Seven years a son

The boy in me insisted
I wasnt going to date her, mom.
I swear
But then she kissed me
And well, I liked it
Innocence lost
Is the cost you pay for the respect
Of a world that doesnt know where its heart is anymore
Those sleepy old towns never do get any louder, even if you’re drunk
The books still hold just as much wonder, though,
Even if youre drunk
The boy in me breathes deep of my broken exhaust and dreams of dragons and their fire
He insists blacksmithing is a viable career choice
The boy in me also notes
Toyotas do not classify, really, as noble steeds, but he appreciates my efforts
I think manhood comes as a surprise to most men
I also think cats love me
That is to say, some of my thoughts arent true.
Like the ones about my body
Or the nutritional value of ramen noodles
Or the validity of sandals as winter footwear
Anyways, when your best friend dies
The boy in you hesitates
He does not have words for this
He never does
He appreciates my efforts
Is something that little boys just don’t seem to want to comprehend
Whether it be because your friends mustang tried to fold itself into the shape of its namesake around him
Or because seven years a son does not a present father make
I am twenty three and the boy in me still pauses with my hand on the door hoping its all just a dream.

I’ve envisioned meeting one with immense beauty
being immortalized in the silhouette of intimacy
Having an authentic soulful connection running its course
like a magnetic pull keeping us bound

I have found him and he is what I’ve never imagined
He seems to be a masterpiece – raw but delicate, as if handcrafted
and he has shown no signs of straying nor leaving me abandoned
It caused me to think “what can I offer him?”
Could I become the moon and break through his windowpane
illuminating his every provoking thought with regal grace
Love him how a painter makes art – with emotion and meaningful intention
He looks at me and gives me his dimpled smile
and I return the same radiant expression
He is the embodiment of boyish charm – exuding grandeur
but what can I offer him?

—  What Can I Offer Him?
Final like a period.
Primal like a sunrise.
Spinal fluid is black,
Mile long
While bending backward.
Vial in my hand, I
Pile the booze on.
Smile ‘cause it’s prettier.
Title it with your name.
Tidal like the sea, and
Mild like your love
Filed under drafts.
Mild like a forest fire, I’m
Tidal in someone’s arms.
Title; The Wave.
Smile in the rain on this
Pile of unspoken words.
Vial in my hand,
While I walk a
Mile without any shoes.
Spinal fluid is blue and
Final like a period.
—  Final
my condolences to anyone who’s ever lost me
and to anyone who got lost in me
or to anyone who ever felt they took a loss with me.
my apologies.
for the misunderstanding or the lack thereof.
i’m sorry you missed the God in me.
and i’m sorry you missed the light.
i’m sorry you forgot the way i arose like the moon,
night after night.
with the burden to forgive
eager to feed you everything.
see.. i’m a holy woman.
i know what it’s like to give life to a being
without ever needing to press skin against one another.
i’ve practiced how to hold my tongue long enough,
i’m afraid i forgot to say goodbye.
i’m afraid you’re under the impression that i was made to please you.
i was under the impression, you understood me better.
the truth is,
i’m a super woman.
and somedays i’m an angry woman.
and somedays i’m a crazy woman.
for still waiting..
for still loving harder even if i’m aching.
for still trusting that I’m still worth the most.
for still searching
for someone to understand me better.
—  Reyna Biddy

I am trying to write a poem about my loneliness
But the page just seems to insist
on staying empty.
But loneliness isn’t emptiness
loneliness is the lead ball in the pit of your stomach
and the feathers tickling the back of your throat
loneliness is the itch you cannot scratch
it’s feeling far too much
far too little.
Loneliness is an all consuming enigma
of the past
of a past
Of a past you’re trying to forget
Of a past you can’t help but regret
Of a past that shoved you into the position
of isolation in which you reside
In which you’re going to die.
And sometimes solitude becomes gratitude
but the demolition of the monuments
that used to be perched on my ribs
left nothing but dust
and I am no longer grateful.

I used to build shrines in my heart to girls who would
never quite love me.
But that was never loneliness.
Unrequited love is a social activity because broken hearts
scream louder than all the wind in the world
howling together.
Despite the rain and miserable weather
I could fill myself up with love even though no one
would ever reciprocate
even though I always had to compensate
by giving more than I had left in me.
I would clutch my chest and rip out pieces of my heart
on which metaphors for love and birds and bones
and sadness and stars
would rest.
I could gift these to those who smiled.
Because nothing cuts into loneliness like affection
or attention
or the smile of someone who has no
reason to.
I suppose I never had a reason to.

