Poetry 365

please let it always end this way:
staying up late,
both of us soft and warm,
writing words on each other’s backs
with our fingers
like a lazy southern drawl.
and me with puckered brow,
trying hard to concentrate
on semantics
and failing miserably each time,
because you with small grin
obliterate everything else
with each tiny delicate stroke.



-http://chrstn.tumblr.com

Where did you find me even, as i walked into the bar
five years passed, my heart half broken,
my bones soaked in a fine liquor.
I did not think you knew me then,
of me maybe, about me, just as I knew you.
Having never really spoken, you smirked as if
you’d seen a ghost of higher splendor.
Last time, you remember,
perched on the arm chair
in your younger brother’s bedroom,
a thirteen year old bird
a wingless beauty with golden feathers.
You knew of me, I was sure,
about me, like I knew you.
but I did not think you felt me yet,
all my inclinations towards
inclement skies and
all-encompassing immensity
we never really took off high, until now
but I had always been afraid to soar.
I am still unsure whether it is me or the company
that makes your eyes fade to the cloudiest of hopeful grays.



-http://drabsheets.tumblr.com

scene 1,
we’re sharing gentle smiles,
genuine echoes trailing
our words. faint whispers
turn into distant screams
as time lunges at us
with our personal hell.

but we trail tulips
amongst a field of
lonely little petunias,
so why doubt? love
will keep us alive.

day by day, i’d walk
you home and saying goodbye
was never enough for me.
we’d stand on your
broken porch and become
lost in words, floating
through the abyss
of what we try
to conceal in the shadows
that follow us.

scene 2,
the back door
is splattered in red, and
I always knew your lows
were low, and now you
remain lifeless with the devil.
we talked about this, we
poured secrets and
insignificant thoughts
that are now so clear.

i knew you’d feel blue,
i was the sun that was
supposed to come back up
from darkness, but light
never crossed your path.

hands painted red, and
I could’ve stopped this.
I don’t want to die,
your eyes are etched in
a wall of pictures that
crumbles in my mind.
you didn’t see my eyes
in the back of your mind,
for I sit here, waiting
to be swallowed entirely
by the demons that followed you.

I’m scared of dying, will
we able to share apologies?

Read More

There’s an emptiness that resides
In these walls.
They’re choking from built up
Clutter and old telephone bills.
If the walls could speak they’d say:
“Get the fuck out of this house”.


But still you lie on that twin bed,
In the back room, with your alarm clock
Set 13 minutes fast.
Sometimes I wake up in the room
Above their old bed,
And I want to pound the cold tile floor and scream:
“Move on you old fool”.


Your heart still aches,
Even though you tell yourself
There’s no need to pack up and leave.
Even though a good night’s sleep
Is hard to come by.
The tequila on the shelf begs
To differ.


The dust that coats the house
Is thick and dark.
It could use a swift cleaning,
You think to yourself.
I agree.
But it’s not my dust.


- http://nightonthesun.tumblr.com/

In a quaint dive, clammy with years
of cooking oil coagulated
under squeaky barstools,

I clawed at
dozens of ethereal thoughts

Much in the same way that I scrapped
linty change from my pockets
to pay for this stiff cup of coffee.

“Is this exact?”

I sure hope so.


-http://lookoutmountaineer.tumbrl.com

Sitting on the window sill, the sun lights it’s green
stalk, this bamboo learns how to climb. “you’ll never
stop me,” it shouts. My hand grips the curtain,
covering the window. The stalk now a deep, dark,
green. Growing in circles around itself. Water
droplets slide down, slowing as it hits indents
marking years in a bamboo’s life.
Alone in my cubical, mascara runs down
creases in my face. There is only artificial light
here, that I can’t escape. Crashing
comes the curtain, the bamboo is gone,
a loose screw.



-http://www.chloehodson.com

there is a blank keyboard before me
with each key removed and each button dulled,
a floating mattress beside me that remains
buoyant over water, over sea, over loss—
here in this room so full of empty plates, and grieving minds

i’ve walked down this hall a thousand times,
in different moods, at different speeds—
my mom crying in the kitchen
while on my mattress I tried to draw
a timeline of myself, starting now and going forward;
for each passing second I draw a branch, then an arm,
until every outcome is labeled, then
weighed against each other on a scale made of marble—
and the best are placed within a prism where every choice
at every juncture reflects upon itself; creating, through triangles,
every possible path my life could take

i take the forecast to my weeping mother,
trying to explain probability and it’s haunting nature—
how every pixel is a possibility, every possibility an image
and every image happens
my forward movement taking only a small
fraction of what’s possible,
while a million duplicates of myself
are forever parading forward—

WHEN IN LONDON, I DID NOT MIND THE GAPS—

Threw caution to the wind, drew yellow lines

with the scuffed soles of ballerina flats.

Only saw rain—when they said it’d be fine.

If the arrow pointed left, I looked right

Wanted badly to get lost in Harrod’s—

And couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

(I feigned to forget English—I swear it.)

But misreading the signs was not enough.

I saw your smile in the puddles, your kiss

was in the brown ale—those cards never bluff.

You were why I had left and what I missed.

You were that city—that corner—that street,

in which to forget we ever did meet.



-http://cityography.tumblr.com

These sounds—
they could have been footsteps
or the slaps of my baby slabs
against what looked
like under-saturated
light blue
tree trunks as bars
on a crib.



My eyes are underdeveloped.
I can hardly see.
Everything is polluted water
flowing without reason
into bedroom tributaries.



There are no smells or tastes.
These senses haven’t found recognition
with the world who entitles them
to lexicon definitions such as “burnt”

or “delicious:”
I don’t yet know these things.



My hands are layers of fat,
bears hibernate within them,
but they too are devoid of nerves,
of personal taste; of view; of stench.
They are empty gropers for the grasping
of things unknown.



Everything is a gray husk.
The world is not yet born,
vivid,
or wanted.


-http://bassable.tumblr.com

Her language mimics yours, but it isn’t the same.
Sounds are softer, longer, rhythmic.
You carry the world around in pieces and snapshots,
She sees it all at once in blurs, and that is enough.

Those strange scenes you dream?
Visions of unsolved mysteries,
The dancing bliss, the envy that you’re too frightened to speak,
She knows them and recalls them
And long after you’ve given up and left your haze,
She’s painting them stark and perfect
On sidewalks in yellow and gray, in the shade
Of maple trees, in permanent ink.

Her world spins in blues and dark magenta,
A little deeper than you’d like to believe,
Thick like summer air before a storm.
A little rough around the edges, but serene.
The dewdrops linger for a longer while,
And you might not notice the smile in the sun but she does.

An image, a thought—each iridescent strand of rain, each echo of tears that no one else hears—
The song in the chirp of the cricket, solitary but alive—
Tries to elude us.
But the poet knows it when she sees it,
Through her stained glass crystal window
While you’re stuck at the door.

You wake in the night and shove your nightmares away;
The poet wraps herself in a blanket of pure sense
She wakes and pens the language of dreams.


-http://chopdawg.tumblr.com