[x]

Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through

Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.

lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.

I Am FlawedFrom body to soul and in between,
They blotch the parchment that is me;
I know of worse flaws I have seen,
But surely
I am flawed.

I sometimes lose my temper,
Use my mouth before my mind;
I ponder things I could do better,
And regret them for a time.

I can be harsh, I can be blunt,
I tend to hide my thoughts;
But this is far from what I want:
To be in someone's heart.

Comparisons are hard to make
Since we are all unique.
But half the time my words are fake;
The real me is a freak.

Regardless,
These flaws define me, describe me—
They make me what I am.
In that light, I'm proud to say that
I
am
flawed.

Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you

one. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).

It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.

two. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,

a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
myself.

three. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name

I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
o

String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.

i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.

ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to
Believe that the ability of
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice
In a life that was once
So happy.

A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she

this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.

Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor

AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.

Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie

On the road again searching for lost thingsLake bones carved into words
The slow baked Texas heat seeping into
Galaxy veins and Saturn ring irises
Like cross hatched road maps
Leading to lost cities gilded in gold
The skies nursing oil spills like a wound

Your cat eye palpitations lingering
Behind drowsy eyelids
Where childhood adventures of never growing up
Spark between neurons and sneakers pounding
On old dirt tracks
Boyish dreams of Milky Way heroes
Make up the constellations of your breathing

The TravelerThere was a girl
With a heart full of stars
And eyes that shone
Twinkling, like diamonds

With her soft leather satchel
She traveled through space and time
A soft sea escapade
She sought nothing but the journey.

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THE, meaning of life

by =VBAadmin, Jul 31, 2011, 11:09:54 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

The wine-glass confessionist doesn't
?
know the happenings, the
outcome, the
future, but for sure he knows the
prediction, as always, the prediction, the truthful
prediction FOR the eye of the beholden, the always truthful, illabile, the
—NO,NO,NO! The ever, NEVER truthful, the erring paradox of balance
(…d) … value … and significance … and meaning … and happiness …
… life … and reality
in this zoomed-in, unstructured, giddy, spinning THĒ,
which remains to this day, in bothersome-detail:
UN-reproducible. He wanders about a
changing, sorrowful THĒ,
for it is his only, his always only, his, His, HIS
…!
… THĒ.
The lab-coat paradox may not be able to see from his
reputedly‽…
…? …
unique view, but for the wine-glass confessionist, the view remains
still
…
unchanging.

THE, meaning of lifeby =VBAadmin

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Here's my first serious attempt at free verse poetry.
I'd really appreciate a critique on this piece.

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~tailoredp1pe Sep 29, 2011

i've never studied poetry, or given it a very serious attempt myself. i like poetry, i especially like poetry that makes me think. i surprised myself when i realized i'm not into overly descriptive poetry, considering how much i like descriptive literature, so compared to your other most recent poem, "Beauty of the butterfly swan", i like this one more.

free verse poetry is also more interesting than highly structured poetry. maybe because it forces me into the mindset of the poet more. every phrasing, every punctuation, every line has been meticulously planned and thought out. each line and word was not written merely to meet a syllable quota.

i also like puzzles. i feel like this is a puzzle, HAS to be a puzzle. there's some deeper meaning behind it, however, i for the life of me, couldn't begin to guess what that is. i like it, but it frustrates me because it's almost too convoluted. it's like you took some of thomas pynchon's blood, hit it like acid, rolled a joint with salvador dali's ashes and then got drunk, came to some great truth about life and tried to write it down. but we are merely mortals, oliver, mortal men looking at life through mostly sober eyes. the meaning behind, "THE, meaning of life," is greatly obscured, but then, perhaps that in itself IS meaning. or, at least, perhaps partially. that's the best i can do at interpretation.

as far as its merit as free verse poetry goes, i like it. as i've said before, though, i've never studied poetry, so i don't feel entirely qualified to give you a critique, but from the average person's perspective who can appreciate a poem now and then, i do like it. the bizarre phrasing and punctuation keeps it interesting and causes me to think a great deal more than flowery, perfectly metered stanzas describing a simple picture. there's more than a simple picture here, and the poem reflects that. well done.

=VBAadmin Sep 29, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

"it's like you took some of thomas pynchon's blood, hit it like acid, rolled a joint with salvador dali's ashes and then got drunk, came to some great truth about life and tried to write it down. but we are merely mortals, oliver, mortal men looking at life through mostly sober eyes."

Hahaha, that cracked me up.

The poem is about an alcoholic defending himself from science. He clings to his only existence, fraught with an unchanging mellowness and sad inspiration. The labcoat man stands before him with a reputed cure and a life beyond the wineglass. The alcoholic ponders...

Thanks.

~tailoredp1pe Oct 1, 2011

wow. reading it again with that in mind really puts it into perspective. thank you for sharing that with me.

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