry, untamed flame.My own blood is an oil-spillchasing the metal of my joints--each move creaks.
Penning AutumnFolded between the pages of booksyou bound our spineswhere the dandelions grow--the anxious poetry of autumn.
Winter PoisonTo the boy with ghost hands:the best we can do is pretend.The breakers will always call us homebut you don't feel the poison--it drips, it dripslike a bad habit.We are fragile.Bury me in whiteunder the winter moon.
Dreams: A Gateway DrugA grief-stricken moonset--burning clouds for the sake of silver linings--capturesthe secrets of fireflies.Under the bed,hindsightkeeps a close watchthrough the dark.
Dripping WordsSimple wisdomfor the girl teaching herself to fly--love is overrated,a super nova's roarcrackinga sliver of the galaxyon the edge of nowhere.Parched, starving,I am the Apocalypse.
Swallowing MidnightThe sun will never shineunder the bedwhere you found love...but there is still timeto swallow the stars.
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
Burying HeartstringsConfessions of a misguided poet:this is me being brave,no echo of my footstepsafter the ice has melted.There is a song for this,but you've been gone findinghindsight.Borrowing the past,I leave my heart in Haitiwhere we should be.
Counting Starfish to Fall AsleepI wonder if you wonderhow it goes,how it was, how it should beon Tuesday morningslostin the reefwhen the stars fade to blue.Drifting into five AM,half of myselfis listless--for you, for him.Uglyand voidand landlocked.Dear poetry:for what it's worthI am not your ocean girl.I am just trying to sleep.
UnavoidedI used to know a girl forthe hunger in her voice;she spoke of somethingmore, worthanchoring herself toand sinking downwith"I thinkI'll drink away my memory, soon,or pray for an Alzheimer-inspiredbeginning, becauseI can't keep waking upon the wrong side of life"
Beneath the RoseI can't burn the street down, the tar will fill our lungs,I can't fix the bridges, or the bolts bedded in our tongues.I can't explain the constant, buried deep beneath the rose,with all the other things I broke; death and all erodes.
because how much does a broken heart buy you?if you care about her, you'll hold on too tight. you'll leave claw marks down her spine, you'll annoy her with phone calls and emails and texts, you'll make her sick to death of hearing from you.if you care about her, nothing will get in your way. you'll keep her on her toes, calling her out on her lies and then telling her what you know she wants to hear. you'll leave her guessing, but only on the things that don't really matter.if you care about her, you'll let yourself be vulnerable. it won't matter that your guard is down and she can see right through you, because you know she'll never break your trust. you'll let her see the heart of you.if you care about her, you'll make every day an adventure. you'll call her at the crack of dawn to go chasing dreams, you'll jump in the car and drive with no destination just to see where the road takes you. you'll make mistakes along the way... but you'll make them together.if you care--and i mean really c
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –and it is work,and you will often come second to the job –it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,which ones are wishes,and which parts are for you.
on self-assessmentThis is a poem for all the people who stillhave something to see in me. I couldcut myself on the sharp edge of my thoughts,bleed out a saturated river ofsomething sweet; I could be like a millionother gifts from mother nature to preservein glass cases and scientific journals andbuzz words, to picket and fight over andeventually forget. I couldwrite a million stories about the universein my stomach, and my lack ofa gag reflex and the irony in that.I could write about the blooming stormsin my head and about how I’m addictedto bad weather, and how I can’t hear myselfover the static waves rocking me to sleep.My best friend is the most beautiful hurricaneI’ve ever seen, slow motion wreckage who says things likewhat does it even mean, where arewe going, maddie, what am I even here for;My first love wasn’t special. It wasignorant and narcissistic and orbited around melike some neglected planet, like Iwas finally the center of a universebesides m
a different explorationwe talk aboutastrology and ex lovers. the raspberriesdying in the heat, the way the waterbit our skin, the homeless man set outto buy California, the center of our universe,you. that feeling labelled “blah,”and the notion I am not my own.we leak questionslike overrun rivers, excess spillage,draining curiosities about that tragic skeletonballed up beneath your clothes.and for you,I’d travel the length between heartbeats,shallow and vain like your promises,your liquid eyes.above all, we were lucky.miracle children. one in ten,one in a million, a pair of stragglersin seven billion exempt fromclarity and unclaimed skin.-I know this guy who hadsorry lips and scars down his spinewithout a story. we didn’t havea thing to say so we talked abouthow the stars were our newest horizon,the undefined, and how we’d escape to themsome day.
metallic skyyou fell from the moon in all yoursilver-skinned glory,i found you on my doorstep, blueeyes round with awe.kissing you is like kissing the reflectionof the yellow sun,my fingers sliding down your strikingmetallic figure.
