Gentle. A single finger
against my chin, gentle,
a steady hand at my
waist, gentle, your tongue
licking at the inside
of my cheek, gentle
the press of lips
between my brows,
Gentle.
the sweet smokey smell
as I bury my nose into
your shoulder, the touch
of your bristled cheek
against my hair, fingers
interlocked and sweating
Eager. Hands roaming my back,
below my waist, eager,
crushed to your chest,
my breasts, eager, lifted
into the air with a wry smile
eliciting a giggle, eager
possessive hands trailing
up and down my legs,
Eager.
shaking with the weight
of emotion, sensation,
breaths meeting at
the stomach with each
exhale, an intimate
I am not an expert on anything,
Not death nor dying,
despite the brushes
I've racked up,
names upon names
on an ever-growing list
But I know this:
If you had seen the dying gasp for breath,
You would not go on about it's gentle grasp;
You would not use the trite phrase "Put To Sleep"
Or think that the struggle leads to peaceful rest.
the rose drops from my hands -clank-
I imagine my grandmothers passing each other,
startling with recognition,
then sitting down for tea,
mentioning the way their genetic codes
are twisted up and knotted together
white rose -clank- yellow rose -clank-
My grandfathers shake hands,
clap each other on the shoulder,
drink cups of coffee as they
exchange the brilliance of their
mechanical minds
a red rose -clank-
one golden dog sniffs the other,
tails wag as they recognize
the unmistakable scent of family
"I loved" says Blue
"We were loved" says Boo
flowers -clank- fauna -clank-
three aunts gather:
-clank-
-clank-
-clank-
Hollowed grou
His hand warm on my shoulder,
tugging me into a hug
and for a brief moment-
my cheek against
the firm press of his chest-
inducing a wave of longing
that could ripple across
the surface of my mind
for months and months
I wonder what that says-
that I can wish and long
and ache for more,
but still be kept warm
by the most
innocuous of moments?
twelve years ago a golden puppy
fell asleep on the kitchen floor,
and we called him "frog dog"
because his hind legs were
spread like an amphibian
when I was seventeen, walks with
that same dog were all that
kept me alive,
the only part of my days
that felt real and valuable
I called him my brother,
and tucked my feet under
his ribcage when my toes
were cold,
he would whine when I
visited home from college,
and wriggle his whole body,
forgiving me for leaving
again and again.
-------------------------
everyone has been
unbearably kind,
and I don't feel I deserve it,
but maybe there's
a little bit of
that golden dog
spreading in th
My best friend looks in
the night stand's bottom drawer
points, asks what I have in there
and when I say that it's my
high school diploma, she narrows
her eyes and asks me why
in a tone that lets me know
she thinks my answer is dumb
before I've even said it
"Because sometimes I need a reminder that I can do shit"
Her brow raises, skepticism
covering her face, and,
defensively, I spit out
"I think high school was a lot more difficult for me than it was for you"
and she practically rolls her eyes
as she reminds me that she was in
the IB program, that her diploma
is worth more than mine,
and this cruel jab, coming from
somebody who know
it sends shivers up my spine
when I think of the things
he could get away with
the things I would let him
do, the things I would give
because "strong independent woman" my ass
I am weak and dependent
and it has nothing to do with
my sex or gender
I am foolishly simple,
waiting for a love
impatient and naive.
my lips are chapped and rough
and a girl's lips are supposed to
be smooth and glossy and soft
so I run my tongue over them,
make eye contact from underneath
my shuttered eyelashes
and I wonder.
I wonder if his eyes are flicking
down to look at my lips because there's
motion there, or if maybe he's
considering my mouth,
wondering
what it might taste like to
put his own lips there.
What does that mean anyways?
