Here, There, and Everywhere

• 2013-05-14 59 notes

  my heartbeat has a stutter,
  don’t listen,
  don’t speak of living,
  it’s all become too embarrassing,
  these thoughts are tying
  knots in my stomach and twisting
  red ribbons around my wrists,
  my words taste like an apology,
  they cower in the back of my throat
  ceaselessly whispering
  I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry
  for existing

• 2013-05-07 36 notes

  I’d rather take an eraser to my face
  than a quick fix pretty magic trick switchblade,
  although I may get angry and wish for beauty,
  more often have I wanted invisibility.
  If I held my breath long enough
  I wonder if I could shrink into the nonexistent.
  I can disappear like happy feelings do,
  I can saw myself in two.
  Watch me pull my heart from a hat,
  see how it’s forgotten, rotten, burnt black.
  Would someone please send out a search party
  to look for my mind
  I think I lost it somewhere between
  not sleeping for a week
  and writing these same stupid lines
  over and over again,
  and again,
  and again and again and again.
  Where is the neon exit sign?
  Where is the emergency brake?
  I jumped from an airplane
  and only remembered that thing
  called a parachute once it was too late.
  My smile is a failed science experiment,
  my skin is an unfinished book report 
  that was never even turned in.
  If I repeat these words too many times
  I wonder if I would become a walking talking graffitied wall.
  With “REJECTED” spray-painted on my forehead,
  “DISAPPOINTMENT” on my stomach
  and “WEAK” on my back.
  If I delete each and every
  thought here that I’ve shown to you,
  I wonder if I would eventually vanish too.

• 2013-05-06 112 notes

  tired eyes. 
  unkind sirens
  echoing in my war-torn mind,
  gunshots fired from within.
  tired words.
  repetitive anxieties
  scratching at my already
  scarred skin.
  tired bones.
  aching, breaking,
  weighing my spirit down,
  being swallowed
  by the cold ground.
  tired thoughts.
  coughing up 
  stuttered letters,
  questions left unheard.
  tired poetry.
  killing time,
  as time is killing me,
  signing my name 
  with a dull knife.
  tired. (but I can’t sleep)
  tired, of a tired life.

• 2013-05-05 40 notes

  revolution 4(a.m.)

  #9,
  number 9,
  number nine,
  number…
  nein.
  (komm, gib mir deine hand)
  here, there, and everywhere,
  he’s a real nowhere man.
  (she loves him) ((sie liebt dich)) 
  love while you can. yeah? yeah??
  yeah.
  (nam daed no em nrut)
  buried in cranberry sauce,
  guitar calloused
  choking smoking
  joker hands,
  gravedigger, dressed in denim,
  hymns printed upon skin.
  while sitars gently weep
  my soul dreamily creeps
  back to the past,
  on the long and winding
  road to rishikesh,
  songs for bangladesh. 
  peace & love
  (shh)
  the quiet one,
  here comes the sun… king.
  it’s something,
  something in the way he sings,
  makes me feel fine (& I feel fine)
  it’s been a long, long, long time,
  within you, with(out) you.
  who’s to know? 
  who was to know?
  tomorrow never knows,
  but yesterday
  will forever be,
  (I me me) mine.

• 2013-05-04 32 notes

  strings pulling human beings
  like puppets,
  dreams falling through
  the holes in life’s worn pockets,
  looking for change between
  couch cushions and in mirrors,
  worth is measured by memories,
  thoughts are spreading throughout
  my body like a deadly disease,
  I’m building a city with the debris
  of past years
  and living there on the streets,
  being kept company
  by familiar ghosts,
  I go to sleep counting fears,
  my heart dropped to my feet
  making it impossible to run
  away from these feelings,
  disgust underneath my fingernails
  and dust in my ears,
  everything I touch turns to trash,
  I can’t hear through
  this storm of dishonest ash,
  words are stuck in my throat,
  planted with steel roots,
  and I’m looping these sentences
  into a silencing noose.
  

• 2013-05-03 24 notes

  

• 2013-05-02 36 notes

  words written on hidden paper.
  dark thoughts
  with unknown lines of silver.
  identity scribbled within the poetry,
  no one knows my name
  but they always find something to call me.
  opinions branded on skin,
  ink riddled with poison.
  I am an amputee,
  cutting away everything that’s ugly.
  until I feel nothing,
  until my heart is emptied.
  until secrets bleed freely
  for only my shadow to read.

