Tag: spilt ink

We Look For Answers

wingedpiglets:

in the palms of our hands, 
on narrow roads that 
twist and intersect. 

in wishing well eyes, 
uprooting the fibrous tunic in
our frantic pursuit. 

in echoing cathedrals
where we lay our souls upon 
wilting flower beds. 

in brilliant garbage dumps,
piled high, distorted into 
siren’s songs. 

in the mountains and grasslands and
the coursing veins that run through 
the dirt we were and will be. 

in the folded up papers
whose true triviality is unknown
until we are weaved
back into the earth. 

in the booming echoes of
our voices as we stand on 
elevated hills and yell into the valleys 
below. 

where they cannot be found, 
for they reside far beyond
existence. 

Closure

wingedpiglets:

When you walked out
of my heart, you left
the door wide open.
I poured my soul out
on a paper plane
and chucked it through the
fragile frame,
hoping you’d read the words:
“Please come home.”

I sat for weeks, waiting for you
to close the gaping hole
you carelessly left;
for you to walk through and
apologize for letting the bugs in, you hadn’t meant to, it was a mistake.
but you never did,
so I got up and closed
the damn door myself.

It Makes Music

wingedpiglets:

I write to      release
the emotions and feelings I’m
            too scared
to express.
To see my thoughts
                 on paper. Sometimes
I write to

            remember
and sometimes to

            forget.

I write because it’s the only way to make
my feelings concrete

                                                solid

                        cohesive, understandable.

            When I write, my
thoughts become art
                                   instead of a jumble in my head. 

dust constantly collected
on the windowsills 
and in the corners 
of the room, but
i liked that because 
i always knew where to find it. 


a firm
mattress was my muse, 
pulling words like taffy


pulling poetry that left
a sweetness on my tongue


and a purpose almost as
defined,
as solid, as sturdy
as the walls.


this was home home until


i grew too big and my limbs
tore down the frame.


all that remains:
my body, full of splinters 
and a yearning


for the way
the sleepy sun shone
through the windows.

Coventry // a.s.m 

the sky was bruised and blooming
above us, deep
purple and black

the pool lights darted
by our feet 
distorted and refracted.
scattered. 
moving with the water

i lay floating 
on my back, and

for the first time since
calling you mine, i felt
weightless. 

you wrapped your arms around
my waist

for the first time 
since calling me yours, 

you carried
me. 

when the weight returned 
to my body
we ran home

our wet footprints left
to dry 
beneath the winking moon.

night swimming // a.s.m 

there is peace, 
too much peace. 

these walls are saturated,
dripping, and sickly sweet with
the stillness of avoidance – 
nauseatingly daunting. 

there
is always movement underneath
a still surface, there is always
something
eager to erupt.

Krakatau // a.s.m