Tag: poem about poetry

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wingedpiglets:

We’re masked in clever conversation. 
Witty remarks. 
Perfect metaphors. 

But poetry is not always
the set of fine china your mother
keeps locked in the cupboard. 
It is picking through skin
and meat and getting to 
the bones– sucking out the marrow. 

And sometimes it is the stench
of decaying bodies. 
Sometimes it is the taste of
someone else’s blood. 
Sometimes it is supposed to 
break you. 

And we are not flowers– we 
do not give off warm perfumes. 
Sometimes we are fingernails tearing
through the yellow wallpaper. 
Sometimes we are covered in
scars (inside and out). 
Sometimes we are our own tormentors. 
Sometimes we are the pain 
we write about. 

Don’t you see? 
I live with my hands permanently 
dirty, covered in everyone and
everything I have ever
touched. 

words. sand
on an 
endless
ocean shore
slip through outstretched fingers
slip through my mind
bucket by 
bucket
strain out the gold and
stuff my pockets with
little puzzle pieces 
a mosaic of words 
i string together to 
make a key 
to the locks on 
hearts and minds.

the process of poetry // a.s.m

write it all down.
pour your mind on the paper–
all of it:
every passing
thought
every hiccup
every mistake
every “i can’t believe…”
every disaster
every painful memory.
put it all on the lines.
and when you’ve squeezed your sponge dry,
take a wet brush and paint
the words into colors
shapes
noises
textures.

How to Write A Poem // a.s.m

My Words

Do not ask me to spit 

up eloquent words in a 

fifteen minute box. 

This is not a contest. 

This is not about sounding pretty. 

This is about truth. 

When I am welling with

emotions that I

no longer understand or know how

to feel, when I am anxious

and gasping for

breath in wheezes,

it is how I breathe. 

It is nothing, it is

everything— it is happy ever

afters and a knife in the back. 

When You Ask What I’m Writing About

seeing the world in a
drop of rain. 

finding
meaning in the leaf that has just
fallen onto the pavement. 

discovering truth in the
cracks of the living room
couch. 

frantically catching thoughts–  
like flower petals in a 
whirlwind– 
in the palm of my hand
before they escape
back into the universe.

hearing stories in her
breath as she lies
next to me,

how much i want
to kiss her. 

seeing the universe through
a kaleidoscope,

smashing
it on the floor 
in hopes that the colors will 
repaint
the skies. 

how reading  
perfectly phrased metaphors just feels
whole, and like truth, and
like home. 

է

We’re masked in clever conversation. 
Witty remarks. 
Perfect metaphors. 

But poetry is not always
the set of fine china your mother
keeps locked in the cupboard. 
It is picking through skin
and meat and getting to 
the bones– sucking out the marrow. 

And sometimes it is the stench
of decaying bodies. 
Sometimes it is the taste of
someone else’s blood. 
Sometimes it is supposed to 
break you. 

And we are not flowers– we 
do not give off warm perfumes. 
Sometimes we are fingernails tearing
through the yellow wallpaper. 
Sometimes we are covered in
scars (inside and out). 
Sometimes we are our own tormentors. 
Sometimes we are the pain 
we write about. 

Don’t you see? 
I live with my hands permanently 
dirty, covered in everyone and
everything I have ever
touched.