For almost 2 weeks now I’ve been frustrated trying to find the words to say what to say and it just came today after I tasted blood on my fingertips (there wasn’t actually blood). So here it is, my relief… My Words.
Every time I go to bite my lips
I’m reminded of all the things I shouldn’t say
Every time I place fingertips to teeth
I taste the iron and smile… What have I become?
I taste blood under my fingernails
Because everyday I rip my chest open, waiting to exhale
Meditating on eggshells
I have to find new avenues to express my anger
Cause this poetry shit only feels like a lonely street
Even then I still write myself to sleep
And fantasize that she’s tracing roads on my veins.
And wake up to a half naked piece being covered by thin blue lines
Whispering loose rhymes, metaphors and memories of better times
But they’re all lies
So I sip back to sleep
As my hands undress another page of subconscious subscript
This is why I write on unlined paper
I take and gradually tapper away
Until I’m uncomfortable
Until I wake up
Until I realize that the words on this page are embarrassed to be naked in front of you.
Because my words come with stretch marks from being held inside,
Come with youthful optimism, youthful ignorance, youthful belief that because I’m falling you will catch me.
My words come with no rhyme or reason and never when to stop.
They dance in artistic patterns against white moon sheets.
My words come with friends but still feel alone
My words hope your words have a nice day! My words come with closeted racial identity
Come with backlash
Come a beating heart and umbilical so when you choose to write me off my ink is ended, my fuel supply to stay alive is depleted
My words are my children
And everyday I treat them
Like life is do or die
So I toss them off cliffs and pray they fly
You have no idea how much it hurts to watch them hit the ground.
I caress page after page
Leaving thick black trails
Leading to even darker secrets
There’s a trash can full of words you’ll never see, called the den.
With scribbled frustrations and situations I’m sure you’ve all been in.
Writing emotions I don’t tell myself
They just lay there staring truth at me
I told myself Id stop
That sex with unlined paper is something I’d never do again
But I still pick it up, because I’m alright in bed but I’m better with a pen.
JMSN - Love Myself
I’m a closeted introvert with extra-virgin tendencies
So I paint my pleas in bold ink in hopes of making you rethink fucking with me. I reclude back into your mind and continue craving marvelous murals because my first impressions were chiseled in adultery and I’m trying to get back to my childhood mentality.
If you ever wonder why I’m awkward around you it’s because you’re not invading my personal space, space invading, unidentified emotions getting closer with every shot missed, each kiss, each shrine in my mind, it’s the way you distance yourself that bring me closer to the end of the game.
My body is lifelessly floating with no direction I fall into your outline and leave when my color bleeds out of your frame.
If you were a Barbie corvette sitting on four bricks in my 3 year old driveway I’d still ride you
We’re 25 now and who knew we’d still be passing love notes
I know your partner loathes me, like every teacher we had did.
It’s magic the way we pulled our pokédex and analyzed the monsters we captured.
It’s just like old times, we’re chasing after demons that don’t fit in ultraballs. We hide them in closets cause we never mastered the balls to set them free.
I think the Sega Saturn was the first console I put CDs into. Ironically it was around the time I started thinking about seeing double Ds. Instead of indulging and playing with my single player controller, I grew into a single player with an inconsolable heart. Rubbing lamps and blowing cartridges, Consulting game genies, cheating with code sharks leaving my heart master shredded.
I can’t believe I still trained to wake up at 6am for Saturday cartoons. It seems like now, though, every sonic moon I’m dashing out on Amy. I hate having to turn Tails but everytime I didn’t, I would stay and spend the entire day listening to “we could be like those couples” and I’d end up punching walls until I get white Knuckles.
Life was simpler when we only had to take care of an egg… Man…
I think it’s the way you make your sexy face that isn’t really a sexy face but turns me on anyway.
I’m addicted to the high feeling I get when I sit in in your presence. It’s all in my mind but my mind is all that matter so even when I’m sitting my brain scatters and my hands clamp to my seat. I’m addicted to not falling out of my chair.
I’ve become infatuated with dreaming because it’s the only way I can keep thinking about you. Even in night terrors, I’m knight tearing holes in your dark sky. I’m addicted to the light we make.
We’re blind to the hidden portions, We lost a part of ourselves inside this little hell. We’ve been trying to fix the image in a broken mirror.
I’m addicted to picking up the pieces.
Table dancer April 8
She never stopped dancing
Knives, spoons, forks, food, spilling
Everyone else, eating blindfolded
My date, blinded behind pink matter
Lifeless we listen to the pitter patter
Of soulless feet, obviously discrete
We continue to eat, ignorance is bliss but we’re shroud in doubt
There’s a stripper on our table and a problem we won’t talk about
Even more so, now topless
She bares a heavy chest
No more bra to hold secrets
She rests her breast on my shoulder
She aims a look of lust at my lover
But never shoots though, I think she just likes to take my gun out of its holster
It took all of me not to lay her on the table and put a bullet in her heart
But since when has killing ever solved my problems…
each unspoken emotion
Each late night confession
each fantasy I have is a lesson I find harder to learn
Each time I close my eyes,
I feel your body, your thighs
Each finger tip and nail each exhale
You’re closer I can taste it
But only when wasted only when sedated
Only when I’m high are you close enough to lower the seams of your jeans and sit on my lap
Your body, the only thing in between our flame, our love soaked in kerosine
But the only time you love me is naked in my dream.
So I stay asleep stay serene
But my heart pounding
I’m outlining beautiful imperfections
Only compared by your misdirections.
This is affection is only for distant lovers, for texts under covers, for those of us who can’t physically give you kisses laced with a poison picked out that would liquefy your heart
This affection knows every inch of your sensitive skin and the radius of your curves. I measure on fingers the depth of you but only found volumes upon volumes of books written in an ancient tongue no one cared to learn but one I was fluent in.
This affection only exists in each and every one of my fantasies. You’re physically too far and yet my arms cradle and console you. It’s such a strange parody. My arms are occupied holding something that isn’t there, my heart loves you like you never left, and my brain is still alert, expecting you to just, appear…
My memories are trapped behind piano keys
With 88 combinations I may never replay these
Every white tab is a megabyte of memory, a summery, fleeting
Lasting only as long as the ringing. So Make it a deep note one that’s cut throat
Provide blood for the murder when She wrote me out of existence
The ever diminishing distance between us
How could you lead us not
Temptation was all I got
In a life of wanting for nothing.