• 2013-05-01 40 notes

  My pinky finger has been wrapped
  around too many broken promises,
  trust can be snapped
  as easily as wishbones
  and I always end up with the smaller half.
  My tongue has been tied
  to too many lies disguised as poetry
  printed on pretty kisses,
  hellos eventually
  fizzle to goodbyes.
  I have caught thieves
  between my teeth,
  their dirty fingerprints
  have tunneled cavities. 
  My legs have been running
  too far
  for far too long,
  before I have a chance
  to build a home, I am going, going, gone.
  My arms have been holding
  invisible dreams,
  embracing unseen shadows,
  I’ve been wearing sadness 
  like unwashed clothes.
  I have seen crimes with my hands,
  I have tasted fear with my eyes.
  I have heard corruption with my mind,
  I have felt pain with my ears.
  My heart beats too loudly 
  and always ruins the surprise.
  My feet have been dragging me
  up and down memory lane 
  and I trip over the darker years,
  lack of hopeful light
  makes it too hard to see clearly,
  and yet I can still feel it all perfectly.
  Life has made a bruise of my body,
  and I am freckled green with envy
  of everything
  that can never be.

• 2013-04-29 40 notes

  

• 2013-04-27 98 notes

  family fighting, blah blah,
  black sheep writing, baa baa,
  wool heart,
  full mind,
  vaseline teeth biting
  poetic bullets in sleep,
  keys clicking,
  soul digging,
  discovering too much dirt,
  nothing worthy of worth,
  living in a house of sticks,
  stuck in a cage,
  I’ll huff and I’ll puff
  and I’ll choke on this rage,
  shit,
  quick,
  heimlich maneuver
  and spit up an ocean
  of emotion across the page,
  I caught an existential crisis wave
  and it’s carrying me
  to my watery grave,
  people talking behind backs,
  souls slipping through the cracks,
  love, kill, debate free will,
  life derailing off its tracks,
  headache, heartache,
  medicate,
  magic pill, a tragic thrill,
  static lips, twisted tongue,
  kissing the barrel of a gun,
  drowning in a kubrick-esque
  flood of blood, redrum, redrum,
  I’m a VIP in the 27 club,
  creating a posthumous album
  with cobain and morrison,
  hendrix and joplin,
  only the good die young,
  I’m hearing my brain
  chatter as music,
  thoughts splatter,
  fragile dreams shatter and create
  a mosaic that makes me sick,
  my name is followed 
  by a question mark,
  I can’t see into the future,
  tomorrow is too dark,
  I’m still here choking 
  and they think I’m only joking,
  but I’m trapped in a boxing ring
  with someone that happens to look
  exactly like me,
  I’ve got a killer left hook
  but it seems they have something I don’t,
  immortality.

• 2013-04-26 34 notes

  My neighbors must hate me.
  These walls are paper thin
  and here I am singing Procol Harum
  and Simon & Garfunkel
  on a Wednesday morning at 3 A.M.
  I need to sleep,
  but it seems I have a greater need to think.
  This music makes me miss the city.
  Late night walks 
  gave me corners to stash my thoughts.
  In 24 hour cafés
  and subway rides,
  cheap pizzerias
  and in stranger’s eyes.
  Favorite secret places
  were perfect spaces for overwhelming ideas.
  But these days my mind becomes claustrophobic 
  in this prison cell of a room,
  my feelings are painting the ceiling 
  creating a giant thought cloud hanging above me,
  any reassurance keeps peeling away
  and is only left to dwindle in yesterday. 
  There is a traffic jam in my brain
  and it is causing accidents left and right,
  night after night.
  Beep, beep! (honk if you also can’t sleep.)
  I’m stuck, 
  I’m a contradiction,
  my feet can’t cross this busy street
  but my thoughts are moving
  at the speed of light.
  I’m here,
  and I want to be there. 
  I’m there,
  and I need to be here.
  I need air.
  I need different air,
  smoggy air.
  These surroundings
  don’t understand me.
  I need grimy air heavy with confusion,
  air filled with mistakes and anxiety,
  with questions,
  with insecurity,
  air filled with the unknown,
  air that is inexplicably lonely.
  So I could breathe it in
  and be comforted by something
  my heart and lungs already know.
  And not feel so out of place,
  not feel so hollow,
  not be so alone.
  And then I would laugh,
  and exhale… everything.

