a future homewe walk barefoot over hardwood floors. there is a bed positioned next to the window,so that the moon whispers us goodnight,so that the sun nudges us awake. we smooth the comforter in the mornings together, muss the sheets in the evenings together.we have a fern that we sometimes forget to water.we have chairs but sometimes choose to sit on the carpet. tall windows allow the light to grace the walls, the spidery leaves of our fern, our faces.perched on the windowsill is an ink-colored cat. his name is sherlock. you half-roll your eyes, smile, drawl, "of course his name is sherlock."on cloudy days we hang strings of firefly light.i eat peanut butter from the jar with a spoonas we watch tv and sherlock bumps his head into your handfor affection. you press your face to mine, inhale deeply like i am
stars and station wagonspoetry sings in mebut i have not an idea of what lyrics to spin,i think i just need someone to knowthat the night sky peppered with the distantglimmer of stars makes my heart swelluntil it is too large for the cage of my ribs,that i spent an entire summerriding in the backseat of a stuffy station wagonwith no seat belt onand in those moments i didn't worry about a single thing.i think i'm just yearning,aching with the kind of pure need that rivalslovers separated by long distances,the whining, pining at window paneslike a dog waiting for the familiar clapsof footsteps on brick pathwayskind of want that bends my bonesinto boomerangs that don't come back.instead they cut the air and twirl and fly awayuntil i am held up by nothing more thanthe serifs of a favorite font, a few straight sticksof misguided optimism, and my own sheer will.do you see me, i am starting to shakewith the strain.these days i feel so very heavy,bloated with beautiful words but no tongue to
suddenly! sadnesswow! you sure snuck up on me there.finger wag.what dank hole did you crawl out of this time?did you decide to come and gnawon my ankles because i haven't eaten yet today?oh, you silly.silly little xerox copy of melancholia.don't sit on the counter, you're too big.don't try to reach that prescription bottle,you're too small.silly little xanax.c'mere, i wanna smell the death on you.no, i just wanna get a whiff, whatever's stuckin your matted fur, just lemme.wonderful. it's awful pungent today.did you just come from the reaper?what's that bony bitch up to?no, stop digging graves in the yard.someone could fall in.hey, you wanna go for a walk?okay, it's not funny when you reply off a bridge.that's just insensitive.stop sitting on top of me, i can't breathe.stop nuzzling my face, your breath stinks.stop dragging me to bed, i'm not tired.oh, you silly little thing.i can't seem to get rid of you, can i?
EvolutionEvolutionis a silent process of changingwe realise from the result.It Can't Be The Target.
UntitledGlide through the heavensin hopes to evade the crimson wingsthat holds you down.Be free.When will you shut the pearly gatesand walk away?When will you cut the crying chainsthat paint you grey?be free.Be freeBe Free.
ExelixiΕξέλιξηείναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγήςπου αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
LostLost –Like a vagabond.Split – At a four-waystreet, past any signsthat I comprehend.If I had I had it my way,I would cruise on the highwayand never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousandsof tongues i couldmemorize; new wordsfor love tucked betweenteeth often bitingtoo hard.my chapsticked lipscould learn to bow togrammar laws incountries i'llnever visit.i could master writingsymphonies in syntax,spend hours penningvolumes in languagesof longing and love,but i'll never find aphrase that fits youthe way your body fitto mine, back bent.i'll never find a namefor how our lips tuckedtogether, for my handsin your hair, for therapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the skyand see the stars as millionsof possibilities for us to wrap our handsaround and try, picking and choosingour favorite constellations like applesin the fruit aisle of a grocery store.We talk about our dreamsof leaving this townfar behind and far away,but we don’t talk about howleaving home means leaving each otherand each constellation we wrap our handsaround propels us into completely differentdirections. We want to hold on to each otheras much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,but we can’t have both,and that scares us.We look up into the skyand see how big the galaxy iseven when we can’t see 90% of itand we are suddenly aware of howsmall we actually are, barely grains of sand,barely specks of dust, barely here at all.We stop looking up and lookdown at our feet shuffling,worried and afraid for each otherbecause we barely sleep and failinga class means failing high school,failing to get into the dream college,fai
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.Sooner or later,It'll mess with your head;You'll be taking a shower, orLying in bedWhen the "inspiration"Hits you hardAnd when you miss the bus and first hourYou have to use the"I over-slept" card.II.It'll have you thinkingAt every point of the day;Twisting words and making rhymesProdding until the language swaysTo your fingertipsAnd theLower case letters nipIn hopes that you'll use themAbuse them until you are atYour hem.III.They will mock you untilYou simply can't think;The words swirling around,They will push you to the brinkOf complete denial,Of absolute insanity;"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, IFeel fine" are the words youHave to beat.IV.You will not care how peopleReact to what you say;What do they know ofWhat we do everyday?You think that to yourself,As a way to not seek helpIn the comfort of realLove and not the fake kindYou write of.V.You will lie and you willCheat and scoff and sayNothingFor all your mostImportant words are
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticksLike the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than redWhile others mourn the translation lost in betweenThe definition he wroteAnd what they want to scream to the world.All you know is a word,The hell hidden beneath it is nothingBut the trace of a memory that doesn't belongTo you, and you're so glad it isn't yoursBecause then that pain can just be a word,A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen andThis-won't-happen-to-youYou deserve prettier words, better words, you thinkOnes that stay silent, can be hidden across a pageVictimless and longer than the four letters they warn you aboutYou don't know how that word is strungOr why they tie chords around their wristsIn protest, why the memories they drag are drugged andFilthy with the crimes that can't be forgivenYou don't know how that syllable can hurt,What it can doYou don't see the gashes in their organsOr the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orangeand glowed in the fireturning black and ashnot a single moment laterthe scissors were coldThe embers wereglowing just the samehungry for her tressesthe royal red burnedyet no burn was leftHer hair was shortuneven with amber rootsoutgrowing the dyeshowing her natural shademom and dad took the scissors awayOrange locks tickle her neckfire cannot fight firemom and dad breathe easiershe does not touch the scissorsthough she always looksShe is eighteenleaving home is a blessingher hair bundled in a hatshe does not like to see itthe brightness keeps her up at nightThe hairdresser mourns her hairmore than she ever doesas it falls limply to the groundthe locks have lost their hueshe smiles as they fallIt is easier to tell people she is happynow her hair is goneorange roots don't show on a shaved headshe stands proudly nowshe doesn't keep scis
grinning bladesyou asked me what's that what's that onyourwrist and i said it's nothing, my cat did itand you said you're lying; they are spiderwebbed and swelling and i gave you the rusty scissors and saidi'm sorry,i'm sorry.