I would go days without eating
I would let my bones show through
the lace of my skin
And you can be ashamed if you like
because I was
Wide Open SpacesSome sick fuck
Half inanimate object
The man, forty stories up
Hurt me, hurt me
The closest to the edge on the day she was meant to bow
"Thank you, I'm all better now"
Forty story man doesn't look out
at her feet
on the other side
This song goes out to you, ghost boy.And maybe you
too much of your own music
I am violin string, broke on lonesome.
You are an LSD trip inspired tattoo,
words to your tongue you can't take back.
and my head said
you won't fucking forget
you can't stop dreaming of
in all it's grand cliché
and the music.
my speakers are broken
but that never
the words from flowering out into the air
and so can you blame me
to your name
People are big and scarySometimes
a human life is too big
and I am too small
and I think
if I squeeze hard enough
that I'll disappear completely
I don't believe in godAnd, as hard as it is to believe sometimes, you just want to feel like someone is guiding you.
Dragging your hands forward to the asphalt.
Pinning your wrist bones to the skin of your palms.
As you, or was it Jesus, who saved you from falling head first.
Into the man-made black, flat as waves.
The taste of your bleeding tongue.
The sky, trees and houses tipped around you like the cateye of a marble.
And some sufferer, buried in regret and silence.
Both creeping towards our death day where, goddamn, we finally get to read the answers in the back of the book.
Do single-cell organisms go to heaven?
And why allow me to learn my lesson.
But yet I keep writing, starting every sentence with "And"
Comes with a swordOne day I'll tell them everything I never talked about
The women at the support group
the strongest people I've ever met.
Jawbones made of steel and fractured jade
He pushed her up against a wall and broke her nose
Her eyes fill will glistening compassion
when she speaks of him.
How can you not see how brave you are?
The strongest people I've ever met
Fighting wars we cannot speak of outside this room.
I wonder how many of us will live through love
And of all the prayers for me, I hope my prayer for them is answered
Because some will return to their husbands fists.
The sun is shining outside
so I pray that they resist.
Praying mantisThe praying mantis
in my spot
on my sofa
I eye him from across the room
with his hands, brown spikes clasped together,
prays about as much as I do.
And equally as sucessful.
In the dark shade of the room.
His glassy eyes watch me watch him,
the light from the window reflected like TV screens.
His arms still fixed
the tips touching
still muttering under his breath.
He stays for long
but I daren't break his trance
in my chair
in my space
with nowhere to go but home.
SuckerEvery little thing
You mustn't be so forgetful
This is you
I'll sit on my porch when you go.
And through Monday, too.
Why not April, September?
This is me keeping secrets behind sour eyes
And my heart doesn't lay still
for very long
My insides twist
when I wonder where you are
This is me,
brown eyes are hard to romanticize."the more i think of our childhood the more i can read in his eyes, oh god his eyes, those warm brown soothing eyes, all steady and dependable like the bark of a tree or wooden floors or that treehouse his father made for us when we were six. i think of his sister’s rooftop garden and the pretty flowers that grew all in knots and braids; roses, chrysanthemums, ivy, marigold, peonies and bluebells all spilling over and outlining the horizon standing all polychromatic against the sky- and i think that without the rich brown soil all gathered in terracotta flowerpots they wouldn’t have developed half as well, they would be haggard withered emancipated all shadowed and wilting like abuse and i think that earth makes them grow, and that soil is a world in itself, a divine powerhouse with a million stories to tell
his eyes are not universes. his eyes are not gardens. his eyes are not oceans.
i cannot drown in them.
his eyes are soil, warmth, the feeling of the forest balanced on
MadhouseWelcome to the madhouse.
You live in your perfect little world,
but deep down you wish you could escape.
Come find me at the bottom of the sea,
in a dark corner of a velvet melody.
We won't be sacrificed
for society's delight.
We'll rise time and time again.
We'll stand tall and proud like
hauntingly beautiful ruins.
Unique. Mysterious. Enigmatic.
Like diamonds, we're built to last,
to shine bright in the shadows and light.
After so long my eyes are finally dry and new.
