Skywriter ManifestoFold your poems into tiny paper lanterns and send them to the sky.
Light them up and let them go.
Don’t just be a writer.
Be a skywriter
Flying paper planes through restricted air.
Don’t just be an artist.
Be a Styrofoam sculptor,
So that in the event of a flood,
Something you make might keep you afloat.
When people tell you you don’t get gravity,
Tell them no,
It is they,
Who don’t understand
Let your words always be buoyant.
Let them be lifeboats blown up by big lungs of helium.
Hollow their bones.
Let them be brittle
But indomitable dirigibility.
Poetry is for the birds.
And if they must come down
Let them come down
Stuck with little bits of cloud
And miscellaneous sky-stuff.
Let them come down like pillowguts are down.
Let them quilt the ground.
Let them Mother Goose it
And kiss it good night.
Whatever you do,
Just let them be light.
Blue DreamI discovered a man
who makes me feel incomparable
the same way Columbus discovered America:
he existed beforehand and was probably better off
without a directionally challenged sociopath,
no matter what those Thanksgiving crafts
peddle to Neoamerican children.
Regardless, his persistence
withstood my apathetic exterior,
and I like his music even if I don't say it,
"You're okay," translates to something meaningful,
"Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive,"
adresses that he knows what he's doing
with his tongue, his lips, his cock,
and ten competent fingers,
but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose,
countable ribs, narrow hips, an ass like a sheet of drywall,
a shipful of charisma, countless manipulations,
social ineptness, political anxiety,
and over a thousand pages
of writing, which,
for the record,
in case he doesn't get it:
that's a lot of emotional bullshit,
and about half of it is melodramatic, petty,
unsubstantiated stories about my life
If you feed the writerIf you feed a writer, they will follow you.
If the writer follows you, they will talk to you. They will get ideas and inspiration from you, scribble down notes in a flimsy book.
If you talk to the writer, you will become attached. The writer will consider you a friend and seek you during their times of need. They will tell you when they are sleepy, when they are sick- they won’t tell you when they’re lonely, that’s up to you to tell. Read the writer’s writings, you will be able to tell a good bit about them.
If you become attached to the writer, you may fall in love with them. The writer will string only beautiful words to describe you. They will be head over heels for you.
If you fall in love with a writer, please treat them well. They are fragile creatures, teetering on the edge of fiction and reality. They need someone reassuring, someone who completes them. They are but an inch away from splitting themselves in two with their bare hands just to let all their
the failed escape artistshe is a snowflake-skinned sigh
floating on the winds of Eurus,
playing tic-tac-toe on her skin.
she always comes out the loser
standing on the road between
two worlds, she wonders when
she started to read the map wrong,
because this isn’t the
second star from the right.
she can burn the pictures,
but she can’t burn her memories.
and damn it,
her wanderlust is trying to
pull her up, up, and away
but the desolation is keeping
its slimy tentacle wrapped
around her ankle and
THIS IS A SIGNall the fallen eyelashes in the world
couldn't make your wishes come true,
no burning ball of ice millions of miles
above you is gonna get you to where
you want to be
stop wishing -
buy an old RV and send a handwritten
note to the boy you love, you don't
need dependency, you're way too strong
for that, love you could carry the galaxy
like a backpack and still be able to hold
do not underestimate yourself -
every moment is a new opportunity, so
greet spontaneity like an old friend and
walk hand in hand with it because you
deserve to be able to speak whatever you
want, if you feel it then it's real
and if it's real then it should be in reality,
there are trillions of inklings of hope tucked
beneath your finger tips and on the edges
of your tongue, there are horizons carved
into the balls of your feet
,the thing they forgot to mention
about being a writer
is that we all live the longest
and die the fastest.
we feast on metaphors
with numb fingers and hearts
until we crawl under a half moon to sleep
and just don't wake up,
because everything we are
is arranged in our work
and we start to become
everything we've written about,
slowly but surely.
and now i'm not so sure
if i want to be a poet.
i just know
that i want to be a writer.
talk about her search history.the thing about eulogies
is they miss the lines between
the gasps of dying breaths
whispering 'could have'
and 'what might have been'
they never tell the story
they miss the girl seated there
hunched and lonely and bolted
scrolling through search results
of someone she hates
no, you don't understand
the more you know
the more you can hate
the more you want to hate
the more you have to hate
it's always the whispers
that seem to say
they skip over the moments
when another girl would laugh
because some typical highschoo