Category: poetry

worth in different worlds

freshly sixteen
and attempting to be deep.
the mind of a poet
is self-appraising.

confidence falters
at the worst of times, crushed
sentences and nervous stutter
perpetuating the blush-

yet when she puts nose to paper
she inflates herself,
makes herself grander
than she could ever be [in public]

get the point across verbally,
using cliché as hyperbole
-more chatter, less grammar-
unintelligible.

poets are observers
not participators,
and by now- no longer fifteen-
she should know it.

–

written m22aug2011.

–

metaphorically you

i sit at my mother’s table,
taking apart the roses father sent me
[happy sweet sixteenth, honey]

big-headed idols of the flowerfae,
gaia-sent and humankind-picked
[this is the classic, this is the girl we will blow up]

they’re dried up, twelve days after
the outside shriveled, some old maid
past her prime, past rose-bouquet days

i peel back the layers of the tough façade,
[alogotrophic, pitifully decrepit]
like slivers of lost hopes and ‘i-told-you-so’s,
and watch it bloom again, rebirthing

and realizing soon after that the inner things
are often the youngest, the most delicate;
the truth, and we must protect them
duly, with withered indifference

–

written w10aug2011.

–

lyre, lyre

he liked to believe
he was the phantom
whispering eloquent
derangement
beneath his mask

he taught himself
to play guitar
and to sing
but his fingers always tripped
and his voice still burnt of acid

[it wasn’t surprising
but it still raised questions
was it overconfidence
or epiphany?]

he’s choking on his words now,
hung up, strung out
his honesty muscle atrophic

what we did to [for]get
what he was saying

lyre, lyre
throat on fire
strung up from
an old harp wire

–

written t9aug2011.

inspired by “liar, liar” by the used (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jGUsrAKtEAU) and “hey zeus! the dungeon” by chiodos (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2vpqRUQx25o), which was in turn inspired by the phantom of the opera.

–

damaged goods

                and i picture her
                as rain-teardrops
                on callas-
                bone white,
                cold
                and soft]

everytime she flicks a grin at me
i hear ice crack
and slither down my spine
serendipitous, she
always glances up
when i’m least expecting it

her eyes are shattered windows,
shards of red-edged glass
                where someone cut himself
                trying to get through to her
                black-rose soul

and my baby blues
are [still] vulnerable
to fiberglass girls
                [that burning sensation
                from touching insulation]
and the sizzle
of effervescence
eating at that confidence
[i thought] i honed so well

–

written w27jul2011.

–

guns don’t kill people, words do

she keeps dreaming
of old friends without benefits,
creating falsified accounts
of the nights they never
felt so alive in
adding untrue meaning
to what was simply colloquy

he was ruler-thin,
two yardsticks tall
yet always falling short
of what she expected
she was five-two
(and three-quarters,
she would insist)
small enough to be written off
as a syntax error

she knew nothing
of the rules of fraternization
she waxed poetic on
parallels and Pollock
yet somehow he managed
to catch her avoidant eye

she keeps tripping
over her own feet,
too caught up in her head
to notice what he’s (not) saying

he never cared-
she was simply delusional-

or at least that’s what he told her

–

written f22jul2011.

this one’s ridiculously whiny but i’m putting it up because it has good wordplay.

–

day two

i.
apparently,
on the spectrum-
lack of eye contact
gave it away
years ago.

ii.
nervous tics-
always tapping feet,
moving fingers to
unheard melodies.

iii.
buzzing ears,
sweaty palms-
got it all
for the low price
of overstimulation-
crowd control,
i pray to you.

iv.
worries about
the rest of eternity.
doesn’t plan for it.

v.
irrational,
loud music blocking out
the simians
and their rules for survival.

vi.
cut my nose off
just to spite my face-
ginger-haired temper,
hailing from
blonde-dominated sweden.

vii.
poses as the rebel,
misunderstood reject-
an overused excuse.

viii.
varying from scarlet to mahogany,
sweet-smelling acid
in a box labeled
fade-resistant.

ix.
just an artist playing punk.

–

written m18jul2011.

two things have changed since then:
-my hair has now been every color of the rainbow.
-i’m a real-ass punker now.

prompt: nine things about you.

–

eight ways to win your heart

i.
lyrical,
not in the way you speak,
but in the story
of why you speak so

ii.
a sense of judgment,
but not enough
to get in the way
of happiness

iii.
an appreciation
for the underclass,
the gritty emotive truth

iv.
vigor
for causes
fettered by apathy

v.
bravery,
willingness to listen
to hatred,
in the form of a
hardcore-tinged bass riff

vi.
tolerance-
for those who’d
rather not be
choking on clothes hangers
anymore,
stuck behind closet doors

vii.
patience
for what i do
and for my confusion
about why i do it

viii.
the ability
to keep a secret

–

written m18jul2011.

–

like a bad dream

my loved ones
are all falling
apart
dripping construction-paper
[stalks of] bleeding hearts
onto rainy pavement

mother maple
tree was felled
by eating the emotions
her daughter claimed to quell
sadness trapped her mouth like glue
now she aches to see you [whole]

twinlike,
carbon copies right down
to the scars on their wrists-
diamond sharp rapier-wits
clash together-
advice isn’t worth it.
peeling sliverscabs of guilt
off, never ceasing the habit

endings:
brown hair, red-eyed tears
confessions dunked in coffee
dribbling powdery pill-crumbs
[her vices vary, now her only vibrancy]
ocean-bound, she drank
too much salt water
and puked her guts out
i can’t say i’m not watching her

knuckle said
i won’t stop
this self-injury madness
if it keeps me believing
i’m something romantic
knuckle said
to the concrete
yeah, i’m a real
winner

–

written f15jul2011.

this one also got a lot of attention on deviantart.

–

malleable

wednesday morning,
i wait for the city bus
with the recycling bin
full of beer bottles
and empty pop cans,
looking like something
put out with the trash

freshly-cut hair
plasticine smile
eggshell cheeks
and a mood like sour milk

a punk fresh out
of the gutter
with nothing
to lose
and nothing
to prove

pen in hand,
ready to document
injustice
and all i keep finding
is my own anger

–

written w13jul2011.

–