only a broken heart - 07/07/16

For how many months
after the fact
am I going to keep
finding cracks
in the chalice
left by your
carelessness?
Good thing it's just
a metaphor,
because this heart
would leak
every drop of blood.

Hope Is The Hardest Thing To Kill - 02/22/15

Transparency
looks just fine on me
as just another thing
that you can't see

That light in my eyes
had better quickly die
so I can realize that
I'm the only one who thinks
that time is standing still
because hope is the hardest thing to kill

Maybe this skipping beat
will learn to retreat
after I face defeat
at the hands of my latest rejection
I'll pretend to sleep
and get through this week
after another failed connection

A passing smile
is all it takes
to make me wish
my ricochet heart
would learn to chill
but hope is the hardest thing to kill

Just tell me, tell me,
are you looking for me
or some cheaper thrill,
because hope is the hardest thing to kill

A Poem About Codes and People That Will Cause You Pain - 06/18/14

Iterate this:

For[ the first day we met,
    to the last time you answered my text,
    in increments of heart beats,
    Print[ the number of fucks I give]
]

Error: Very large output generated.

ribcage - 02/15/14

but whatever
i was never
any better
or more clever
than the bitter
things inside
that control me,
make me hide,
turn my eyes,
keep my words
all locked behind
those angry things
caged in my heart

She - 01/05/14

I identify as a woman
but really I am

steel bones
forged in the heart
of a star erupting
into its successor
with diamonds in
my joints
and venom in
my marrow;

mythril muscles
knitted by the goddess
of revenge
but tailored to my bone
by forest sprites
weary of fire;

plastic veins
vibrating under my skin
every time
needles
eyes
scissors
or the monsters hiding in men
are mentioned;

blue fire
and lightning bugs
and punk rock music
and decaying charm quarks
wrapped in paper,
painted in crayon,
choked in ribbon,
drowned in books;

captain,
wizard,
queen,
debate mother,
teacher,
shadow.

Tea Shop - 01/03/14

Don't look up from the coffee pot
where your sweet tea tears
flavor bitter caffeination
to feign regeneration
of your heavy, longing eyes
and quicken the pace of your heart
with chemical uncertainty.
 So in the dust between
first edition Dickinson anthologies,
pine for pages
to spark beneath your fingers
and the scent of rose petal tea
to fill your heaving lungs.

I No Longer Know What I'm Feeling Without The Music Playing - 09/01/13

There's no better remedy
For anything
Than a melody
That breaks you even more
Than you've already been
There's not better cure
For all that ails you
Than what ails you
In perfect harmony
On repeat again

This is it, I'm giving up
So leave me with the music up
Don't worry, I'm fantastic
Just as long as I can blast it
Louder than my brain can think
And louder than my soul can dream
And louder than my heart can scream
For anyone or anything
To scream these lyrics with

At least I got some new bands
With this heart ache
To juxtapose all the smiles
That I fake
At least I got an anthem
To shout out
As the sky crumbles
And the stars all
Fall down

This beat's the catalyst
For my happiness
This song's how
I'm going to be an optimist
About it
I've got a playlist
For everything that I'm not feeling
When the drum line's why
There's not point in breathing
The bass is why
I'm through grieving
And the chorus
Is a therapeutic chain of events

At least I got some new bands
With this heart ache
To juxtapose all the smiles
That I fake
At least I got an anthem
To shout out
As the sky crumbles
And the stars all
Fall down

She Bruises Easily But Heals Quickly - 08/19/13

Before you worry
that she's gonna get hurt
remember:
she's been hurt before.
And, every time,
she picks herself up,
dusts herself off,
and climbs the same damn tree.
She believes that,
rather than finding another tree
that she can scale effortlessly,
she ought to get better
with what she's got
because she's been conditioned
to believe
that happiness doesn't come easily,
that's it's something to be fought for,
something to be earned,
something to be practiced,
something to be learned.
So before you rush in
to bandage her knees,
remember:
she may bruise easily,
but she heals quickly
and she's just going
to get back in that tree.

exorcism - 05/28/13

there's something about
the way he murmurs wisps of lyrics
and decrescendos of choruses
from songs I've never heard
that siphons anxieties
and mathematical conceptions of time
right out of my veins

RMS - 05/21/13

I have trust issues
with boys
who recommend
songs that slip into the bloodstream
and clot in my wrists.

