Coincidence or Fate ? Neither.i'm done personifying lettersand juxtaposing love and lifeand recreating conversationsthat will never mean anythingbecause we're not something.you will always be an initialfor some unknown acronymweighing my dried-up lungs(the scale is two hours fast)according to you, Subtletyis a synonym for Sarcasm;according to you, attentionisn't symbolic of anything.your mind games aren't sports,and literary death isn't athletic.unaware, Irony headlocked meand i was already stuck in yoursogladitsametaphor Chokehold.Kids, don't try this at home![but feel free to try itin someone else's home,in someone else's heart,in someone else's poem]signals can lie, thisyou'll never admit:you can deny it tillyour boxes unpackthemselvestill your clothes unfold,unlike this silent dramathat will always remainin your fucking suitcase.This, you admit to everyone:i met Love before i met you.since we're strictly platonic,here's a 'friendly' reminder:Nostalgia is a
lets jump off the Eiffel Towerif this is your first time reading this,STOP!Right here, right nowyouYES YOU, stop.Make sure you know,this is not a suggestion;this is a fact, a command.Try to remember:This is NOT a formula for altruism.This is NOT a masqueraded apology.This is NOT a dysphoric cry for help.This is robbing word banks for lines,then cutting the front of the lexicon.This is adding insult to libel,injury to a broken mandibleone that never spoke anyway.if you've felt like this before,stab me three times in the jaw.Qu'est ce que l'amour?if this is your second time reading this,slam your head into an ovenlike fucking Sylvia Plath;maybe then you'd get noticed.And by you, I mean me,and by me, I mean you,and by that I mean fuckThis is adding sodium to a battle scarand incessantly cussing in a papercut.This is a masochist wearing bandagesto cover the fingers of virgins-in-denial.This is slander and flattery and murder,first-degree charges for lingui
thieves that smash their goodsit's not you,it's me. no wait-- it is you.in that case,i'll be takingmy life back. (assuming it still exists)
because we love shooting starsif we shoot the sky with an ak47,the stars will bleed comets on Earthwell, if we're dead,we can't enjoy their light,and i can't enjoy youif we shoot the sky with a camera,the stars will develop into a memorywell, if we share a memory,it'll be stuck in my head for yearsif we shoot the sky coquettish looks,the stars will be too jealous to flirt backwell, if even the stars envy you,there's no fucking hope for melet's just not shoot the stars at all;my telescope prefers constellations, anywaywell, you'd rather strip Orion's belt than mine,so i beg you to asphyxiate me with what'salready killing me anyway
memoirs of an everyday nothingConfession: i daydream about you daydreaming about me.Confession: he's really not that special, you know.Confession: i just gagged.his arms line her shoulderblade,leading her on, down the halls...and fuck!they fit so perfectlytogether;they're one-of-a-kind,and me?who am i, i ask?who am i, when i'd rather bewaist-to-waist with anonymity?who am i, when you replace'suffrage' with 'suffer'?wait,don't answer that.i know i'm just oneline in a song you'll never listen tobecause i'm not the right genre---there aren't enough innuendosand my bassline fucking sucks;i'm in the key of 'g minor'and you prefer 'f major'on second thought,i'm not even a line--i'm not even a wordor a chord or a beati'm a single brushstroke of a letter--not just any letter, either:the silent 'e' at the end ofsome fake four letter wordFlaw: i'm not old enough to vote.Flaw: you're too young to care.Flaw: we're one-sided magnets.and you, just an hour later,are poking him for attentiontha
i can't tell you, or my hearti can't tell if:this heart pain is a side effectof the music or the medicinei can't tell if:these tears are realor just placebos to distract mefrom the real problemi can tell that:this poetry is a result of you
