I see wings that sprout from shoulders,
I see shiny slimy scales,
I see halos hanging over heads
and scary monsters' tails.
I see shining lights and radiance
and evil demon claws,
but in the end I see both good and evil
in us all.
BlinkDo the eyes of a hero have to work?
Do the legs of a hero have to work?
Does the voice of a hero have to work?
Or is she a hero?
When she wakes, what will she see?
If she wakes, will she see? Will she?
If she wakes will she move?
Will she speak like a hero?
While she's asleep does she hear those who wake and weep,
who wish to sleep, can't bear to keep her sleeping?
While she's asleep, does she fear my being near so she can hear me,
hear that she's a hero?
Can she hear me? So she knows she's near me?
"Goodbye"s "Hello"s but can she hear me, "Happy New Year", but can she hear me, crystal clear, me?
Yes, another year she's sleeping here, she's sound and still, another year she's still sleeping.
Does she know I'm scared,
or is she unaware, just laying there waiting to share the dreams she's dreamt so far, so fair,
like Snow White's skin, sleeping, hiding from Snow White's Seven Deadly Sins?
Would she prefer to be the princess who will wake, or does she know, she is a hero?
And when she wak
So She Adopted (slam poem)The baby was blue.
The baby was the only thing she had to hold onto
the keystone that she needed when her life collapsed into itself
cause her would-be baby daddy left her lonely crying to herself
just when she'd finished getting through herself
because she knew.
She can't give birth.
And she can't watch the movie "UP" because it would remind her,
she can't mother, or so said the doctor,
but, she said, she'd find out how to be a mother, somehow, be a mother.
So she adopted.
And although the baby wasn't hers by birth
she'd tried before, embedded in her mind, before the baby,
and she can't admit she calls herself a tomb
and she's afraid of her own womb
she hides the history but when she's all alone inside a room
it bubbles up just like a blister
holding back the screams of the baby's foster brothers and sisters
who never made it past the first trimester.
And although the baby wasn't hers by birth
she felt like it was living proof
that she had not committed murder-
what she had conside
The Poem about Diamonds"I accidentally fell in love," I said.
I went on to explain myself.
I told the story
the story that I read to myself at night,
the song that I sing in the shower,
of how I dug through the garden of my soul
and unearthed pure diamonds
already cut and ready for me to wear as jewelry-
as evidence that yes,
I really am this happy.
And so went the story of how I "accidentally" fell in love.
And it was a mistake.
I didn't mean for it to happen.
But the best things in life happen by accident.
AlwaysIn a crescendo of notes
flowing up and down
black and white keys,
a river runs upwards
to caress canopies,
flow from the mouth
with singing bells
that float through currents
up to meet the crest
where leaves embrace intangible heaven.
All products of
the threads that interweave
the nylon strings that glow of
pulsing earth with rhythm,
UntitledIt is the worst way to go...
and yet, we subject entire worlds
to such... ambiguity.
Wiped, but not wiped out,
not in an incident.
There is no tragedy,
only a slow fade to nothingness.
And all of the histories,
the timelines that were truly, truly real,
the places that you could feel,
That one joke that was said,
that one sentence you couldn't get over.
They became a dream.
And so one day they became harder to reach.
But not unreachable.
Winter SerpentThe winged serpent in the snow
will bite you with an icy glare
because your soul, the serpent knows;
a burning star resides inside.
It swallows stellar bodies whole
with frozen jaws opening wide,
and empty coldness that it stole,
it tries to fill with warmer air.
Why We Let GoA second chance is not an act of mercy
but a belief
that the human soul
can do better.
When I hold your life
in the palms of my hands
do not make me clench
them into fists-
you have cracked your heart
and I will not clean up
and the cold dark dust
at the end of every disaster.
I hope you need those wings to flyI can't help but to feel
that I took the fall
because I could take the fall.
I am still golden.
Maybe you needed a crutch.
You couldn't have made it this far without it.
I've come so far
and I've grown so much,
learning how to be happy with humanity's abstract concepts.
But I imagine you flying with invisible wings
and I wonder why I don't have wings
when I've worked so hard and so long to get them.
Wasn't it my goal to fly?
If you didn't have those wings, I'd imagine that you'd plummet.
But I'm so afraid
that if you couldn't fly
you would still be able to walk.
Teenager FactoryEmpathy is an art, and like all forms of creativity
I have to unleash it- I need it,
as I'm sitting in the corner
talking about creative robots,
fingers, colors, names
I need to know, why
why do you come over and ask if I'm okay?
