ode to a chair; homework assignment #3

she looked at me
with a sparkle in her eye
her smile climbing up her cheeks
and whispered
“that chair
over there
is where i sit my derriere.”
and i begun to think
what is my ode to the chair?
where has the chair taken me
encouraged me
seen me through my days
and nights?
my ode to the chair is simple
moving in and out of each other
to weave something greater.
the chair-
amongst its sisters and brothers-
sits at the end of the table
me to sit
and take part in communion
with my community.
the chair
calls me to rest
to take time and climb the 
mountain of my thoughts
and to swim amongst all that it
unravels in me.
the chair 
pushes me 
to aim higher
in life.
to work hard
so that one day
i can sit
on a chair of power
of respect
of great confidence and honesty.
and through all of this-
the joke of a friend,
the truth of a chairs stability,
and even thoreau’s words
“i had three chairs in my house;
one for solitude,
two for friendship,
three for society”
stick in my mind
as I sit on the chair
and type out an ode
a song
to the very object
i find myself using

I remember the way your eyes met mine.
It was you against the world, but I wouldn’t let that stop me.
You said you thrived on being dead inside, so I showed you the world beyond your head.
And as soon as the tulips and lavender began to bloom you cut me loose at the phase of an empty moon.
I don’t think you even noticed that the roots of your garden were the veins in my ligaments.
But I don’t need you to flourish any longer.
Instead you now need me,
You were always the one so incomplete,
Searching the streets to cover you scars in another stranger’s sheets.
Though the way your hair blew in the wind almost pulled me back and opened my cuts that day,
You won’t get my blood and tears to water the garden that blossomed in your void.
Still you spoke no words, but your eyes said each word you couldn’t say.

“Tulips and Lavender” - Tyrell Crane

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I inhale, the ember glows

I exhale, emitting smoke

Killing myself, legally

See what, you did to me

Smoking & well

Fucking poetry

Heartbreak & hell

I’m fucking symmetry

I like this, hatefulness

You’ve given me

It’s truly, so god damn

Eye opening

I’m so expressively

Fucking broken

—  Symmetrical Distress / Andy I.

i. prepare your palate for poison. harvest the bitterness of your garden; mix roots with grubs, the grubs with the writhing in your gut. this will taste of morbidity: you will bristle against the flavor. in time, all you will know is this profile.

ii. don yourself in the raiment of mourning. ash will color your cheeks, let your tears write epistles upon them. the rivers will carry salt to your cracked lips, settling as on an open wound. parts of you will flake from the saline exposure; let the pieces litter the ground. the trail will lead the world to your shroud.

iii. this is where you wanted to be found.

iv. curl into a question mark, your body imitating a hand at rest. in this way you shall fail to indicate intent— you shall become infinite and ineffable. the souls you have touched will surely clamor around you; their prayers will reach your ears and their scrutiny will numb your heart.

v. to the one who has inspired this pestilence, leave a spiral of grace. god only knows they’ll need it. the impending times will be trying and ugly, and you have already destroyed the flower beds.

// how to grieve in public

ernest hemingway once said
“we’re stronger in the places that we’ve been broken.”

but i’m left sitting at my desk
my clock is flashing 12:00
at me
and all i can think to do
is mourn all that is at fault in me
all that is broken
and frail
all that makes me cringe
and gag.
and yet something in me
some deep well of water
is whispering that
the very act of letting go
is good
and powerful in its own way.

