words: poetry

Seed lines. So many of you ask how I write, how the poems form, what my process is in this odd and overactive mushy swirly lump I call my brain. I say it every time, that all my poems come from a single line, a Seed Line, and the rest grows around it. So, tonight I am going to begin a series where I will randomly post Seed Lines from some of my Typewriter Series poems, the origin, so that you can see how the poem grew. Thought I would start with this one, Typewriter Series #1871’s seed line. Let me know if there are any poems you have wondered about, and I’ll add them to the list. I love ya.

I am afraid of everything that is bigger than me,
But that is most things.
I am afraid of tall men,
Because they are bigger.
I am afraid of tall buildings,
Because they are bigger.
I am afraid of how much I love,
Because it is bigger than anything I know to be afraid of.
Maybe that’s why I hid from you for so long,
Why I isolated myself.
I was afraid of how much I could love you
So I didn’t want to love you at all.
I am part of a broken generation

I am part of a broken generation.

hearts marred and mutilated is the new normal
until stitches and scars form our backbone
and the stench of a world burning
and the sickness of poisoned waters
and the screams of ruined families
is the air we breathe.

I am part of a broken generation.

we watch bombs fall and economies crash
and guns blaze while children cry.
we watch violence incite violence
and hate incite hate
and we are told we must continue, we must
carry on, business as usual
as though we are not ruined
as though pain is not our daily okay
as though living with the fear of imminent ruin is not our reality.

But carry on we do.

I am part of a broken generation.

we are instructed.
we are told who we can blame
and who we can critique
and when we can say no.
we are told when we must feel sorrow
and when we are permitted to be angry
and which threats we may battle.
we can cry, but not for too long
and we can rage, but not in public
and we can shout, but only at each other.

I am part of a broken generation.

there’s no time for tears, they say
and your empathy serves no purpose
(your sympathy even less).
you can express grief
but only if you grieve every death.
you can pray
but only if you’re rich enough to donate.
you can help
but your actions can have no meaning beyond some
political agenda.

I am part of a broken generation.

our lifeblood is death
and our oxygen is destruction.
we are numb to the sounds of terror
and we do not cry at wars raging on our doorsteps.
our voices are ragged from calling into an endless chasm
filled with people who hear but don’t listen
and our hearts are weighed by the exhaustion
of fighting for a world that’s too quick to hate
and our eyes are burning from staring
at the next tragedy unfold before us
and the next
and the next
and the next

And nothing learnt.

I am part of a broken generation.

as children we’ve watched the world
set alight and burn and smoke
while gasoline is thrown over raging fires
and the abstract concept of our youth is used as canon fodder
for wars that have hardened our hearts too young
and stripped away the innocence that you preach must be preserved.
we are your future and we are becoming your present
but you ignore our voices
and you sneer at our beliefs
and dismiss us as kids.

yet we are the same kids you use to defend your own violence.
we are the future you claim you wish to protect.
where is our protection from the endless violence
and the senseless hatred
and the determination to divide us?
what future can we have when we are silenced
the moment our mangled generation speaks out
against the world you are creating?

I am part of a broken generation.

we are not kids.
we are young, but our hearts are hard
and our minds are sharp
and we are rising in protest against the world we see.
if you dislike our methods
if you wanted to avert a generation
mature before all its citizens can vote
with clearer minds and bolder thoughts that it’s elders
perhaps you should have considered
how a child’s heart must turn to steel
and innocence is dissolved by reality
when confronted by a world of meaningless destruction.

I am part of a broken generation.

But broken is our new whole.

each time
that i have put in
my blood, sweat and tears,
for people that barely take a
second glance,
i have returned empty handed.
barely acknowledged.

does that stop me?
no.
because kindness isn’t a deal.
kindness has no intentions.
kindness has no returns.

error of eros wreathed
ere the pale ankle
swooping

where wilderness grows
white & slick lavished

spread thin of sorrow strong
winds spill from

ere to ere

the burning grave ,
the rosy woods in their dancing

old wound, old love, old body ,

- do you remember?

the you who knew yourself

arrows are benthic near the
neat of deep affliction

where words, bodiless,
wander into harm & secret

(palm up) inside the sea
where the buried light

may keep me

all winter - apothecary
moon hinges on her return

chased by the wolf’s hunger
of blue-moth edges

to be near the sea is to gleam

it is muscle, it is memory
but [never you] 

all the way down the evening

[I cannot]

never forsake that
which does not come

with dawn

Mercury, it wasn’t love
no matter
how much we liked to call it that.
We were white
hot sparks, we were
sticks of dynamite.
You fucked me to get back at her and
couldn’t resist coming back for more.
Your radioactive lips, your
molten eyes
were a wrinkle in my
iron plan. Convinced myself I
could handle your heat. We only talked
when you were taking
my clothes off,
but I talked myself
into orbiting you.
A quicksilver tongue and a wicked smile
were my poison,
malt whiskey was yours;
pouring it into
your cratered heart each night.
Mercury, you never tried
to self-regulate, never knew
how to
heal.
Did you think I’d stay
to watch you destroy yourself?
Did you think I’d let you take me
down with you?
—  the nine people i have loved as planets: mercury // L.H