I am trying to write a poem about the rain.
They say that people are nothing like rain
nothing like snow
nothing like autumn leaves
because people do not look beautiful when they fall.
A phrase I could never quite wrap my head around.
Because to me falling is dancing
and dancing is writing
and writing is cleaning your body of the toxins
that well up behind your eyes
and hide behind your liver
and pump fluid in your lungs.
What isn’t beautiful is hitting the ground.
The snowflakes will dissolve and the rain
will be absorbed by the greedy earth.
The leaves will rot
and you’ll be taking shots
Until your heart falls out of your chest.

Loneliness is falling
and falling is dancing
and dancing is writing
and I am trying to write a poem about my overwhelming
fear of touching the solid ground.
I am trying to write a poem about falling
Because I reside in free fall
and my heart falls for the snow
and the snow falls for the rain
and the first rule of gravity is everything
must fall
So we fall
And I fall
and you fall.

—  Fall (Emf)
How much is your soul worth?
Once, you would have said priceless,
but your employer has haggled it down to
fifteen - no, twelve - no, eight dollars an hour,
and no benefits.
Some days, the work is light. You earn less.
You feel worse.
You tried drinking,
but the hangovers made it impossible to earn enough money
to afford more alcohol
to get more hangovers.
You settle for a quarter bag of potato chips, a warm soda,
and reruns on a borrowed Netflix account.
That is your payoff for making it through the day.
Adulthood wasn’t supposed to feel so flat.
You’re doing what you love - what you thought you loved -
and that is the worst part.
(Besides the rent and the utilities and the walking to work
and the constant pain in places you’ve never has pain
and the sickening dread that it will get worse,
it will all get worse.)
You wipe your mouth with a diploma that has never
gotten you a second interview.
Your best friend hasn’t called in two weeks.
She is engaged,
and you’ve only met him once.
Today you re-wear your sweaty socks
because you just have enough quarters
for one load of laundry, and not until Thursday.
On Skype, your parents smile
and ask if you need anything.
The wrinkles around their eyes have deepened.
You swallow your tongue when they ask you
if you’re making it in the big city.
Are you creating the art you’ve always dreamed of?
You pick at your comforter and tell them, of course you are.
You own the city.
In reality, the leather notebook that they gave you at graduation
sits unopened and empty in your dresser drawer,
beneath two filthy shirts
and underwear that you should have washed last week,
(but, you know, the quarters).
I’m making it, you say.
I’m making it,
and they smile at you, and you smile back,
and they say they are so proud.
—  What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?
I could have sat there and stared at you for hours. I would love nothing more than to just watch the way you breathe, the way you blink, to watch you. For your mind is so beautiful, and I can’t get enough.
—  Kiannah Joylinn
and she’s too scared to get close to anyone, because anyone that ever said, “i’ll be there” left her with a broken heart.
Loving somebody who you know loves somebody else and no longer loves you is what turns love into something thats so painful it could be called torture.
—  VoicelessConfessions // love & something

sometimes the best medicine is just taking a break from the world. finding a little corner of the universe and allowing yourself to sit down and just breathe. to recuperate. because the truth is, life isn’t a straight path. it’s curvy and bumpy and filled with mountains and oceans for you to cross and you can’t keep running on empty and expect yourself to thrive. eventually you will break down and need some road-side assistance and that’s okay! take a break. get some rest. make the call. hold someone’s hand. allow yourself room to heal and to better yourself. the world is yours, you have all the time you need to heal, so take some today.

And I hate to be the one to break it to you kid, but this isn’t a movie. There’s no knight in shining armor who’s going to come in at the last second and sweep you off your feet. The mean girl doesn’t have a change of heart and accept you with open arms before it’s too late. The man you love isn’t going to run through the airport and beg you to stay. There is no montage of you suddenly getting your life together and finding your way. This is no movie kid, and I hate to be the one to break it to you but the real world kinda sucks. It’s messy and chaotic and nothing like the fairytale you imagined it would be. But that’s okay. You’ll figure it out eventually. And it might not be as picture perfect as you had imaged, but it’ll be raw and real and magical nonetheless.
—  f.a.w
You not wanting me
Was the beginning
Me wanting myself.
Thank you.