Mad-Poets

It’s always morning after poems
Kids doing coke on bathroom counters.
It’s always cigarette smoke in my hair
Foreheads pressed to fogging car windows.
It’s always glazed and empty eyes
Have another drink
maybe just get high.
—  Post party madness// Kira Sala

Picasso said he’d paint with his own wet tongue
on the dusty floor of a jail cell if he had to.

We have to create.
It is the only thing louder than destruction.
It’s the only chance the bard are gonna break,
our hands full of color
reaching towards the sky,
a brush stroke in the dark.

It is not too late.
That starry night
is not yet dry.

—  Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase
Darling age of 20, 
you are honey sweet
and dangerously tender.
You are not a kid anymore, 
you are bold enough to
wear high heels,
you are adventurous
enough to let God in
your heart.
And your past wakes up
at night and watches
you sleep and it forgives you.
You have good hands
and less friends.
You bathe in oils
and clean the house.
You are about to
get married
and you keep your phone
conversations long while
you keep
the towel wrapped around
your head.
Your poetry is not just poetry
but statements ,
marriage vows,
legacies.
Darling age of 20,
you haven’t always
been modest,
you haven’t always been
thoughtful with him.
You are still a cage of tigers.
And when he loves
you good,
really good,
you are a mermaid
with beautiful long legs. 
You have an alluring 
voice and it consumes him. 
It makes him want to marry you.
You are not a scandal anymore
in this town, 
and you’d have
given all your ages,
all your youth to feel like you feel now.
Darling age of 20,
you are still exquisite 17,
and romantic 18,
and curious 19
but you are his 20 now.
You are a decade older.
You are a revolutionary era.
You are the queen
coming to
the throne. 
And if they
don’t adore you anymore,
you will close your empire on them. 
Dear darling of 20, 
you’ve never been more 
in love than you are now.
—  Dear Darling Age Of 20 by Royla Asghar 
Do not give me normality. I do not want to know how quiet you have been, or how long have you been sane in your life. Show me what you hide behind that mask of indifference. Show me the parts you only dare to show in the absence of light. Show me how loud your monsters can be. I ache for your insanity. I achingly long for your exploding stardust, your madness.
—  Lukas W. // I want your madness

these days,
the world turns her head in shame when I speak about love.


she says,
‘you have built enough kingdoms
for makeshift loves. for loves
that dig graves right out of your bones,


you have made moons cry for your loves,
made them turn pink and soft-eyed,
made them forget the craters in their own skins.’


she says,
'you have written enough songs for lonely stars
and put them in the eyes of your loves.
you have watched them all collapse.’


these days,
the world turns her head in shame when I speak about love. 


she says,
'you have wasted all your beautiful words
for it,’ she says,
'there is nothing left for you here’.

—  Reena B.| Mad Girl’s Conversation with the World.
Anne Boleyn cried the day of
her third miscarriage but not
on the day of her execution.

Instead, she stayed up talking
to God until the early hours.

Instead, she reflected on her
childhood, remembered the days
when Mary would fashion her
long black hair into braids.

Instead, she wondered what it would’ve
been like if she’d only been his mistress,
or if she’d never married him,
or if she’d given birth to a son.

Instead, she thought back to when her
affection had been more important to him
than good relations with Rome.

Instead, she got dressed. Wore a red
petticoat under her dark grey gown.
Her mother’s ring on her left
hand instead of her wedding band.

Instead, she walked up to the scaffold
with steady hands and addressed the
crowd, spoke fondly of the King.

They tied a blindfold around her head
and she closed her eyes. Thinking of God,
thinking of Elizabeth.

She didn’t feel the sword.
—  ‘Anne Boleyn on the day of her execution’ by Cassie Lewis 

Foreign poets 
are hotter,
because we know war,
we are born with war, 
we are the war. 
Our poetry has 
the deepest roots. Perhaps, 
the ugliest, the most delicious. 
The sharpest accent. The most
heartbreaking metaphors. 

First generation, second generation, 
and you would still feel 
the agony the white men left
in our grandfathers’ skin. 

And dare me,
I lick my fingers 
and I  eat your European 
food with pride my darlings, 
for our spices made 
your countries.

—  My Grandfathers Own Europe from The Immigration Series by Royla Asghar 
Day Five Hundred Thirty Eight.

hey baby,

i didn’t wear yellow to please you;
it was just the first colour in my closet.
if i had known that it would catch your eye
i would’ve worn a shade as dark as my steel cold heart.

no part of my body exists for your sick pleasure.
don’t ever forget it.

With a smile,
she reached her
hand out to me.
As if to say,

Come,
join me in this mad,
deafening silence.
Forget words,
let our hearts find
their ways to
each other.

In a heartbeat
I took her hand
and allow myself
to drown in
all of her.

—  Lukas W. // Mad silence
I shared some of the best and worst moments of my life with you. However, I’m afraid that we’ve really reached the end. I’ve found someone who loves me with everything I have and nothing at all and you’ve been running around this town with a girl who makes you forget that I live and breathe in the same world as you. I just want you to know that it was nice while it lasted. I enjoyed losing sleep and trying to so hard not laugh so my mother wouldn’t hear me through my bedroom walls. I’ll remember the way you allowed me to put my hands on the places you were hurting and how I trusted you enough to see me angry and sad and resentful most of all. I’ll never forget the first time you kissed me in the rain or the way nothing else seemed to matter with you. What I’m trying to say is that we grew together. In love and out of love. So thank you for walking through hell and back with me. Thank you for holding my hand when I needed it the most and for loving me in the only way you knew how. It was childish, but it was worth something and I will carry the memory of it somewhere on the inside. Although it’s over now in a way it won’t ever be. Anyhow, I wish you all the happiness in the world and so much love that your hands don’t know what to do with it.
—  We were always meant to say goodbye but remember all the things we wanted / @thewordsyouneverunderstood
Anger

A storm cloud surrounds him
His tall temper shrouds him
Out from his ears, you can see the steam
As he pours his eighth cup of morning coffee
The ringing in his ears, his tinnitus, grows louder
He raises his voice with words of false power
In rage, he spits out his biggest words
His face, swelled red, turning a shade worse
The pounding in his head is matched outside
As he throws fists into it, trying to subside
The pounding and the ringing high pitch
That has flicked on the switch
Of the madness
Overcoming him