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.
Fall in love with somebody who will kiss you where it hurts - to cure the pain, laugh when you can’t - to pour their love into your silence, and who lives every moment by your side - to hold your heart gently, so it dosent break
There’s this boy
Who dangles cigarettes between his lip
Like he dangles his limbs
Sixty storeys above ground
Waiting for the last spark to dim
Before the the quiet exhalation
That signals the inevitable fall.
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.