Blunt - 05/18/13

What's a poem ever going to say that you would want to hear, that you would perk up to, that you would wrap in a napkin and slip out of the restaurant to examine later, dainty words on satin or hasty verse on paper, on trash, on the back of a checklist of important things I ran from for fear of failure.  For fear of success?  Words I threw out the back of my mind because they could never be answered or threw out my lips because any more thoughts would only have made them worse.  Blunt words like broken plastic on soft flesh, startling, stinging, strange.  Yet I can't imagine why that metaphor must be the one to come to mind when, I swear, I'm health and happy and better, though even more so with you.  Because I don't need any more heart-broken albums on repeat, but I downloaded all the ones you sent me to, every song you said you loved, but not because you loved them, not because I loved them either, but because it worked out that we both did.  Because you listen to the songs I loved and heard the magic pluck of strings and tap of cymbals with the s's of the lyrics and the poetry lamented to dark symphonies.  Because each thought in your head is alone worthy of love and all of them woven together as your mind, as your soul, well, damn, where do I even begin to begin to beg each readers and listener to let their heart swell with each soft sentence that rambles from your lips and blush when they realize it's sly compliments that they should be scared they can't live up to but aren't because, hell, just because you wouldn't lie to them, now would you?  Because brainy is the new sexy and book recommendations are the new flirtation and song lyrics are monologues that fit my thoughts too perfectly to be sung.  Because you sing, little snip-its of old songs and sad songs and love songs.  Because you watch sad movies and I swear that I don't but I also swear that I'm Vulcan and I think you and I can both guess how much you can trust my swears but who cares?  Because in a few minutes I'll have thought of something a thousand times better to say, the right moves, the right song in the background, the right hand gestures and heaves of my shoulders.  Because it will be too late, so I might as well be blunt.

Because you make me want to write poems, which has never been a good thing before.

Wish Granted - 01/30/13

Some  sensual, level woman,
leaning calmly against an aqua bus stop sign,
brilliant aubern hair contrasting,
taking a long, thoughtful look
at the twists and turns of the road,
looked at me
as I paused
and looked at her

and we both said,
"Hello."

Inaccurate Memories of Train Rides and Birthdays - 12/19/12

Unraveling green thread,

tossed blankets

of mossy fabrics,

the oozing motion

of light blue paint

falling on bubbles sheets

falling on the clear edge

of the canvas.

Bandits and robbers

won't take my candy,

only Great Grandma's laughs

I think.

I remember green,

blue,

brown.

Trees, sky, dirt.

Where did the robbers come from?

And the arrhythmia?

And the bumper stickers?

And the stillborns?

And the cantaloupes

in your daughters tubes?

More importantly,

where did all the holidays go

when no one was dying

to celebrate them?

The City/My Soul - 11/25/12

I can hear my heart beat
in the city at night,
the rush of wind
over the river
is the pulse of my blood;
the clang of metals
in the distant industrial area,
the opening and closing
of ventricles;
the hum of traffic,
busy capillaries.

I can see my mind running
in the city at night,
radio towers twinkling
are my neurons firing;
satellites flying and falling,
thoughts conflicting;
the rippled water
reflecting distant images
chiaroscuro,
sums up
my being.

Graffiti Poetry #5 - 09/06/12

Each human being
is burdened with
the seeds of creativity,
the building blocks
of beauty,
the framework of elegance,
the blueprints of perfection,

which we use to build bombs.

Can't you imagine
a world where those tools
are used for creation?

West - 08-23-12

Big stone

marker in the grass

points the way to

D.C.,

points the way to

shipping freights,

points the way to

different paths.

You stop at the last bench,

in a mossy nook

outside the science building,

to write this.

Because the marker

brings him to mind,

but the quiet cove

and the green cave

and the physics posters in the window

bring him to heart.

