Tag: spilled ink

Serendipity

Why are our hearts always restless
to be stolen away by butterflies
and sawed in half?
At some point, amidst Shakespeare’s sonnets
and differential equations,
we’ve been taught that
you are only whole when
you give yourself away and
if your hand isn’t in someone else’s
it might as well be empty.
You will always be worth more
than the ring on your finger and
just because you’re thriving
on your own, it
does not make you
broken. 

Foggy  Heart + Pins & Needles Brain

some mornings the sun shines
a bit differently
through my blinds, and
the fog’s already settled in
my stomach, signaling that
today will hurt– that i will cry
over the if only’s that make me feel
so
heavy.
these days are hard, but
they are not the worst.

the worst days are when the sun
shines brightly through the blinds, but
my insides have not yet thawed.
abruptly– a blow to the chest
and i am caught
off guard, gasping for
breath, reaching for
anything or anyone that can
save me from this feeling of
drowning. only to

realize i am not
drowning– if only
it were that easy. but
nobody can give me their hands
and pull me to
safety.

all i can do is listen to
the tick tock of my heartbeat–
not knowing when it will end;
constantly in fear of when it will return.

This Is Me

for flamecoloredskies ❤ 

vowels and consonants
will never quite fit properly into
my soul: my musings, my
passions. 
and as much as poems sing
truth, they will always skip
some notes– the ones we have not 
learned to write down yet.
it is scary, having
things inside you you don’t know
how to set free. 

so sometimes i close
my eyes 
and let my hands dance to 
the songs in my mind. and
when you look at the canvas,
you will see me
in the brushstrokes. i will see
a map of my mind, no longer
overlapping streets but
routes to places inside
i’d never figured out how to give
others directions to. 

i am hollow until
i give myself to a canvas or a song 
and let the pieces of me make sense
of themselves. 
then we can look at 
them and understand. 

No Sympathy For The Devil

My blood is too thick 
for Nevada. I’ve never been
able to properly explain myself 
in this climate– always thinking
that just behind some narrow door in
all my favorite bars, 
men in red woolen shirts are
getting incredible kicks from things
I’ll never know. 

I know
these people in my goddamn 
blood, though. Won’t be long now before
they tear me to shreds. 
Too weird to live, too weird to die–
just another freak, in the
freak kingdom, humping
the American dream. Never able to
accept the notion that
you can get a lot higher without drugs
than with them. 

But with the right kind
of eyes, you can almost see
the high-water mark– that place
where the wave finally 
broke and rolled back, 
that sense of inevitable victory
over the forces of
old and evil, 
whatever it meant.