• 2013-04-24 201 notes

  I am a Monday morning.
  I am a watch that is 8 minutes late.
  I tried to preserve my heart in a freezer
  but it’s already long passed its expiration date.
  I am an alarm clock that doesn’t ring.
  I am a delayed flight,
  a flat tire,
  an insomnia filled night,
  an out of order washer and dryer.
  I am a cancelled wedding.
  My throat is choked with caution tape,
  my mind is a prison
  that feels impossible
  to escape from.
  I am the cracks in concrete,
  a dead end street,
  the world is a drum
  and I’m hitting it off beat.
  I am snowfall in May,
  I am a forgotten birthday.
  I am a losing lottery ticket,
  I am money poorly spent.
  I am that wish upon a star
  that never comes true,
  I am a burning flag 
  of red, white & boo fucking hoo.
  I am a wrong order,
  I am trying to be more like her.
  I hate the sound of my voice
  and yet I’m always
  talking to myself,
  that’s either ironic
  or idiotic,
  depends on the day,
  depends on what I say.
  I am a crooked spine
  and blistered toes,
  an awkward smile
  and an unfortunate nose,
  I am everything that has
  gone out of style.
  I am too young
  to feel so old,
  I am too old
  to feel so young.
  I am a cold cup of coffee.
  I am a lost key.
  I am a disappointment 
  compared to all the things
  I was supposed to be.

• 2013-04-20 41 notes

  I wake up feeling like an accident,
  like a mistake,
  like an experiment that went wrong,
  turned deadly,
  blew up in life’s face.
  But I continue
  to leave my footprints
  in the day’s wet cement. 
  I was here. I was here. (I am still here.)
  Is it possible to think yourself to death
  because my brain
  is not letting me catch my breath.
  My piercing thoughts
  pin my heart down.
  I’m doing the backstroke 
  through this sea of people
  waiting to accidentally drown
  and wondering who would
  maybe try to save me.
  Look, listen, pay attention.
  Everything has a story.
  Sirens,
  ignored phone calls,
  bitten nails,
  midnight walks,
  dusty typewriters,
  spontaneous smiles,
  mismatched socks,
  smudged ink,
  traveled miles,
  silence. 
  Everything is a story. 
  Everyone is a story.
  I’m creating a new sentence
  with every blink.
  Blink.
  Blink.
  Like a metronome to keep
  my thinking in sync.
  I’m only seeing lies.
  Fear is not a believable disguise.
  The dark circles under my sad eyes
  are loops in my mind running nowhere.
  I was there. I was there. (where am I?)
  I eat up the truth,
  it indulges my sweet tooth.
  I try to chew love into digestible bits,
  my soul spits out
  all the bullshit doubt it gets.
  Life is laughing back at me
  asking if I comprehend,
  asking if I have a plan,
  asking if I’ve prepared
  the final lines to this show,
  but I don’t know,
  I don’t know how my story will end.
  (Not yet.)
  I’m walking backwards
  waiting to trip over fate.
  I go to sleep telling myself
  to be something bigger,
  be something greater,
  be something better.
  Be something.

  (Before it’s too late.)

• 2013-04-18 127 notes

  I Am Not An Apology. 
  
  I am not.
  I am not a memory.
  I am not a secret. 
  I am not an accessory.
  I am not a puppet.
  I am not an anniversary.
  I am not empty.
  I am not the sickness.
  I am not the medication.
  I am not an automatic yes.
  I am not a disregarded no.
  I am not a stranger’s
  observation
  or expectation
  or violation.
  I am not a show.
  I am not a number.
  I am not a rumor.
  I am not a whisper.
  I am not a lifeless body
  that just anyone is allowed to know.
  I am not the unread stories
  scribbled on sad paper.
  I am not the ugly words 
  tied to my name.
  I am not to compare myself to her.
  I am not to blame.
  I am not an April morning
  that tastes of nostalgia and shame.
  I am not an afternoon spent 
  secretly praying in the bathroom.
  I am not a sleepless night
  that contains too much pain
  I don’t even know what to do with.
  I am not the question
  of whether to die
  or whether to live.
  I am not only
  the unsaid reasons
  as to why I’ve bled.
  I am not every
  voice inside of my head.
  I am not a mistake.
  I am not everything I hate.
  I am not dead.
  I am not stolen.
  I am not a prison.
  I am not a mirror.
  I am not an internal war.
  I am not my fears.
  I am not my scarred skin.
  I am not only past years.
  I am not only what has been.
  I am not only yesterday
  and everything that came before.
  No.
  I am today.
  I am tomorrow.
  I am the rest of my life.
  And there is more.
  I can’t let myself be
  something I feel the need
  to say sorry for.
  Because I am not only
  what has happened to me.
  No.
  I am not what you
  or you
  or you
  did to me.
  No.
  There is more.
  There is more.
  
  I am more.

• 2013-04-07 30 notes