poetry

I haven't felt like this in a long time.
After watching the movie,
'Heaven's gates, Hell's flames,'
I just want to tell everyone about Jesus.
I don't just mean my friends...
anyone and everyone I meet..
i want to tell the good news,
about how Jesus changed my life.
I don't want to see anyone go to Hell,
even my complete worst enemy.
I want to try to save every soul,
because every soul
is worth it 100%
and i believe that with my whole heart.
I want everyone who is reading this to know,
that God loves you,
no matter who you are,
what kind of person you are,

I haven't felt like this in a long time.
After watching the movie,
'Heaven's gates, Hell's flames,'
I just want to tell everyone about Jesus.
I don't just mean my friends...
anyone and everyone I meet..
i want to tell the good news,
about how Jesus changed my life.
I don't want to see anyone go to Hell,
even my complete worst enemy.
I want to try to save every soul,
because every soul
is worth it 100%
and i believe that with my whole heart.
I want everyone who is reading this to know,
that God loves you,
no matter who you are,
what kind of person you are,

I haven't felt like this in a long time.
After watching the movie,
'Heaven's gates, Hell's flames,'
I just want to tell everyone about Jesus.
I don't just mean my friends...
anyone and everyone I meet..
i want to tell the good news,
about how Jesus changed my life.
I don't want to see anyone go to Hell,
even my complete worst enemy.
I want to try to save every soul,
because every soul
is worth it 100%
and i believe that with my whole heart.
I want everyone who is reading this to know,
that God loves you,
no matter who you are,
what kind of person you are,

Deep down there is Love,
hiding in your stomach, curled among your thighs.
Deep within the muscle,
it hibernates,
its eyes fluttering in a dream-sleep-dream world
of make believe.

You've lived without it for some time now,
you've given all the extra Love away,
saved none for yourself

and you can feel it.

Can feel it in the mirror
when the world seems to small for anything real.
Can feel it in your empty hands
at sunset
when you yearn to share your warmth.
Can feel it in a bird's love song,

Why can't anyone sing just for you?

And you try to cry it out,

CCV

I am a tree
strong and able to
withstand harsh storms
my roots wedged deep in sanity

I am a rose
radiating beauty that, without
care and time, begins
wilting and withering
with neglect and abandonment

I am winter
a change in season, in
prospective; but as the sun melts
the frost, so the troubles of my heart
melt my warmth, my will
to fight for my happiness and my contentment
with myself
and my life

I am laughter
bubbles and spurts of spontaneous
joy and color that, with time
and stares from unknowing eyes,
rumors from unknowing tongues, begins

I love the winter's crip freshness,
The spring's renewal,
The summer's golden warmth,
The autumn's sleepy wind.

But most of all I love the turning of the seasons,
And the changes in the air and the ground
In the celestial dance of this world's cycle,
Each passing month a new breeze, a new mood.

you're always somewhere
in the back of my mind
i'm searching for some answers
but i have no idea how to get there
i'm just hoping they will come to me in time
when all is well, everything is fine
that's when i will finally know
what it will take to wipe away all the traces of you
all the memories that i keep locked away
forget all the things you used to say
all the secrets that were whispered in the dark
as we lay there gazing up at the stars
talking about life and love and hopes and dreams
and at that moment it seemed everything would be alright

It's
the broken-glass-piano riffs
of Regina Spektor,

So
beautifully, beautifully sad.
(heartbreaking)

It's
the hidden lyrics with
double-meanings

And
secret interpretations for
someone else to find out.

It
ends where you least expect it,
starts again when you think it's over.

It
beats and beats and synchronizes
to a tune you don't remember;

So
familiar and on the tip
of your tongue.

(But
still no one
can quite figure it out.)

