you will need poems
you will need poems, if for nothing else
than to remind you that the world doesn’t make sense.
people are not metaphors, wrapped up neatly, with bows.
mornings are not always new beginnings,
and night is hardly ever the end.
you get a chance to start over whenever you want,
but most people don’t take it because reinvention is
carving out your heart and changing the batteries.
you will need poems to reassure you that
heart surgery is not just for doctors.
Reflection
She took pride in her hair,
so she cut it off.
She found relief through food,
so she ate only enough to survive.
She found anger in people,
so she went inside her mind.
She glorified her body,
so she covered it up.
They found her in a corner,
wrapped in blankets, bald, willowy —
when asked why would such a
beautiful girl do this to herself,
she replied,
“I was ugly, but you were too blinded by my appearance
to see the ugliness rooted inside.
I stripped away these conveniences
to restart the way I think.
I am at peace now.”
reasons I have for being a judgmental dick
~ 3.5 years
my princess dress was pinker than kailey’s. my skirt was bigger than becky’s. i was not a ‘boy’ like andrew. my name was not boring like sam’s.
~ 5 years.
my mom got a handout from a kindergarten teacher. the handout said, ‘your children will be wonderful if you give them to me for ~2hrs a week.’ my mom circled all the twos & tos & toos. they were mixed up. she told me to fix them. i did, so i was smart.
~ 10 years.
i got the most babysitting jobs because i was ‘mature’ & a girl. i had read pride & prejudice and huckleberry finn and david copperfield. i could bake cookies & also pie & also cake. I never caused a fire.
~ 12.5 years
i did not do crystal meth with katie. i did not drink rum from coke cans in claudia’s parents’ garage. i did not own a thong from la senza. i never wrote about mushrooms in english class. i could do ~2 pirouettes.
~ 15 years
i was probably good at something. sometimes I got good grades. i was not as ugly as *********. i was only a mean person privately. i only kissed ***** publicly.
~ 17.5 years
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ ___________________ ___________________________________ ?
*@!#**#@**@#!!!! …………………………. .
~ 20 years
i’m alive. i know how to use a semi-colon. I do not use ‘fake tan’ or study business or suffer from ‘white man’s burden.’ I am ‘self-aware.’ I am ‘nonjudgmental.’ i am ‘respectful of people’s differences.’ i *might* not be a capitalist bourgeois sycophant. i do not eat the cute animals.
one cubic centimeter of brain tissue
is home to more neural connections
than there are stars in the milky way;
that war should sometimes erupt between them
is not possible so much as it is inevitable
and it’s important to remember this
the next time your mind decides
to bring the battle home.
some days will be harder than others
and none made easier by the glass barriers
your mind has so meticulously constructed.
still, despite the isolating nature of illness,
your fight is not one to be undertaken alone;
in case of emergency,
we’ll provide you with a hammer
but you need to be the one
to break the glass.
weight
he unwinds and lets
the blue sky drip poison ice
face to face with the radiating
silence
his back to everything
it all stings, eyes shut
she blankets his body
her spidery warmth reaching to cover each extremity
a cursed body, crushing him up
she is muffled light, with his eyes closed
if all they are is this-
a chemical night song
drifting in place,
a she and a he
piling spiraling bodies-
imagine the weight
There is no such thing as a roster of your life.
There will be no one to chisel accomplishments,
schools you got in to,
names of people who loved you,
on to your gravestone.
Chances are, I will not write
“Participation in the National Latin Exam”
on my resume.
Everything is eventually vaguely arbitrary.
There are numbers,
used to hold together pieces of yourself.
There are papers and pictures that
fill up books,
or settle in clear plastic boxes,
that make their way in dark closet worlds.
There are recognition certificates,
plaques,
trophies,
that get lost in the move or broken by the housekeeper.
When I fold myself back into the earth,
chances are that I will not bring these things with me.
Chances are that I will not even remember them.
everything has a face
the truck in the driveway, the driveway
the roll of paper towels
the trees
they have faces
and personalities that grow stronger
the further i fade
the wine glass on the table
is forlorn
the water bottle is smiling at me
the television has brown hair
that it flips back with confidence
as it walks down city streets
and i don’t do anything
they are more human than me
you are a railway car
1.
I am bound
to the track
and I feel the oncoming storm
in my bones
2.
the handcuffs start to tighten and I
feel you come up next to me
you kneel down and push away my bangs
look me in the eyes
and say
“get up”
3.
I would like to tattoo you
to my pulse
so I am always aware
of how calm
I could be
4.
I like to think I am at my best
when you are forcing me awake
by your ragged breath
soft on my chest
like a pressure point
I can push on the spot where you slept
and remember how to breathe
5.
I think I am learning
how to let go of your hands
which is good because
I don’t know if I can hold on
much longer
6.
my skin is shrinking
and I am unused to how it feels
to have had something
and have to give it back
because I can’t afford how much it costs
to keep it
7.
I open my eyes
and see the sun going down
the tips of the trees eating up the warmth
the tracks rattle
the train whistles
I close my eyes
8.
I open my eyes
and untangle
my fingers
from yours
tumblr love poem
i want to read you john green excerpts
while we browse each other’s tagged/me
i want to handwrite all the pretty things you say
and superimpose them onto images of nebulae
because you make me feel infinite (i swear)
let’s hold hands and never let go
until we figure out what soft grunge is;
i think we will hold hands for a very long time
i am sorry if i am talking a lot
but my heart is literally a blog with auto-play
when i see you
tagged #nsfw because yahoo! ain’t got shit on us;
let’s irl reblog each other
(i think this is a metaphor for sex)
we can drink starbucks
and eat pizza together
and i will feature you forever
and you don’t even need to follow back
