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dieciseis.i fucking bleed ink
like a broken pen; bent
words pouring from my mouth.
let me try this again
i wish i would just
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.
six steps to fixing youstep one
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt 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.
sunday girli watch you shuffle through the kitchen
and i can feel my fingers softening
and my mind crashing but there are so many
things i want to scream at you, like:
how on earth did you learn to love me
when there are continents forming between my ankles,
when i'm stuck in the middle of a road and there's
a car coming right for me and i just stand and wait,
and how on earth could anyone
have so many freckles between their shoulder blades and
why is it that when you nestle your stupid head into
the spaces between my ribs all i can say is
that your hair smells like September 25th, 2012,
or how your eyes look like pages of an atlas
and that i want to read the whole thing
some people say you can miss somebody before they've even arrived.
i just tell them, "i know."
The split second moment when everything collapsesCarve our names into the woodwork
Of your spine so maybe we can force something
Beautiful out of the mud and arteries and synapses
because drowning my sorrows in the last dregs
of cheap coffee leaves the taste of a corpse
between my teeth and cheek
I’ve seen lakes with the bones of drowned poets
In the spaces between your hang dog one liners
And maybe it’s okay to crush clichés between our fingers
And smear them like blood across our cheeks
And run wild like frenzied deer eyed children
The devils headlights
You were full of loose change and receipts
Constantly shifting between the spectrums
Of visible to ultraviolet, you were blinding in the way
That the morning light burns your eyes red until it clears
And you see stars and love when really
It’s sleep deprivation and the balmy film of unconsciousness lingering
In the back of your throat
There was this fleeting apparition about the way
You’d tilt your neck just enough
To make your hair fall in your eye
Six lessons on love.One. Sometimes love will move so slowly
you will stop waiting for its arrival. You will become an
open bar and you will be drained and drained until one
day you open the door to let last night out and love has
left a calling card on the doormat.
Be patient. Let love come to you piece by piece
until you are full to the brim with it.
Two. Some days it will feel
like love has come for you with a wildfire
at its heels. Let it come; you were
meant to burn brighter than any sun or
star we care to name.
Three. Growing back after burning down
is a sign to leave old loves behind. Let them
go kindly. Wrap them up in tissue paper and
ribbon and give them a kiss goodbye. Be gentle but
Do not use maybe. Do not look back.
Four. Love can hurt and you will let it
because you are in love. It will spit venom and
throw fists until you stand up and throw
Be strong, letting love go is not
Five. Love will sometimes be too much.
It will let y
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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