I needed someone to tell me
I was beautiful
I was smart
You never thought to tell me
You let me fall
Believing the words of an earlier fiend
When I should have been believing you.
The day she diesYou can't cry,
You'll never stop.
You can't cry,
They'll see you.
You can't cry,
It's not enough.
What if this
Is the day she dies?
A secret in silenceIt's on the edge of my tongue
An urge, a tingle, a pulse
I miss you
I should tell you
Will you lie with me
But the words stick
So I just smile
With a secret on my lips
I love you
'We Need A New Coffin'She woke up the same every evening; cramped and irritable.
"For Drac's sake!"
The bottom half of her body seemed missing, for his right leg had been thrown over her hip during the day, and all sensation had vanished. To make matters worse, his arm had captured her movement, dragging her into the hardness of his chest. She was never the best first thing in the evening - she wouldn't be at her best until she'd found a warm neck to munch on - but this was too much.
Trying to pull away, she was faced with a new problem. His limbs were a dead weight.
Unfortunately for her, Demetrius was far worse in the evening. Not because he was known to snap a few bones for a temper, like her, but simply because he refused to acknowledge it was time to awaken. He was startlingly good at refusal.
She finally got away, jostling him with her shoulder and disentangling their bodies.
It was a triumphant moment.
It was a triumphant moment until she rolled over onto a splinter, poking up through the thin
We won't speak of the ghost in the room.I'm in love with the ghost
That sits here in this room;
Do not hear the words he speaks -
Lose the image I and I alone now see -
Neither sightless or soundless I know him
The words he speaks or doesn't
I love him
This ghost in the room
The Better Half of a RainbowLight flickers bright.
I watch it dance over
The planes of your face
Ghostly pale on the depths of your room
I want to hold you
For a while or maybe two
Press my face into your shoulder
Muss your hair
Just like that
Until your lips curve up
The better half of a rainbow
PhotographEven when I try to think of nothing
I think of you instead
I guess there must be a photo of you
Printed on the inside of my head.
brown eyes are hard to romanticize."the more i think of our childhood the more i can read in his eyes, oh god his eyes, those warm brown soothing eyes, all steady and dependable like the bark of a tree or wooden floors or that treehouse his father made for us when we were six. i think of his sister’s rooftop garden and the pretty flowers that grew all in knots and braids; roses, chrysanthemums, ivy, marigold, peonies and bluebells all spilling over and outlining the horizon standing all polychromatic against the sky- and i think that without the rich brown soil all gathered in terracotta flowerpots they wouldn’t have developed half as well, they would be haggard withered emancipated all shadowed and wilting like abuse and i think that earth makes them grow, and that soil is a world in itself, a divine powerhouse with a million stories to tell
his eyes are not universes. his eyes are not gardens. his eyes are not oceans.
i cannot drown in them.
his eyes are soil, warmth, the feeling of the forest balanced on
palimpsest1. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?”
she asks. “i bet it’s like, totally awkward.”
i laugh and stutter through a no that comes out
sounding too much like your name, and then you are there,
slipping into my mind without knocking, like you have any right
to come back unannounced. it has been months since you called.
i suppose that counts as awkward, but when people say awkward,
i think of teenagers skinning their knees tripping after each other,
of the sound of knives scraping dinner plates during sunday supper—
i do not think of your voice when you tell me you have found
the perfect boy, of the way your eyes cut away from mine
immediately afterwards, so you do not have to see me ache.
i do not think awkward is the right word.
2. but god, you had beautiful eyes; i spent an entire winter
telling you that, hoping if i could just get that one truth
out in the open, i could hoard the rest of them to me like stolen gold.
MadhouseWelcome to the madhouse.
You live in your perfect little world,
but deep down you wish you could escape.
Come find me at the bottom of the sea,
in a dark corner of a velvet melody.
We won't be sacrificed
for society's delight.
We'll rise time and time again.
We'll stand tall and proud like
hauntingly beautiful ruins.
Unique. Mysterious. Enigmatic.
Like diamonds, we're built to last,
to shine bright in the shadows and light.
After so long my eyes are finally dry and new.