You Left Me Nine Weeks DueDear Heart,You linger on the Mediterraneanlike only the stars are watching,with three Hail Marys left,a waiting girl,and those he left behind.To be thankful is unforgiving.My mouth is a grave yardwith tips on avoiding word confusionbetween poetry and addiction.You (the messenger)linger on the Mediterranean:gone.
1000 Daysi folded you in half at your spineand pushed you as far as i could into the coals.now you're back again with ashes in your eyesand your skin full of holes.i should have wrapped you in gasolineand scattered you over Hell's half acre.i'm not your tin soldier, and you're just another paper dancer.fine print falls out of your mouth like broken bits of glass,these ransom notes written in code are your latest fashion,and i want nothing from you.
Too Stupid To TellAs much as I hate to admit it, I am one of those people who are stuck on being 'polite', even when my heart is clasped to a clothesline like a bed sheet by a single clothespin in the midst of a ravenous rainstorm.She was what I would call a dearly adored friend. Even when I found out that she and I were helplessly in love with the same man, I decided that she deserved to be with him and so I pinned myself to my own cross to be her way to him. It was only near the end that he found out what it is I was trying to do. I saw an expression on his face that I had never seen him show me before; I wasn't too sure if it was disdain or dismay, but I felt both from the depths of my being.He thought that I was spending more time with him only simply because I wanted to be with him and that I had only brought up her name so often because she was a common friend and a great conversation topic.He was in love with me and yet I was too stupid to tell. I couldn't be their bridge and had burned the o
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,the trembling of her lips matches yours.(Poet, breathe now.)I should write this down,the last piece I ever write about you.You’ve been gone findingconstellations, ambitions, and things in between,and this is me being brave,dancing on the fire escape.(I wore you like a bruise.)
Goodnight Enigmatic SongShe was the song you hear and, at first blush, don't like. Well, you don't know how you feel about it so you keep listening in an attempt to discover how exactly you feel and then you reach the end of the song and you realize, you don't like it; you love it. That was Grace.She was my coworker and she was my friend.We carpooled together, I drove and she slept most of the way."Don't get much sleep at night, do you?" I asked her, catching those drooping lids mid-descent."Insomnia, love."She looked out the window streaked with rain; it spoke in percussive touches filling the car with quiet overcast conversation.I felt the warmth of her smile in the corner of my eye. The blur of her hand reached at the window to feel the cold of the droplets."When I was a girl, I used to race these. I thought it was funny the fat ones always won," she giggled and I imagined her as a little girl in the passenger seat then, legs too short to reach so kicking, and hair messed in the bac
PSit's come to this-- definitionsof memories and people and dreamsI’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;this realization that Iam a stagnant planet, loston its orbit home; thissearch for a justificationto keep on breathing oceanwhen my lungs won’t toleratesalt. I woke today in the waterto angels swimming around my feet;coral, pearlescent anchors dragging medown, down, sweetly lullabyingabout you, dear, and the daythe tides washed you away.you are written in my skinas much as the lies I live bydaily. you are the beautiful things:the sun waking up in the morning, thestars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.the watercolor sky sighing, thevirgin clouds crying, the last notesuiciding itself into silence.
Pretending When the Flame Died OutWe were young and nearsightedTo build a house of fake flowers,But together now, the dizzy stars in my eyesAre gone.All kinds of magic and gold dustEcho shadows.Unlucky in love,Both of us mask a glanceAt someone elseFrom beneath the ice sheet,Because guilty, lost love knots the truth.Steady yourself for endless wavesOf saltwater nightmares.Robot couple, your engine heartsRusted.
Digging up BonesYou left me nine weeks dueundressing poetry.Like a bad habit,I found you and I lost you. Who are you, again?Ghetto baby,poets should never make ghost children.