I choose myself and stars roared in triumph,
put yourself first in this madhouse we call life
and you'll see that one day,
maybe even tonight, you'll be alright.
palimpsest1. “so have you, like, ever fallen in love with a straight girl?”
she asks. “i bet it’s like, totally awkward.”
i laugh and stutter through a no that comes out
sounding too much like your name, and then you are there,
slipping into my mind without knocking, like you have any right
to come back unannounced. it has been months since you called.
i suppose that counts as awkward, but when people say awkward,
i think of teenagers skinning their knees tripping after each other,
of the sound of knives scraping dinner plates during sunday supper—
i do not think of your voice when you tell me you have found
the perfect boy, of the way your eyes cut away from mine
immediately afterwards, so you do not have to see me ache.
i do not think awkward is the right word.
2. but god, you had beautiful eyes; i spent an entire winter
telling you that, hoping if i could just get that one truth
out in the open, i could hoard the rest of them to me like stolen gold.
tick tockthis bitter taste in my mouth—
it's a dying fire,
and the ashes are lingering on my tongue.
i wake up each morning with shadows beneath my eyes.
dark bruises that hide everything with a flourish
yet reveal all to anyone who looks close enough.
the girl in the mirror is my enemy;
her smile isn't all there and
it is painted like a doll's, but not nearly
as beautiful and enchanting.
i get the feeling that if i clench my fists tight enough,
time will stop.
but i know the gears of the clock that is wedged painfully
inside of my rib cage will continue to grind slowly and
sluggishly, because while i am not as broken as i once was i am
(and i never will be) forever whole again.
Truth In Verse-------------
I have attempted to write as others do;
speaking of tranquil moments
and the depth of their soul
But how could a poet write of what he does not know?
In my life I have lived never knowing reprieve.
So what could I possibly speak of but turmoil?
I have lived knowing little of happiness
instead recalling constants of societal rejection.
So even if I were to memorize the words
arranging happy phrases with meaningful intent.
The script I would produce would be utterly alien to me
and most likely as monotonous as counting sheep.
Thus a poet cannot write to be happy
for his happiness comes before the verse;
And sadly my friends, I must confess
mine is sorely lacking…
- Written by Word of Chen
i want someone to look at me,
and want to write a poem...
or at the very least think "hey,
this kid's alright,
i love him,
so i guess i'll stick
i want to be the smile
on someone else's
i wanted to be enough.i'm sure you deleted
my phone number,
and every picture of me,
even the one of me smiling
that you said you loved
and would keep
i didn't delete yours,
it's still there
the rose still beside it,
and every thread of messages
you sent, and incoming calls, voice mails
telling me good morning
when i was asleep
so i could wake up to your voice
while you were gone to work
and i was still in your
that's okay though,
i knew how we would end
the first time you looked in my eyes
and stopped my heart
from across the room;
i knew how bad you'd hurt me
and i knew i'd be more than willing
to let you do it all over
but you're not interested
because you know me,
and that's the part
you couldn't deal
this weaknessi am soft and weak.
my mother once told me
she wished she had a curvier body (while looking at mine),
but i'm only rounded edges because i hold fat that i
cannot turn to muscle;
i am weak because i am weak,
my heart is full of self pity and selfishness.
i stand in the hot shower, not wanting to
move at all because i sense no point in acting. i
stare at the fogged up glass and the condensation
dripping down the crying mirror, fat droplets, sad and heavy like i am.
lethargy dominates the bathroom, paces about the shower,
presses me against the wall and licks my bare skin with his dusk tongue.
i feel ten types of happiness, while rooted to the tile.
simealtanously, i am colored in twenty hues
of anguish, only because i deny movement (i refuse myself,
i am my own stray animal).
i am monochromatic, and weak,
and insanely, impossibly euphoric all at once:
this what heroin does to people.
i believe (it gets us killed, belief) i have a high pain tolerance,
but do i dare test that hypoth
//gliitch^*%$4a tessellation of words all pretty and edged
like swords unsheathed and violence sedated
and numbness, syllables roll over each other
and words and verses form tides, you write
using big words, my english teacher encouraged us
to use the smaller ones and i always wondered
what the big words were for then, sitting idle;
unused, unwanted, a solemn misplaced defect
dictionaries all hinged and high on obscure artefact words
no-one ever uses anymore gone out of fashion
because people like us forgot them and let them fade
into oblivion. but you, you know what they are
maybe they are hard to hold but you hold them well
maybe you are hard to hold but they fit around your shoulders
your poems are not easily intimidated and i hope
i could say the same about you and not be wrong.
anyway, our teacher told us, small words.
i couldn't help thinking, small words for small thoughts.
(poets who write infinities have got to take the plunge.)