- Feel the Burning Embers

So filled with this love for you, I’m floating,

This heart, swelling and stretching, pulling and soaring.

I am light as wind, heaviness does not know me.

The cold hands of things grasping, slipping off me like silk.

This grass is growing me, up and up, so high, touching me

So deep, flowing me like a river, pouring me into your heart.

These flowers are growing so sweetly here in the dark;

They told me the secret that made me smile so bright,

You’ve got my name in your heart growing blossoms.

I’ve never been so strong as when I heard your love singing in the leaves.

My coal black spirit never sparkled half this bright;

The stars crowded round to look with lust at all this light.

Can I tell you the story pouring out of all my body?

I think you know it already, My Love, it’s yours after all;

Every drop of this blood writes it in every particle of air.

I can’t believe I’m not singing all these birds to shame.

I can only tell you I feel nothing but cool air rushing over me,

Fying so true, diving and turning, flying straight into you.

How can I tell you the feel of this naked soul rolling along the clouds?

I’m laughing at all these storms and lightning crowding out of my way.

I’m dancing and plunging like a young hart in the sweet summer grass;

I’m leaping the rushing little streams, the light of my eyes, lovely and terrible.

I can’t believe I ever slept, ever closed my eyes;

How could I ever have laid so still in the darkness

Or missed this spinning earth or the fire in my bones?

I’m burning so hot, rushing so cold and so clear.

These sad little mountains are all wearing right away

And flowing down my skin like dust in the pounding rain.

I’ve never felt so fresh, never been washed so clean;

I’m spring wearing flesh, summer raging in a body of blood and light.

I want to leap into your eyes like lightning, make love to your spirit like thunder.

Can you feel this little building of heat and desire between us,

This beam of fire stretching from our bodies and growing hotter?

Can you feel this pulse drawing us into each other’s eyes?

Come and burn this night with me in the arms of darkness;

Let us steal moments from time’s fist buried deep in eldest night.

Come, inhabit the spaces between my spaces, the words between my words;

Touch the place where my poetry lives, feel the glowing embers lying red and golden there.

You are the wind and I am the coals, light me afire again.

Eric M. Petit

Dear Tumblr,

Do I need to suffer to be heard?
Is pain the only echoing word?
Can my heart not be content
With the days that I’ve spent?
I want to be happy with joy.

How deep are the wounds of mankind?
Is it fatal? am I just blind?
We may cover our scars
With these poetic bars
But know that you’re not alone.

I don’t feel like this is my home when you’re not here. This is just a place. Until the sun sets and we’re connected again by the webs of the stars.
—  A house is not a home. You are

I don’t accept hearts.
   Rather, I eat them,
   Laying them out nicely on saran wrap, napkins, newspaper
   Wrapped up in newsprint.
   All in a row like little tin soldiers—I crack them with my teeth
   I scoop out the insides with little silver spoons,
   pick out little vessels & put them in my pockets,
   Save them for later.

The good hearts, I don’t touch them
   Leaving them in little birdcages, watch them as they flutter
   The birds will come & pick them over later.

A head full of thoughts

But what do they give

Beside this restless emptiness?

A mind full of words

But without meaning, in the end

All those struggles without depth

Once resolved, they leave no pride

A thousand details to get lost

To make you blind what life is all about

Those thieves of time,

Slayers of freedom,

Unnoticed villains,

Malicious deceit

How a life can seem so brimmed

How a life can turn so filled that

Importance finds no place in it.

- i.h.

“Still Shots of a Classroom” by Tannar Crossman

If you took a snapshot of this room,
The people you see the least
Are the people I see the most.

The kid across the way has planets,
Solar systems, and galaxies in her mind,
But for a while now,
They have dimmed on the verge
Of an omnivorous fight. 
But, on the whole, she’ll be okay.
In the end the rust is only skin deep
And the true metal of her remains–
Her galaxies remain, sleeping,
But in time they will move mountains.

The boy by the window is bleeding, 
But his blood is like ink,
It spues from his eyes
Like a fountain or a pen.
There are stars in those eyes, 
But the ink–or, the blood–drowns them out. 
There are butterflies in his chest.
You won’t see them,
But when he exhales a few escape–
But he’s been breathing in
Cocoons spun together with broken glass,
So that each butterfly is the climax
Of a vicious cycle.
You won’t see it, but the wings are bloody
As they stretch above his teeth.

The girl in the back, 
She’s the one who throws the fire. 
She burns and harms others, 
But secretly hates herself because of it.
Her fingers are like cinders,
And she wonders if she can ever create
The way the galaxy girl can,
The way the butterfly boy can–
Cutting off her own flesh as a sacrifice
To some kind of art or some kind of work.
In truth she is as alone as the others,
The legions of friends form acquaintances
And empty holes where real love is never felt.
So, you see she too is alone.

The boy in front is joking around,
But he secretly wishes he could stop.
He doesn’t want it anymore,
But it has become expected of him.
It is taken for granted, a given,
That he will entertain them, 
Usurp the teacher, make trouble,
Slack off his work.
Deep down he is tired–
Everyday he pours his energy
Into the title “Class Clown”
Until it is killing him by fourth period.
He too is alone. 
Everyone laughs at his jokes,
But no one listens to his sorrows–
When he is sad he is encouraged to
“Knock it off,” and tell a joke.

Who am I then? 
I’ve been all of them
Until I settle at last into
The kid choking down glass,
Containing the cosmic storm,
Burning with self-hate,
And always good for a laugh.
But most of all I am the best friend
Of the exhausted clown,
Of the reticent, well-liked flamethrower,
Of the forgotten:
The boy breathing butterflies,
The girl with her somnolent galaxies.

So you see,
If you took a still shot of this room,
What you see the most,
Is what I have known as the mask,
The hills like white elephants
Hiding the shocking truth of it all.
And what doesn’t pop out to you
Pops out to me vibrantly.

I see the others too,
But by now I’ve made my point.
You accept the facade
With little to know criticism, 
And that is not your fault. 
You are maybe one of them,
You are maybe two.
Perspective is reliant on experience.

I have been all of them,
Settled down into their private sorrows,
Became a friend to know them deeply–
And God, how they tell me things!
Things they’ve never told before!
But I’m the canvass, so they come to me
Like exhausted painters,
Casting their crimson and their blues.
And at length they paint water-colored mirrors
And acrylic self-portraits, until I am the one–
The one to witness, the one to see.