your teeth complement my heartmy arrhythmic bodydances on your lips;skeletal vibrationsshake the bedroom.antique teapots falloff the windowsillshattering glass,shattering soundas i fuck the edgeof your curtains,refined velvet drapesthat match your ego,in size and color andhow easily they rip off,but your skin matches my carpeta lot better than empty furniture,don't you think?i'll throw a fit out the windowbecause i'm not fit to be yours.you'll throw my plastic hearta way (your way, never mine)out the car door of my uvula.i'll burn all your silverand meld it to a bulletto load in my lovegun.i'll blow your brainslike wind or a whore,stripping allthe fur froma lachrymallycanthropeand just look at that lovely full moon!it's about as radiant as a thumbtack.and as soon as you're done sharpeningyour battleaxe incisors, i'll be on yourway/myway/noway/wardand you'll bite the dots off question marksand peel the fles
helen keller walked into a bar
a taxidermist in my spare timeit's always the last week of november when i'm making up statistics to say how awfully uncomprehensible i am. and it's always at exactly a quarter to eleven when i'm writing about nothing except for the vomit in your eyes or the blood in your mouth or another cliche of how pissed off/upset/overdramatici amnot in love,and i am not dressing corpses in your clothes,and i am not in love,and i am not lying to 500 strangers right now,and i am not in love,and i am not pretending that the sweat in your hair or the vomit on your skin or the blood on our tongues is anything other than some absurd metaphor forfuck you. fuck you. Fuck you,because i've been stuffing stockings with christmas lists three weeks early to get the only present i want/need/despise, which just so happens to be in the future, and i need a time machine just to visit it, because i really just want totell you.see you.Fuck you,because i've been stuffi
another shitty chemistry poem:you're a rotten chemicalyou pop up in every conversationi'll ever have with anybody else.your viral name spreads acrosseveryone and everything i knowi've figured out your middle name;it's Cyanide.you're my favorite chemicalyour ubiquity turns my fleshbluer than the sky and ocean,and as i'm lying on your bed,it's just like a fucking horizon.the clouds are running throughmy veins, my thighs, and youoh, you're like the ozone layer.you're a deadly chemicalyou're pure poison,asphyxiating me.but boy,does it feel good.
hipbone connected to thedear-i'm writing you a letteron the back of my handshake and shiver because sometimesthe winter is colder than i hopeyou think about me every now and againi'm falling through the pages of a book i've never readbetween the lines of the shapes the streets makeme believe that you aren't as confused as i amforgetting about poison in my veins and my heartbeats a broken rhythmdrum into submission and i watch as it diesthe black ink bleeding through my bodyof water is never as deep as it seemsyou've forgotten me and the way i love youfeel so cheap on my skini hope you remember and tell mepleaselove me.
misguided heartsyou could say they fell heart over head's for eachother.another night under the blackened sky surrounded them it felt as if it was the last time and the first time all rolled into onewith bruises from bed posts and door knobswith scratches from fingernails and lips that dragged across skinwith pulses beating rapidly and shallow breaths exhaled the same thought ran through their heads, "what's better than love?"the answer is always nothingnothingnothingnothingno thingcould wake them up to the dawn of reality
things i have lovedmy fingers are bleeding from holding so tightlyto these thorny roses,but you are in every prick,every petal,so i will never let go
given up by ghostsI want a wreckI canconnect with some un-settled sunto be sungand soon strungfromstringspreviouslyunattacheda heartsongpluckedin resplendentcollapsebreath snatchedin gaspshands claspedspanning gapsand gulfsengulfedin our graspa longlongingthat laughsas it lastswe'll makememories(a thing ofthe past)
The ChainSmokerI'm a chain smoker light one up, smoke half, get board, light up another smoke two at the same time.and after a while. you get kind of confused and start treating people like they're cigarettes.
painkiller poetry 08i have no one to talk to,and nothing to say,so i'm stitching my lips togetherand trying to make myselfokay.
another dead endeventually you'll stop callingyou'll run out of things to sayand i'll run out of reasonsto listeni'm your favoritebecause you hateeveryone else
painkiller poetry 10Her hair is like a summer wind; his eyes are like the sea.I am a weathered traveler,worn down by soft caressesmeant to show love for me.