image poems

i’m sitting out back. with the dog that lives with my parents. he’s sunbathing; i’m in the shade. i went to jury duty a few days ago. it was wild—i wrote notes / a flash piece. haven’t written poems because i get so cold in the winter that it takes all summer for me to thaw. finding ways i can love

- dalton kamish makes poems and image macros. you can find them on twitter @fax_only

i mistook myself for desert. told my body to hush
when it begged for water. ignored the wailing jaws
that burst open on the soles of my feet every time
i walked across the concrete in the middle of july.
i know the battle hymn the inside of my thighs sing
better than anyone else. i look in the mirror
and see a gaunt brushfire. every day is not a day—
it is a feast. i live off both everything and nothing.
i see myself as both unstoppable and terrifyingly temporary.
such is the contradiction of desert girls with small hands
and growing bellies. here i am: choking on the dust
of myself, knowing everything that was once strong
is now alkali. o, how beautifully i sing lies to myself
at night. how clumsy my teeth are while trying to consume
the truth: that the desert will be beautiful no matter what,
but something must be done about the drought.
—  desert girl, Lydia Havens 
My daydreaming habbit has come to the point of excessiveness that I cant almost sleep everynight without imagining stuff id like to actually happen and the fun thing is, it makes me so excited for night time to come along.
Pebbles

I close my eyes against this,
can someone stop the world
from spinning out of control?
Can we stop this decay?

I feel no more than a pebble
sending out ripples no one feels,
a voice screaming in the cosmos,
a tree falling alone in the darkness.

But all these pebbles make a mountain,
and all these voices are a chorus,
and all these trees make up a forest,
so every single life is important.

Transformation isn’t always pretty.

- Pieces of me

there’s a girl staring at me, and she doesn’t believe she is beautiful

she sees her brown waves and frizz not as soft enchanting curls and locks of a porcelain doll, but as remnants of broken branches. tangles of twigs. splintered and brittle. 

she sees her warm brown eyes not as warm cups of cocoa, freshly brewed to warm one’s insides, but as pits of mud and dirt. the wet soil that sticks to the bottom of rain boots while walking through the rain.

she looks at her hips and waist. her arms. her chest. oh how she wishes they were dainty like other girls. but they aren’t. a tree compared to a bouquet of flowers. a trunk rather than stems. branches and leaves versus petals.she stares at her skin. stretch marks and scars carved into her bark. she feels rough. not like flowers with their smooth, delicate stems.

 “maybe im just thick,” she thinks. “I just have bigger bones,” she mutters. “its genetics”, she whispers. using empty excuses to hide behind. wearing them out just as she would a “trendy” oversized shirt to conceal her shape. but she is less than convinced.

stepping on a scale, she reads a number. or rather, what she believes is a definition. she peeks at her weight and lets out a heavy sigh. weight she wants lifted off her shoulders. a burden. wishing the scale was broken, just like her…

there’s a girl staring back at me in the mirror, and she doesn’t believe she is beautiful.

She saw black in a hollow shape from a distance. Down from a glass, water rose with the past as she drank from the grasp; hesitant. When she remembers the velvet tears she forgets to hold to fear. With a glance she can rip through visions. 

Valiance is a layer she tests with every transcending step towards a vale.

- Pieces of me