I am a writer and imaginer
I wonder how to make my writing flow
I hear the scratchof a pencil on paper
I see the story forming in my head
I want this story to be true
I am a writer and imaginer

I pretend my books are real life stories
I feel excitement when I fly through the air
I touch my wand's handle
I laugh during funny stories
I cry when my favorite characters die
I am a writer and imaginer

I understand my thoughts aren't true
I say I can pretend anyway
I dream about magical adventures
I try to be a great writer
I hope my stories will be read by other children

sometimes,
that one person - yes,
that one,
the one that seems so,
what's the word,
attainable?
sometimes,
that one person is just

this is kinda a work in progress and i know that there are some tweaks that i could make and i just couldn't seem to get the ending to sound right. advice appreciated :)
------

Everyone has secrets,
everyone has a right to keep things hidden,
everyone has a right to scream to the world
& tell everything in only a few words.

I have secrets that I hide
from the world & every person around me,
I have things that I shout to the world
in a silent way that most cannot hear.

Everyone has a history,
good or bad or just plain in between

Character development exercise. Also, an experiment in repetition.

Don’t you know, darling? Didn’t you
ever notice? Didn’t you ever
figure it out? You define me, you define me. I
am in orbit around you and
spinning circles, circles in vain
because you never notice and
I cannot get any
closer. Something in your magnetic field
is pushing me away and pulling you toward
her and maybe I don’t
blame you.

Don’t you know, darling? Didn’t you
ever see my eyes when
the slow songs played? When the lights went down
and the screamed singing faded and

Looking at you,
I’m timid
and scared.
But all I can think of,
is all we’ve shared.

Palms are sweating,
mouth is dry,
wanting to say something
but I’m too shy.

You smile
and laugh,
making my heart flutter.
I want to walk with you
But legs turn to butter.

Writing this in my journal,
Here and now,
Against my chest,
my heart starts to pow.

Dear journal,
It is time to say goodbye,
Just keep this a secret.
I need to dot my last i.

Old poem. Same feeling.

20:35 & it's raining again,
rain tapping at the roof outside my room
outside the window where I lay
among the lumps & tangles of my bed,
one hand reaching up to almost touch
the screen--

20:37 & it's thundering
idly, grumbling; these great clouds
rolling over each other, shaking drops
off onto our shingles, sheet metal--

20:39 & the peepers
are desperate, screaming--

I'm thinking about heat, about
sweat, about communication
& how the space between us

was so thin, the heat of skin,
electrons repelling electrons;

When I was little I used to believe in God
and superheros;
able to accomplish inhuman things
with their magical powers
and always showed up just in time to save a life.
(and then I grew up)

I learned that things like
x-ray vision and super strength,
invisibility and laser beam eyes,
don't exist
and people never get saved by superheros
because they don't exist
and when I started to fall away from life,
introduced to cutting my own skin and the anger
of a father who doesn't care
I wished that superheros could be real
and one could come and save me from myself.

You were covered with dust when I found you.
Hidden away in the corner,
discarded.
Perhaps forgotten,
but I saved you.

Your skin was turning grey,
but I could see the rouge beneath,
painted on long ago.
And I imagined you shivering through the winters,
left without even a blanket
to soothe you in your lonely years.

Doll face,
doll eyes,
beautiful but locked away.

How does it feel to be set free?

Foods I Like

Apple chewing,
Unpleasant spinach,
Sausage biting.
Tea sipping,
Ice munching,
Nacho crunching,

Hot dog fun.
Orange juice drinking,
Yogurt eating,
Tomato chopping.

Austin Hoyt
9/1/10

While reading Reading Lolita in Tehran I was struck by the image of a girl forced to cover herself in a burka whenever she is outside, and longing for some of the small daily pleasures we might take for granted.

I can’t feel the gentle caress
of the wind,
only a jealousy for
fallen leaves
that may dance and fly
freely
in the arms of their lovers.

I can only dream
of the soft kiss
the sun might rest
upon my
naked
shoulder.

I want to lie
so still on the grass,
the blades brushing
my arms
the backs of my knees
until I cannot breathe
for laughter.

I am a tree
strong and able to
withstand harsh storms
my roots wedged deep in sanity

I am a rose
radiating beauty that, without
care and time, begins
wilting and withering
with neglect and abandonment

I am winter
a change in season, in
prospective; but as the sun melts
the frost, so the troubles of my heart
melt my warmth, my will
to fight for my happiness and my contentment
with myself
and my life

I am laughter
bubbles and spurts of spontaneous
joy and color that, with time
and stares from unknowing eyes,
rumors from unknowing tongues, begins

Behind my eyes I keep returning
to the way your
voice barked with a pain
I could not succor;
the way your
arms environed me
as though to slip beneath my skin.