Why do you care that I'm not talking to everyone?
Why can't you read my emotions?
Why can't you tell that I'm happy.
Empathy is a skill, and like all forms of skill,
it must be trained,
but as we charge through the darkest storms
we learn how to spot others. So,
why does it feel like you
are a man-made machine?
Do you think about these things?
Why are you programmed to state the hour,
and why are coded patterns of statements and questions
emanating from your presence?
Why does it feel as if my world is gone,
as I swallow the taste of iron
to prevent it from slipping down my mouth
where conveyor belts wait.
Empathy is a word, and like all words,
it is insignificant.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
2P Romano Hetaloid x Reader (Part 2)“talking”, ‘thinking’
Despite you pleads Flavio kept undressing you, leaving you only in your (color) frilly undergarments. “Frills definitely suit you my bella ragazza but I wouldn’t mind taking those off for you too~” “NO!” You quickly avoided his hands as he was reaching for the clip of you bra, and since beggar can’t be choosers you picked up the first piece of clothing you got your hands on. “Aaww~ Alright mio amore you can still wear it but only if you put on that dress you got” “Fine, I’ll be back” You went into your room and locked the door to change only to realize what dress you have picked out. It was a short (color) maid dress that you bought yesterday just thinking you could wear it for fun while cleaning the house.
‘Dear God why!? …Maybe I can escape through my window and-’ “(f/n)~! You done? Don’t make me go in there~” “Fuck my life”
Is that supposed to be insulting?"Lesbian!"
You say that like it's a bad thing
like it's something i should be ashamed of.
But why? Because I happen to fall in love with the same gender?
That my interests are out of the ordinary?
That I dye my hair wacky colors and wear clothes that don't fit your normal?
I see nothing wrong with that.
People really suck at insults.
I'm writing for the first time tonight;
When the love is strong,
And the stars are bright.
Writing for the future...
Writing for the past,
Just to see how long it shall last.
A whispering presence
Of company beholds,
Grasping the words and within they mold.
By the gentle strokes of the pen,
Portraying hurt, but no sin.
Resting at Nightmare's Inn.
Waking up to everything, but still wondering why you've been, where you've been.
Fore love has grown,
The mystery ebbs away and the darkness is gone.
Yet passion is extravagant,
Bursting from the roots.
Life is so much sweeter, when you've found the golden loot.
So for the first time tonight
The writing came to me,
But it is all because of thee.
Thy may not write the swiftest words,
Or speak the chosen sentences.
As Influence has minor and master keys.
Confusion must unravel
To see the beauty within;
Of a poets words, Of a blind mans thoughts, together in a den.
Forever this may withhold,
Old SoulsDoc says I’m an old
soul, with my postcards
and letters, and waste-no-words
policy. Doc says old souls still make eye
contact instead of playing with iPhones,
mirrors that stare back, and tell
us who we are by knowing
who they are.
Doc tells me I’m an old
soul in a young body, taming
wild Internets and bringing my words
to heel like a triple score
in a game of Scrabble.
That I was born in the wrong
decade, that I was meant to punch
typewriter keys like a boxer,
that the twenty-first century
wasn’t made for old souls like mine.
Doc thinks I’m too old
to be twenty-three, constantly forgetting
the barriers of my few years.
Like that I never wrote about myself
until he gave me moments
worth writing down, and cared
about the person behind the words.
That I learned who I was by learning
who he was, and drew a timeline
of intersection points where each
node became a poem, and each poem
became a stepping stone.
Doc unearthed an old
soul in my notebook.
Old like a favori
The Rumour of IcarusIcarus
there is a rumour that your father killed you, that
he bent your wings until they broke and then
told you, "Fly."
If this rumour is true, then it lives in the throats of
those fragile boys who wear your death like Cain's mark,
whose tender hands split like swollen tomatoes when
they pluck strangled seabirds, whose
arms slump beneath the weight of their father's genius.
And this rumour lives on
the under-skin of their eyelids so that when they die
or simply sleep
they dream of their fathers
or maybe just of Daedalus, standing with
his hands full of feathers and wax,
their blood-flecked down under his fingernails.
your face is gone, icarus, you are a warning & a tragedy &
the patron saint of boys who will not listen but also you are a god, icarus,
a god to these boys and still, when you fell
said Bruegel in oils, Auden and Williams in verse
no one gave a damn.
they also say that your father strained the sunlight into an amphora
and told you, "Dri