"First Big Loss"
or
"Oh so you've experienced loss before..."
as if grief is only raw
the first time around,
as if grief can be
contained when it's
already been experienced,
as if grief's bite is
any less painful
the second, or third,
or hundredth time around,
as if grief at some point
loses its validity as
an excuse or an explanation
as if grief doesn't
turn us all back into
wailing babes
bereft of mother's breast
dim light filters through
and all I see are faces
staring
t
a
r
i
n
g
golden eyes pierce
through barbed wire fences
and I have never before
felt so grotesquely
human
u
m
a
n
joy and despair collide
the hysterical thought,
who would believe
that such power could
be derived from something
so little as a simple
thumb
h
u
m
b
Gentle. A single finger
against my chin, gentle,
a steady hand at my
waist, gentle, your tongue
licking at the inside
of my cheek, gentle
the press of lips
between my brows,
Gentle.
the sweet smokey smell
as I bury my nose into
your shoulder, the touch
of your bristled cheek
against my hair, fingers
interlocked and sweating
Eager. Hands roaming my back,
below my waist, eager,
crushed to your chest,
my breasts, eager, lifted
into the air with a wry smile
eliciting a giggle, eager
possessive hands trailing
up and down my legs,
Eager.
shaking with the weight
of emotion, sensation,
breaths meeting at
the stomach with each
exhale, an intimate
I am not an expert on anything,
Not death nor dying,
despite the brushes
I've racked up,
names upon names
on an ever-growing list
But I know this:
If you had seen the dying gasp for breath,
You would not go on about it's gentle grasp;
You would not use the trite phrase "Put To Sleep"
Or think that the struggle leads to peaceful rest.
the rose drops from my hands -clank-
I imagine my grandmothers passing each other,
startling with recognition,
then sitting down for tea,
mentioning the way their genetic codes
are twisted up and knotted together
white rose -clank- yellow rose -clank-
My grandfathers shake hands,
clap each other on the shoulder,
drink cups of coffee as they
exchange the brilliance of their
mechanical minds
a red rose -clank-
one golden dog sniffs the other,
tails wag as they recognize
the unmistakable scent of family
"I loved" says Blue
"We were loved" says Boo
flowers -clank- fauna -clank-
three aunts gather:
-clank-
-clank-
-clank-
Hollowed grou
His hand warm on my shoulder,
tugging me into a hug
and for a brief moment-
my cheek against
the firm press of his chest-
inducing a wave of longing
that could ripple across
the surface of my mind
for months and months
I wonder what that says-
that I can wish and long
and ache for more,
but still be kept warm
by the most
innocuous of moments?
twelve years ago a golden puppy
fell asleep on the kitchen floor,
and we called him "frog dog"
because his hind legs were
spread like an amphibian
when I was seventeen, walks with
that same dog were all that
kept me alive,
the only part of my days
that felt real and valuable
I called him my brother,
and tucked my feet under
his ribcage when my toes
were cold,
he would whine when I
visited home from college,
and wriggle his whole body,
forgiving me for leaving
again and again.
-------------------------
everyone has been
unbearably kind,
and I don't feel I deserve it,
but maybe there's
a little bit of
that golden dog
spreading in th
My best friend looks in
the night stand's bottom drawer
points, asks what I have in there
and when I say that it's my
high school diploma, she narrows
her eyes and asks me why
in a tone that lets me know
she thinks my answer is dumb
before I've even said it
"Because sometimes I need a reminder that I can do shit"
Her brow raises, skepticism
covering her face, and,
defensively, I spit out
"I think high school was a lot more difficult for me than it was for you"
and she practically rolls her eyes
as she reminds me that she was in
the IB program, that her diploma
is worth more than mine,
and this cruel jab, coming from
somebody who know
it sends shivers up my spine
when I think of the things
he could get away with
the things I would let him
do, the things I would give
because "strong independent woman" my ass
I am weak and dependent
and it has nothing to do with
my sex or gender
I am foolishly simple,
waiting for a love
impatient and naive.
my lips are chapped and rough
and a girl's lips are supposed to
be smooth and glossy and soft
so I run my tongue over them,
make eye contact from underneath
my shuttered eyelashes
and I wonder.
I wonder if his eyes are flicking
down to look at my lips because there's
motion there, or if maybe he's
considering my mouth,
wondering
what it might taste like to
put his own lips there.
What does that mean anyways?