The Hardest Part of Packing Up - 8-12-12

It's like
plucking a memory
from the
soft tissue
under
my bone.
Pulling sounds and songs,
twisting whispers and words up
to be piled neatly and sorted through.
Which to keep,
which to leave behind,
which to recycle.
The synapses that hold
them together
all shoved in a tiny tack box.

It's like plucking a memory,
pulling down my posters from Cross Fit,
cards from birthdays and valentines,
invitations to parties,
paintings and doodles
by me and dear friends,
withered flowers from ex-boyfriends
and neighbors
and parents
and friends,
trinkets,
Pokemon cards,
awards for math and science and poetry,
schematics,
blueprints of spaceships,
images of the cosmos,
hearts, brains, photographs,
magazine clippings,
membership cards,
album covers from old LPs,
clocks, stickers,
and the model of an atom
that I nicked from my chemistry class
in Sophomore year
on the day Mayer didn't come to class.

I Am Expendable - 01/06/12

To your cause,

to your charity,

to your favored function

did I donate one heart.

I had no spare change,

nor moving words,

nor great leadership,

nor fame to bring others' word.

But in a crevasse in my chest,

in a hallow, dark, and lonely nook,

I had one heart

that beat,

erratically sometimes,

slowly other times,

barely on occasion.

It was rickety and strange,

not red and blue like most hearts,

but purple and salmon,

faded and weather-worn

from being worn too openly.

It had never been a strong heart

- and now shall never have the chance to be -

but it was a dedicated heart.

Right to it's core,

the way many present themselves,

it could pick itself up

and fake a beautiful smile.

That heart would tear out its own aorta,

wrap it with a bow made of its own veins,

and give it to you.

So to your team, I gave a heart

that would care for you,

that would nurture you,

that would ignore its own shaky existence

to provide.

I asked for nothing in return for the donation,

not a tax write-off,

not a pat on the back,

not even a thank you.

And to me you owe nothing.

To that heart, however,

the bleeding, rickety, unstable heart

that has become abused

and withered in your care,

you owe,

at the very least,

a debt of thanks

and the tiniest hint of affection.

Yet what has been proven is the following:

there are other hearts in the world,

and other hearts at your disposal.

There are other mothers,

there are other captains,

there are other eccentric young ladies

with strange hearts

and free time

and much more sanity than I.

I am expendable.

Replaceable,

changeable,

non-unique.

Hearts are cheap,

plentiful,

and, as this organization expands,

more readily available.

I am expendable.

Three years of love,

devotion,

dedication,

and insanity.

For what?

To be told that any other heart

could fill the valves.

I am expendable.

I am expendable.

I am expendable.

Letters From A Very Bad Week - 12/10/11

I.
Open fire and flames.
Open fire and flames and fumes.
Open fire and flames
And forgotten fame
And fever.


II.
Dear Mr. Devil,
We regrettably inform you that we will be unable to make this evenings ball due to the inconvenience of being alive.  We have heard many great things about your parties and were looking so forward to this one.  Please know that we mean no offence and hope to join you next time.
Sincerely,
The Young and Tragic


III.
If I could be anything
I’d like to be a candle.
A simple, quickly-over life,
Nothing much to handle.
Set alight one day,
Left to brightly burn.
A beautiful travesty,
A rose’s bloodied thorn.
The candle killed by kindness,
Just trying to spread light.
The happiness is seen
But the bringer out of sight.
And as the day passes,
The wax evaporates,
Until there is nothing left,
Gone without a trace.
So bring me structured poetry
And overly-lyrical verse,
For I have images of blood
And stars and a polished hearse,
Because I am not a candle
Who will slowly die,
But a bit of dynamite,
Waiting to ignite.


