Tag: poets of tumblr

i found you
three days after you died.
i walked into your office and
found you hunched over your desk,
your face deteriorating
into your coffee mug.

i picked you up and threw you
over my shoulder.
your knuckles dragged on the sidewalk
the entire walk home.

we wrapped you
in all your favorite scarves and
put you in a coffin
filled with salt-water taffy.
while they sang ‘der voghormia,’ i growled,
and the sky echoed me.

i growled
at your scarves and your
salt-water taffy and your
face. for the first time
in years, you looked peaceful.
i growled and growled until they
started shoveling the dirt in.

the sky boomed on the drive home.
i saw your face in the windshield,
contorted into a sneer, your eyes
glazed over, your nostrils flared.

your face in the ground,
so pale, so silent, so peaceful.
so peaceful.

der voghormia // a.s.m

i never hear the ocean
when i put shells to
my ear. instead, i hear
His heavy breathing
from behind as
He pushes me on my bed.
on my disney princess sheets.
instead, i hear the sound
of the washing machine, loaded
with those sheets. those
bloody sheets.
instead, i hear Him
in every creak and groan in
every corner of the house,
each gust of wind that blows
when I walk home alone, every
breath I took after He broke me:
too heavy, too shallow.
hissing and foaming.

sally (sells) // a.s.m

you were the first person
i ever tried to convince myself
i did not love.
you were the first time
i denied the lava in my stomach.

you were perfect for me.
there was nothing about us
that didn’t make sense,
and yet i turned away.

for some reason,
i have such good timing
but such bad luck, and so
i always end up in the
arms of the wrong people.
i always end up
alone again.

even when i feel alone,
you are there to console me.
and i have finally realized that
if i were with you, you probably
wouldn’t have to be consoling me.
with you, i would be happy.
and that scares me.

“we accept the love we think we deserve” // a.s.m

if you saw me today, 
would you still think
i was beautiful? 
if you saw my shaved
head and trembling hands, 
would you still 
not stay? 
if i walked by you
now, in a shirt and slacks, 
would you even realize 
you had kissed these 
unpainted lips? 
if you saw me today, would
you be grateful you left
me?

transition // a.s.m

take time to comb through
your soul, to really look deep
into it– where you just begin.

you’ve collected so much over the years:
sights, sounds, scenes, and smells.
it’s starting to get a little bit crowded
in your mind– it’s hard to make
any sense of who you are. you’ve collected
more than you can absorb. 

take time to comb through
yourself and choose
what you love, value and
what makes you smile.
keep those within yourself and know
you are what you love. 

take time to comb through
those things that are dark and
heavy and make you sad.
really look at them, don’t
ignore them.
let them pinch you, let them
remind you. let them teach you,
but do not let them draw blood.
keep the lessons they’ve taught you,
but do not let them stay.

it is important to,
every so often, remind yourself
what things you are and
what things you aren’t so that
you may let go of everything
you are not or no longer want
to be.

spring cleaning // a.s.m

i want you to know that
most of the time i am nothing
more than lost moments. 
i am many things that are not myself
clumped into a soft vessel: bits and
pieces of surroundings i’ve vacuumed 
into my being. i will always be 
collecting seashells. and though my
vision may change, i promise
my laughter will never be stale, my
kisses will never be forced, and
no matter who you evolve into, 
i will love you.

to whoever you are and whoever you end up becoming // a.s.m

i have changed.
like my favorite jeans
in middle school, 
i grow out of some things. 
i shed.
and i will continue to.
 

we are as fluid as the
rivers and the seasons, 
nothing is meant to 
always stay the same and
we are no exception. 

yes, i have changed. 
just as every single cell in
my skeleton will replace 
itself, 
my heart will be new, too.
and that is okay.

you’ve changed // a.s.m

the mind of a poet
is composed mainly of
metaphors. memories 
tucked away in dusty attic corners, 
scents that reek of sadness
and love. it is always full, 
always thoughtful,
almost always awake. 
conscious. 

poets digest more in their minds
than their stomachs. always chewing
chewing chewing on 
thoughts and words. always connecting
neurons to each other, 
composting every experience to
fertilize the mind. 
not always fruitful, but
always growing.

inner workings of my mind // a.s.m