To-Do List: October 201523-10-2015 The way tears well
To-Do List: September 201501-09-2015 Everything is pink when you're on a horse10-09-2015 Make the wok a better place10-09-2015 Mayo is just more chicken18-09-2015 The buddhist slave19-09-2015 Belief and trust are two separate things21-09-2015 There is no such thing as the wrong time to be alive21-09-2015 A blatant disregard for trams22-09-2015 Taking an entrepreneurial approach to her relationships24-09-2015 When business models make relationship sense25-09-2015 Making love poems with strangers30-09-2015 Looking forward to a virtuous cycle of love
To-Do List: August 201512-08-2015 Sand makes sparks15-08-2015 Friday 1am20-08-2015 Find the spiritual dentists!
To-Do List: July 201505-07-15 Everywhere she goes she sees her name06-07-15 In a constant state of suicide07-07-15 Not so great at constant self promotion18-07-15 You give her sensory overload in the best kind of way21-07-15 It's all just biscuits
His Wordsi'mso pleasedit's youx
the push and the pullsoft touchlips creasepartpinkwarmtasteteaseteeth graze“gentle now”suckbitewantmorewhimperpoutbeg“please”
To-Do List: June 201502-06-2015 When it comes to bleeding she always second guesses herself02-06-2015 The birth of a rainbow02-06-2015 Walk towards the sun04-06-20215 Lions on mars04-06-2015 Cats don't nap, they meditate05-06-2015 PEANUTS, PEBBLES AND PENIS!13-06-2015 She is not her self, she is everyone else's13-06-2015 God bless revs and mdma14-06-2015 Trains like bats14-06-2015 Rabbits howling at the moon17-06-2015 When you think about it, vaginas are a lot like biscuits25-06-2015 These strawberries are making my nipples jealous
To-Do List: May 201505-05-2015 The family of arts11-05-2015 Love eletters12-05-2015 in death there is knowing18-05-2015 Bruises on her meridian18-5-2015 More like too fucking late23-05-2015 She is literally 'the little death'28-05-2015 Breakfast epiphanies28-05-2015 Monks with laptops28-05-2015 A tender cervix
Sol Nigerin theblacknesswe findthe light
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,And I even knew it back then,Before I knew I was a lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,And I knew it then,I was a pre-teen lesbian.Roses are red,Violets are blue,Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,And so am I!My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,An
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,and stillness in the words of dead poets.We write our secrets on the inside of our lungsand hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivionwe press back, backbecause death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girlwaking you upwith coffeeon a Sunday morning,than keeping you upwith vodkaon a Saturday night
Still LifeAs a child I planted a single seed where the sidewalk ends,near the place of your remains.It grew into an oak; strong and rigid.Every autumn, I would watchthe leaves as they witheraway; as if to tell me that thedarkest times are comingAnd that I should brace myselfFor your deathAgain.Winters, I spend looking outInto dusk, and admiringthe beauty of still life.Through your slumberI patiently wait forThe ferryman to carry You home, but I've yetTo feel your warmth set free.Springs, I see the branchesRekindle their light,I see the sunshineFor the first timeIn forever ago.I feel at ease.I feel at home.
Amnesia Why labor with such diligence, in silent desperationStruggle under time's insistent paceBowed beneath the metronomic weight and pointing hands, accusing faceCatching, unsustained, at evanescent dust motes fired by winter sunLost within my tale's unlighted hollowsUnraveling behind me, skeins of memory ghost like smoke threading thin and wanAcrid in the fire's empty aftermath, bereft by dawnStir the ashes as I will, no spark now followsFingerprints and footsteps silted in, landmarks once familiar, now obscuredSo too the ridges of identity wear awaySmooth and voiceless in the echoing vaults of unrecognizant new dayWhere once resounded crashing waves of self, and continuity unyielding was assuredBut if I am denied the light of my own historyI leave behind the vigil at the grave of what I could not keepSojourner still, the unknown fairway beckons from the Lethe of sleepMy last bequest to you: a lifetime's mystery
maybe god is in peoplehe closes his eyes during church when they pray.it's a tiny white place of worshipbehind a gas station in the rougher part of townhe sways his hips whenever they sing(which is the majority of the time)and he gets full of this inner light thati've never experienced--though of courseif i had experienced it, i'd have no idea.his eyes flutter back and his neck bends likehe's howling at the heavenswhile his foot steadily taps awayan energetic partner to his illuminated soul.but then it stops.a shy glance towards me and a sudden cease of spirituality makes me realize thathe is uncomfortable with me there(i was sitting hunched in the pewtrying not to look anyone in the eye).i wasn't raised on faithi've never been granted withan instruction manual on how to get iti think it'd be nice, butmy curious nature that required me to question everythingcouldn't make logic out it.when i was little, all i noticed were theodd looks and heinous whispers we'd get when we'd tell
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
blue.her eyes are like the sky,her hair is like the clouds.no one laughs at her when she makes a joke.no one smiles when her bare feethit the blacktopand the sidewalk cracks.and all the world's her grayscale, the only colora musty shade of bluestrung in her hair. and she thinks of her first memoryas she lets go of the balloons in her handsand they rise as she falls and screams at the world that everything will become a picturein a history book one day.her lips are melting iceand her cheeks are dead and pale. her hair is wet her eyes are lost her hand, once claspedaround a wispy lifeline, is now limp.she floats like an etherealspread across a dreamthat drags her to the deepest ocean
UnusualUp to datewith crossing outnumbers.