spilled ink – Page 24

well-water eyes like hands
reach into my chest to
squeeze my beating heart. to
stop the thumping.

well-water eyes like drills
tear holes into soft tissue and
grind teeth down with
sandpaper stares.

when the covers baptize me
in my own sweat,
i am not haunted
by the dead, but by the
living.

in our own
Waterloo, well-water
eyes that drown me in
their dark waves of
self-doubt.

well-water eyes everywhere,
making darkness permanent.
well-water eyes that
i have not yet learned how to escape.

your eyes are dark tunnels to the hell in your soul. i still hear their abuse in my mind, though you are miles away. // a.s.m

it makes sense now, you
being born during hurricane season:
the way your eyes melted
into clouds,
the way you spoke in rain,
the way you tore apart the ground
beneath my feet
(you made it look graceful, though).
you were my life’s greatest
metaphor,
and you’ve left me
looking for explanations
in every corner.

baby, you’re the first hurricane of 2015. // a.s.m

the controller is here
in my hands,
but i can’t move
my thumbs.

this video game keeps going
and i am on autopilot:
an endless cycle,
straddling the line between here
and somewhere else.

i know i’ve been on the other side,
i just can’t remember when
and i’m waiting for the day
that i feel awake again.

i feel like i’m on autopilot these days // a.s.m

take a breath before
you jump off the deep end,
child.
don’t you want to see
the canyons around you before
you commit
yourself to a cubicle?

run, and feel the breeze
in your hair before
you put on your suit and
tie. your hands
have yet to touch
so much.

the paper they give you
is only worth what you
let it be.
don’t let it boss you around.

take your head out of your
computer screen
and put it back in the clouds.

all i want to do is forever enjoy the beauty of this planet. // 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

The rain paints
the world into
watercolors on my windshield.
Four lights shine
on the horizon just above
the hill where I went on a date once.
I remember him and I
had brought a blanket
to look at the stars that night.
We wrapped ourselves in it
and he kissed me and I felt
so loved then.
So in love.
With him? With love?
I don’t know;

In love with something
In love with everything.

For the Love of Being Loved // a.s.m

his hands made me drunk.
his hands made me really fucking
drunk
and his lips
his lips made me drunk,
too.
but i’ve never been
one for alcohol, really,
because wine makes me cry
and beer makes me angry.

hangovers suck and sobering up is a bitch so be careful who you let get you drunk // a.s.m

when
his fingers strum you
all you can do is sing.
or wail.
sometimes it sounds more like wailing.
and whatever he’s feeling comes out of your mouth.
whatever he’s thinking.
whatever he’s saying inside
comes out of you instead and
your throat’s sore from all the screaming
he’s feeling; from all the anger
little peach pits in his stomach
and you regurgitate them and
your throat is bloody red.

Guitarra // a.s.m

i find the quietness i crave
amid the forest’s windy veins
where my mind can be at peace,
where my thoughts vacate with ease.
here my feet become my breath
and my mind one with the earth,
i come to realize my worth:
an atom in the universe.

i can always find peace in the forest. // a.s.m

When I was young,
my mother used to warn me
not to look right into
the Sun: I could damage my
eyes from the
heat.

The first time I met you,
I could not look directly
into your eyes; I still
can’t.
I’d never expected
to find the Sun
burning
in them.

your eyes bore into me with the intensity of the sun and i do not know what to do with all this heat. i never knew the sun shone through people, too. // a.s.m