She became a prisoner inside the cell she used to call home.
Guarded by the demon that was once the angel of her sanity.
Handcuffed with misery and chained by the sinister gripping around her neck. And the mind she previously considered her heaven, has now become a hell of massacre.
—  Hate

Dear Mom

I know Dad left you way too soon
I know he’s gone
& you don’t know what to do
I’m sorry
I’m the one who put the dope in the spoon
I shot up my dad when he asked me to
I sat around & got as high as I could
But that last time
The dope went in his veins
I’m not sure what happened
But I saw him break
The seizure was long
& The look on his face
Like he knew
Death won the race

& Dear Mom

Do you know
When they pronounced my Father dead
I was right by his side
Wanting to get high instead
So why are you here
Sitting at my side
When you know I took dad
Because we liked getting high
Why do you hold me
When I’m sober & clean
Crying like a bitch
Because of what the drugs took from me
Why do you love me
When you know I killed Dad

Dear Mom

I’m sorry
I wish the drugs took me instead


Dear Mom,

I’m sorry I killed Dad.


i am constantly looking
for heartaches
in the tiny pieces of
my every day
because art,
has only come from those people
whose minds have opened up,
to the absolute chaos that surrounds them.

I’m hanging by a thread & I can’t seem to find a

seam to hold on to anymore.

I’m tired of drifting through the fabric of life alone.

I just want to be intertwined with someone like


But the world has forgotten how to sew & here I


feeling like the last thread without a purpose.

—  Forgotten Seams

My body betrays me
The skin on my back mourns the absence of your lips
The memory of your scent haunts every inhale

But I am more than this body
This flesh
This heart

Love is not the conqueror you imagine Her to be
I have grown wise to the traps She would set

Because I am more than this body, I am vast

Sometimes what Love would have me surrender to
Is not sufficient to fill me

I refuse to ever go empty again for Her sake

#afterdarkdrunkpoetryreadings #poetry #poetryreading anti #lovepoem #antilovepoem

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give me
a deep necessity
to see
to witness
everything differently
to not be bored
but rather defeated
by the beauty that surrounds me
and humbles me.


Identity Card, Mahmoud Darwish - 1964

Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Write down!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew

My father.. descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman’s hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Write down!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate poeple
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper’s flesh will be my food

Of my hunger
And my anger!

We’ve been saying we’re dead,
but the problem is, we’re not.
We’re breathing,
but with toxic as our oxygen.
Our eyes are open,
but every blink is a slice on our eyeballs.
We always try to speak,
but we often shut our lips back,
as fear tumbles on our tongues.
We all want to run,
but each step is another splinter on our feet.
We’ve been trying to stand,
but every move is a crack in our bones.
We’re alive, but with murder,
strumming our heartstrings
and torture, corrupting our brain cells.
And we all chase death,
but what we really seek is salvation.
Yet, regardless the sweats to escape,
we still end up awake at dawn,
neither dead nor saved,
but a foot closer to a more tormenting hour.
—  Hate
If I could share with you
A fraction of my pain
I’m sure you’d suffocate
On salty tears
There’s not a mathematical equation
To name
That would calculate
All of my fears
& Even though
I’m a walking theory
Everytime my knees
Hit the floor
It’s an experiment
To see how much
I can really endure
I’m not scientifically proven
I’m not mathematically correct
I’m a walking unsolved mystery
That you’ll likely not forget
—  That is I.

It’s 6am and I wish I was beautiful

It’s 6am and it’s all snow and silence
And sometimes I believe I am beautiful

It’s 6am and she is on my mind
And it’s all snow and silence
And she said I am beautiful

It’s 6am and my heart is a slingshot
Catapulting me into the void
And she is on my mind
And it’s all snow and silence
And I might just be beautiful

It’s 6am and I miss her mouth
And I miss her mouth
And I miss her mouth

And my heart is a slingshot
Catapulting me into the void

And she is on my mind

And it’s all snow and silence

And I know I am beautiful

#poetry #poetryreading #queerpoetry #lovepoem #afterdarkdrunkpoetryreadings

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you’ll see,
something in you-
tied to the fragment of who
you were
who you are and
who you’re going to be-
will breathe for you
will walk for you
will look for you
when you feel you cannot do so.

While everyone around me is busy lighting up this city, I’m up here telling these beautiful stars how I miss their radiance within me.
—  A.P. I am so fond of these bright mysterious stars above.