IV.
Dear God,
I noticed the rain.  It rains often here and it’s hard to not notice, but what I noticed was that it wasn’t raining.  And it hasn’t rained in some time.  I know your subjects think the rain is you crying, so I can only imagine that a lack of rain is depression.  I’ve been having trouble crying lately too.  Trouble washing away all the darkness.  It gets bottled up, becomes acidic, and starts to chew away at my soul.  Which is okay for me, because I’m mortal.  But I don’t want to live in a world with a God whose soul has disintegrated.  So come down to visit, and we’ll drink orange juice and cry until the oceans flood.
It’ll be fun.
My best,
The Atheist


V.
You pretty little whore.
You filthy little doll.
Your dress is much too short,
Your ego much too tall.
I think it’s time to take a hit,
I think it’s time to fall.

You know you’re not immortal,
You know you’re gonna die,
So where’d you find the insanity
To look fate in the eye?
So where’d you find the courage
To laugh instead of cry?


VI.
Dear Ms. Dickinson,
You are bad luck.
Sorry,
The Heartbroken


VII.
The lighter met a candle.
Tall and thin and pale,
A girl of only seventeen
Who’d skipped too many meals.
The lighter didn’t know her secrets,
He didn’t know her pain,
He thought that they could be friends,
No reason to refrain.
I don’t know what he saw in her,
The ugly stick of wax,
With a wick wound so tight
She never could relax,
With poorly crafted body
That had cracked too many times,
With  a soul of blood and lust
That thought in verse and rhyme.
And when he found those verses,
Soaked in carnage and tears,
The silly little lighter
Found something to fear.
The girl was a cheater,
Dynamite in disguise,
Who smiled far too brightly
For one who hides such lies.

VIII.
Dear Scissors,
I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong.  But I was lonely, and sad, and afraid to cry and God wasn’t around to make a joke.  And the Devil wasn’t around to play the right music.  And Blood would not shut up.  It was wrong.  But Poetry had failed me.  But cats make me cry.  But it wasn’t raining and I ran to you for comfort and found it.  It was wrong.  And it really mustn’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking about your embrace.  You can be the arms I’m longing for, the kisses I’m missing, the best friend who understands.  You accept me.  Treat my the same when I’m making art or breaking skin.  You don’t look at me like I’ve sinned when all I’ve done is freed the needs I have.
It was wrong and it really mustn’t happen again.  But don’t worry, because I’ve always been one for breaking the rules.
I love you,
Misery and Madness


IX.
It’s a little scary, at first.
That first moment in the water.
Time freezes and you think
You’re drowning.
And you really are drowning.
Forever and all eternity.

But eternity ends
A second later
And the words come
And it’s all over.
Forever and all eternity
It is over.

But eternity ends
A second later.

X.
Heart: Are we alright?
Mind: Are we alive?
Body: Where are we?
Soul: Doesn’t matter.
Heart: Everything matters!
Mind: Everything has energy.
Body: I think we should move . . .
Soul: What.  Ever.
Heart: The entire universe is filled with love and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Mind: The entire universe is filled with physics and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Body: I’m hungry.
Soul: I’m leaving now.

Breathing is Easy - 12/07/11

I fell in love for 10 minutes.
I feel in love quickly, painlessly,
like finishing a math test.
In those 10 minutes,
I didn’t feel alone.
It wasn’t quite happy.
It wasn’t anywhere near the feeling
I’ve been grappling for,
euphoria.
But there was another being
who I felt close to,
who I thought understood,
who I was okay with loving.

Duct taped chips of red and blue,
smeared in my chest,
stopped begging,
“Be careful,
stay sweet,
don’t fall in love,
ever.”

For 10 minutes, I was in love.

But it turned out that I was understood,
but still alone.
It turned out that the world is beautiful
but I am ugly.
It turned out that he found my poetry,
understood it,
and began to worry.
So I can only think that
- he only talked to me to make sure I was okay
- he only stood up for me
because he feared I’d kill myself
- everything that I perceived as flirting
has been a check in,
seeing if I’m still breathing.

Well, to him,
and to anyone else who might ask:
yes, dear, I am.
Breathing, living, thinking.
But not the way most do.
I’m not eating or sleeping
or loving -
except for 10 minute intervals -
or smiling sincerely
or relaxing.
But breathing, sure.
That’s easy.
So easy, it’s hard to stop.
I’ve tried several times
and can say firmly,
for the record,
breathing is easy.