the man with the
cigarette
doesn't blink
an eye for you,
never looks away.
the moths in his
lower abdomen
dance salsa today,
praise your subtle
being
until night disappears
into the sun.
sometimes her cardigans are woven from blueberries, but they haven't been for a while.
"this morning smells like granny smiths, honey, come see, they're growing" says her dad. but plastic apples do not grow, she knows that, she's not five anymore.
---
she hides in her blanket forts, protects her wooden embattlements with dream catchers and purring rivers of silence. she hugs a pillow tightly, presses it to her face and refuses to breathe until the scent leaves her room. then sobs like a child because oh, it smelled so good and her dad's gone now.
"sweetie, you can't aimlessly stare at a ceiling while looking like you're busy", says her mu
[his killer doesn't stut
ter, pentameters not iambic but manic.
it's a stubborn one.]
i.
he is so tall, leaping, insurmountability
for roughly 144 hours. electric,
ecstatic, incessant
reaching for the tips of omega centauri. "could it
ever end?" — never, no, never
ii.
if only he were less, smaller
than himself. he pretends
to be a woodlouse sometimes
but there's not enough
space.
it is 11 am & he has stumbled upon his neverending.
[there's a loudness] you exude. i don't
think these wisdom teeth ever got pulled out
or cared for. while
you only listen to classic rock
ballads,
brahms's hungarian dance no.5 &
sometimes the woodpecker
trying to work its way
into your heart. i bet
you are less confident than you seem. i
bet you carefully fold
your apostrophes,
that your lonely nights are nothing
more than salty alcohol & teaspoons
of self-pity.
as the violins grumble & louder, louder—
[i know] you wither, wish for the horned man in the night.
i prefer your sloppy 2 ams, hubrises that shine — without a fall. grimacing
at valleys and when they smile back, throw your loudest roars.
never sleep, you are golden while half-squinted & dark mountains to wear as binoculars. you
are blacksmith when letters are redhot, you burn fingers like candlesticks.
they will smoke in the morning. lick them cold and start over—
i am my own muse, my
own disaster of hide and seek. sometimes i
forget how to breathe, ask for reciprocation but
my lungs wallow in their silence,
stick out tongues & quite carelessly
caress my backbone until i give in and stop
breathing, [it's only for today,] quietly on tip
toes. beautiful alarms
& white smile toothpaste dresses & i
am my own muse,
my own disaster of hide, hide, hide
due date passed, brains mould
away but i shrug it off
my shoulders and stroll life with
arrogance & royal titles.
these never-ending stories wear me out, wear
me to the bone, stone-cold. i shake
with apathy — do not
[dare to] look for days that never missed me.
sometimes mirrors stare back & i
shed my skin, triumphantly.
train windows evaporate, letters
erased and again as bright
eyes stare through
us from their tiny shells
[flickering, shyly, hope
no one notices and for
their perpetual lithium]
velocity wipes away the city,
replaced with a dark
ness that swallows it whole
i don't know how to
welcome you
to a world that breathes
black
mirrors & hurricanes
my limbs keep growing towards the light,
but never bloom
[no metaphors]
air empty with jealousy, where
nothing happens because
it is too likely
at least we stopped
smoking wildes & van goghs, the nicotine
of art was too much
[but never enough]
you are triumphant
in your smiles, i suppose
your forte did not consist of loudness
none at all
and dimples cannot talk but yours
won't stop telling stories
so i dream of being old, crinkled,
but never find
the days that float like swans and
hovercrafts,
slowly but aware
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands - e.e. cummings
1. When did you first start writing?
i've been writing ever since i can remember, but mostly prose-ish stuff. i probably started writing poetry "seriously" around the age of ten, which is my main thing now. :dummy:
2. Why do you write?
i'm not sure. it just makes me feel good. & i need to get it out of my head sometimes.
3. What specific area would you like to improve in? (i.e. flow, character development, etc.)
Note: You may say in general, but I recommend picking at least one specific area as well.
i'd like to improve on the areas of rhythm & vocabulary (the last mainly because i am not a native speaker but i d