"First Big Loss"
or
"Oh so you've experienced loss before..."
as if grief is only raw
the first time around,
as if grief can be
contained when it's
already been experienced,
as if grief's bite is
any less painful
the second, or third,
or hundredth time around,
as if grief at some point
loses its validity as
an excuse or an explanation
as if grief doesn't
turn us all back into
wailing babes
bereft of mother's breast
dim light filters through
and all I see are faces
staring
t
a
r
i
n
g
golden eyes pierce
through barbed wire fences
and I have never before
felt so grotesquely
human
u
m
a
n
joy and despair collide
the hysterical thought,
who would believe
that such power could
be derived from something
so little as a simple
thumb
h
u
m
b
Removed - based on Twice Removed by Ralph Angel by fizzleout, literature
Literature
Removed - based on Twice Removed by Ralph Angel
Slick sidewalks at too-early (but at too-soon-to-leave-you).
Or watching flurries scatter the ground and wind blowing, blackness
swallowing, the car parked that looks like her ex-boyfriend’s,
her throat playing in your laugh, her jeans torn and
tomatoes the only thing in her house to eat, you eat when you get there.
This ease. This difficulty. This heart that’s going so many ways at once. This
not-quite-lost
pretty girl (although not-quite-found, she’s been drinking an awful lot,
you’ve been hosting some of those parties
you’d know what she looks like).
Nothing spoken. Nothing told
but when she tells
Inside my head
I call regret
this distance between us-
as I bite my tongue
once again,
and let go
a tear of sad rage.
You'd be surprised
if I told you
how pain is always loud
in my ears;
but I'm sorry for you,
my dear,
because the sound
you are hearing
is time-
and time is only loud
when it's too late.
There is a time for colors,
a time for black and white.
You can tell she is sad
from the twisted trees she draws
with her colorless pen.
She struggles to find a word
who could define that universe
she used to know so well.
Only one thing is sure today,
there is a time for colors
and it will come again.
Now she sits by the window
eyes fixed on the storm,
slowly breathing in
a time for black and white.
One single piece of paper
empty as her mind
glows in the dim light.
Oh dear sun, even
you can tell she is sad.
Some bittersweet melody
she can't quite recognize
fills the room for a moment
and you'd believe it's coming
from the
Oh printer,
I wish that
You would
Stop
Enchanting
My cat.
He stares at
Your orifices
With such
Intensity,
(Quite rude,
Isn't it?)
He looks at
You as though
You will begin
To speak to him
(Though I doubt
You share a common
Language.)
He comes running
As you begin to
Churn, pulling
Paper in and spitting
It out as you
Ink words and images
(As though what he
Needs is being printed,
And he needs to grab it
Before anyone sees.)
Oh printer,
Please
Cease and Desist,
Your charms,
Your siren calls,
Your promises
Of being an oracle.
Cease and Desist
Your actions,
Whatever they
Are,
And
Release my cat.
since I've written a journal. As in, the last one I wrote came back when "Ode to Printer" was my last deviation and it had blown up and received more attention than anything else I've written combined. While that still remains my most recognizable piece, one of my newer works, "Writer's Block" has been receiving quite a bit of attention. I just want to say thank you to anyone who's been checking out my poems, and I hope you're all having a lovely day!
Ok, this is just a random little post of my thoughts. I would post on tumblr, but I don't know how to do a "read more" cut away thing. So you can totally stop reading now (in fact you probably should, because this is going to be weird and I'm not super sure where I'm going with this, but I need to talk it out with someone other than my bathtub, and obviously the internet has a habit of being slightly more responsive.)
So I was hanging out with one of my friends yesterday. And he's a really cool dude, but we do tend to disagree on things. I think a lot of this stems from his Orthodox faith and his conservative upbringing. (My main disconnect
HOLY. CRAP.
So I haven't been on here in a few weeks, due to being extremely busy. Then, I log in to over SIX HUNDRED (close to seven really) notifications. My poem "Ode to Printer" has been added to over 500 favorite collections. I'm astounded, having never experienced such a response to my work before. I was already blown away by the response to it, and that feeling has just magnified by about one thousand.
So thank you, thank you, thank you! I'll be sorting through things for a little, but I'll try to get to everything!