graced by the illusive muse,
notes dripping from his tongue.
reeking of The Modern Heartbreak,
a knife twisted in his lung.

now, he’s crying out melodies,
words of the wise,
watering young eardrums,
poems in disguise.

i prefer the lyre to your lies,
although they sound so sweet
whispering about love and loyalty
words of the weak. 

i brought a pen to a gunfight, my intentions clear.
my vinyl heart looted by the man in the mirror.



 

Leave me alone, 

The door is etched with sidewalk scratches

Blood or chalk will paint my walls. 

My phone case smells of last tuesday, my breath

Smells of you. We celebrate our angst with massacres. 

I’ve been stretched apart and taped back together, 

Banded like pangaea, my tectonic plates frail from my inner 

Earthquakes. 

My inner earth. 

The crust has always been cracked

But have you ever seen 

Raw gold molten?

 

she wishes she was Helen.

her temple, sacred to all cynical teenagers

her temples, soldiers bounding from the barracks.

whittling war cries and humming to themselves.

the crickets mumble a tune, familiar to many.  

one, two, three. 

        one, two, three,

                 one, two, three.

 

creep into my arms,
there are plenty of holes to climb into,
can you be one?
                      gothic style letttered vows,
                      words mean nothing. 
                      circus-like irony 
playful and chartreuse 
like me.

 

A band of storytellers cries at the wake.
We mourn the basic rhythm of tomorrow,
Your words, overpowered by the bass.

Could I ask a question? And could you
Respond in all honesty, modestly?
We can revel in the slowly realized truth?

We have watched the moon drop,
Crestfallen. (and I am still alive)
But my heart is in the pawnshop.

The muses bestowed upon me
Memento mori, lovers confusion,
And the cutthroat enemy. 

For what is the point of poets, if not to romanticize the unforgivable?

 

IV 
i dislike to 
tie up loose ends,
to correct myself.

but after you cracked me open
you left my pieces
scattered and sharp
obsidian shards

u picked me up to throw me
no- 
you just dropped me 
and i don’t blame you
i am the one ripping the scab open
and painting with my own blood. 

 

I spent years, scared of the bible,
Scared of religious conservation
And conversations
Perhaps I am still scared.

I drained my thoughts
And used to the pulp to 
Turn into a quilt and
 drape on the shoulders of god.  

I want to go back to simpler times. 
When sex was merely pleasure.
And marriage was only legal. 
When murder was just survival. 

I want to go back to simpler times.
To sleep against sand dunes.
To drink saltwater without wincing. 
My hair matted in the wind.

I want to swim naked against the cold currents, 
my tender flesh hardened by the sea. 
There's something romantic about
my shadow against rough rock. 
Something holy about the waves 
bouncing against the shore. 

Whether I float or 
drown,
I want to go back to simpler times.
To the ocean. 


 

i watch railroads trail behind me 
a woman chases after, out of breath
her shoulders, never relieved
give me liberty or give me death

a woman chases after, out of breath
her children ripped from her grasp
give me liberty or give me death
how long will this last?

her children are ripped from her grasp 
mountains for breasts, waterfalls for tear's
how long will this last?
it has already been fourteen years.

I plug my nose during my baptism, release my grip once I am dunked in the holy water of existential academics, letting it flood me. Water seeps through the crevices of my brain and tattoos the inside of my skin. I know I will need to go up for air, but some people drown in shallow water. 

Who gets to decide when the beginning is? A carousel with decorative horses spins continuously, I’m starting to forget when I even got on. I waltzed through fourth grade, toting a lunch bag with a peanut butter jelly sandwich. Freshman year, and the peanut butter has outweighed the jelly by a lot.  

Subconsciously, my thoughts stream out. My fingerprints on the keyboard, but I branded my hand on the pen. I cannot wait for the ink to dry, my life contorted with smokey smudged clouds. 

i know her and i’ve known her. analyzed her antics. 
she sits out on open window sills, Park Slope splaying beneath her. 
on her dresser lies the hollowed remains of old lovers, 
perfume and cheap lighters.  

she cries honey tears, in her romanticized sadness.
idolized in the poems i’ve written on the inside of her skin
etched and scratched over again with
Five Below fake nails. 

she knows me.
under her bed,
lays my heart in a glass jar
tangled next to ticket stubs
and fantasies about running away.