The way my ribcage rose and fell,
desperately, while my hips,
my unkissed lips ached
with the flipside of love.

I sat in chemistry class,
tracing the lines
on my binder,
until the ink
from my pen
filled the grooves,
like veins
filled with
inky black blood.

I trudged down the hallway
to my locker,
fiddled with
the combination
until it popped open,
revealing text books
and piles of papers.

I walked towards
my next class,
and as I
clutched my books
tightly to my breasts,
I could almost pretend
they didn't exist.

I drink tea through pewter straws from cups laced with ampersands. Green tea on Mondays & Fridays, black tea every time else. I’ve never really been much for the herbal variety. Herbal tea tastes like being someone you don’t want to be. My handwriting mimics the tea. On green days it’s full of cursive letters & swirly “y”s & on black days it’s blocky & full & caffeinated.

Your eyes, my dear, were beautiful blue
But now, my dear, tears shed from you.
And I wish that I could somehow erase
The bloodshot from your eyes.

Your smile, my dear, was perfection itself
But now, my dear, it seldom comes out.
And I wish that I could somehow erase
That pitiful look you wear.

Your skin, my dear, was smooth and sinless
But now, my dear, you're scarred and skinless.
And I wish that I could somehow erase
Those scars upon your wrists.

Your life, my dear, is what I need from you
But now, my dear, you say that you're through.

Oh yes, I once did see
Some hope for you and me,
But we've drifted apart,
I've no desire to restart,
So our friendship continues to bleed.

There’s a brick wall
of crimson crumbles dripping
through the grey criss-crosses of cement.
It weaves a pattern through the open air,
all the way up to the sky,
to the clouds,
endless to the galaxies.

You stand there through the translucence of
crimson crumbles,
you stand there with dignity,
stare into these jet-black eyes.
[Yet you cannot see me]

You stand there as if cement
has gripped the soles of your worn-out sneakers,
tied them to the scorching gravel,
entangled your molecules to those of the ground.

I tried to cross the brick wall once,

There is definitely a feeling of remorse
When you wake up, pull back the curtains and see
Nothing but clouds and rain,
And then remember the plans you had made.
As if the rainy weather
Hadn’t pulled your hope for a good day down already,
You walk out the door,
And step in a big mud puddle—
Drowning not only your good pair of socks,
But your hope again, too.
Rainy weather never really makes anyone feel happy—
Except the big, fat and juicy earthworms,
Who feel the need to plant themselves wherever it is you would like to step—

yesterday's will
is no secret.

you question
ocean stars
and at present
we poison
our sister
with sacred
magichands
& remember
she is brilliant.

i am red
for joy.

never has glass
so old
given a window.

kissed by
angels, she always
looks home
to her son
from vast
perfumefire universes.

While
seas of white hats
rush about and revolt
and crowds cheer noiselessly
and black-clad workers yell
at the top of their [silent] lungs
and blood is spilled
as feet hurry down
city steps

The pianist
plays on&on
occasionally
crossing one hand over
the other.

There’s a ribbon floating in the air,
swirling through the clouds of molecules,
soaking into chimneys of houses and
blood-red hearts and
the gas ball in the sky.

There are words on that ribbon,
freefalling phrases that seem to lose meaning
if you stare too long.
It seems like that’s what everything’s like these days;
as if things cannot handle the burn of the pupils,
as if they’ll dissipate when you stare too long.
[Many things have lost meaning]

I wish I couldn’t see the ribbon,
swimming around ruthlessly through the rays
of the sun
and beyond.

I like watching the beads of rain weave through the mesh of my window, the clouds gray to solemn shades, the strikes of lightening like a snake; so spontaneous, unexpected, menacing. I like watching the lights turn off in a domino effect, wave through the neighborhood until I’m the only one awake. It gives me power, control, like I’m the only one watching, and nobody will ever know. As the lights glimmer on the highway, New York flashes into the small suburb; tall skyscrapers, the bustle of cars, jingles of music humming through my ear.