I choose myself and stars roared in triumph,
put yourself first in this madhouse we call life
and you'll see that one day,
maybe even tonight, you'll be alright.
tick tockthis bitter taste in my mouth—
it's a dying fire,
and the ashes are lingering on my tongue.
i wake up each morning with shadows beneath my eyes.
dark bruises that hide everything with a flourish
yet reveal all to anyone who looks close enough.
the girl in the mirror is my enemy;
her smile isn't all there and
it is painted like a doll's, but not nearly
as beautiful and enchanting.
i get the feeling that if i clench my fists tight enough,
time will stop.
but i know the gears of the clock that is wedged painfully
inside of my rib cage will continue to grind slowly and
sluggishly, because while i am not as broken as i once was i am
(and i never will be) forever whole again.
i wanted to be enough.i'm sure you deleted
my phone number,
and every picture of me,
even the one of me smiling
that you said you loved
and would keep
i didn't delete yours,
it's still there
the rose still beside it,
and every thread of messages
you sent, and incoming calls, voice mails
telling me good morning
when i was asleep
so i could wake up to your voice
while you were gone to work
and i was still in your
that's okay though,
i knew how we would end
the first time you looked in my eyes
and stopped my heart
from across the room;
i knew how bad you'd hurt me
and i knew i'd be more than willing
to let you do it all over
but you're not interested
because you know me,
and that's the part
you couldn't deal
Growing OldThe summer breeze carries the dreams of a long-lost time
Their fragments dance and turn along the current
I find myself alight with tears as I ponder the meaning
This regret I harbor inside my heart is no consolation
The path I later took is not a testament to those dreams
Gathered in the epitome of my innocent youth
I was naive to believe that I would remain that way
The hope I once had now mocks me with its entreaties
My mind is tortured, like a beast with a conscience
Prone to all the weaknesses that plague the monster
And knowing none of its abandonment of guilt
I can't help but wonder if I could rest by succumbing
this weaknessi am soft and weak.
my mother once told me
she wished she had a curvier body (while looking at mine),
but i'm only rounded edges because i hold fat that i
cannot turn to muscle;
i am weak because i am weak,
my heart is full of self pity and selfishness.
i stand in the hot shower, not wanting to
move at all because i sense no point in acting. i
stare at the fogged up glass and the condensation
dripping down the crying mirror, fat droplets, sad and heavy like i am.
lethargy dominates the bathroom, paces about the shower,
presses me against the wall and licks my bare skin with his dusk tongue.
i feel ten types of happiness, while rooted to the tile.
simealtanously, i am colored in twenty hues
of anguish, only because i deny movement (i refuse myself,
i am my own stray animal).
i am monochromatic, and weak,
and insanely, impossibly euphoric all at once:
this what heroin does to people.
i believe (it gets us killed, belief) i have a high pain tolerance,
but do i dare test that hypoth
Truth In Verse-------------
I have attempted to write as others do;
speaking of tranquil moments
and the depth of their soul
But how could a poet write of what he does not know?
In my life I have lived never knowing reprieve.
So what could I possibly speak of but turmoil?
I have lived knowing little of happiness
instead recalling constants of societal rejection.
So even if I were to memorize the words
arranging happy phrases with meaningful intent.
The script I would produce would be utterly alien to me
and most likely as monotonous as counting sheep.
Thus a poet cannot write to be happy
for his happiness comes before the verse;
And sadly my friends, I must confess
mine is sorely lacking…
- Written by Word of Chen
//gliitch^*%$4a tessellation of words all pretty and edged
like swords unsheathed and violence sedated
and numbness, syllables roll over each other
and words and verses form tides, you write
using big words, my english teacher encouraged us
to use the smaller ones and i always wondered
what the big words were for then, sitting idle;
unused, unwanted, a solemn misplaced defect
dictionaries all hinged and high on obscure artefact words
no-one ever uses anymore gone out of fashion
because people like us forgot them and let them fade
into oblivion. but you, you know what they are
maybe they are hard to hold but you hold them well
maybe you are hard to hold but they fit around your shoulders
your poems are not easily intimidated and i hope
i could say the same about you and not be wrong.
anyway, our teacher told us, small words.
i couldn't help thinking, small words for small thoughts.
(poets who write infinities have got to take the plunge.)