it used to be
that the stillness of the night
was a comfort
it held me in its dark embrace
caressed my skin with its shadowy fingers
kissed my eyelids as they grew heavy
and so
when i stopped feeling that gentle touch
i thought at first that i was broken
here were the same shadows i had loved
the same dark kisses in the hours before dawn
the same silent hallow around me
but it no longer felt like home
no longer familiar and safe
to be so alone in such silence
i have grown to love more
the sunshine in your laugh
the blue sky behind your smile
i have grown accustomed
to your kisses tasting of summertime
and to your hands so much stronger
the kid is six and experiences rejection firsthand when his very first best friend finds someone better and the kid doesn't know why but he saw it coming,
he is six years old and reads better than the ten-year-olds and they hate him for it, shout insults at him on the playground, six years old and a head taller than everyone else he knows
the kid is nine and he hangs around with kids a little older and a little scarier than him, they offer protection because they're the school bullies, they like him because he's tall and he's timid
he is nine years old and every day is a battlefield when he's incapable of understanding how to be a normal kid
fuck you,
my body is a temple.
it comes in fistfuls,
waiting to be devoured
by eager, licentious worshippers.
it moves when i am still,
it is lush and sweet.
i am a rainforest,
i am a fruit tree.
i am tart and rich,
i belong to mouths and tongues.
i am sensational.
i am sinful and holy,
i am an apple blossom.
i am cherries, i am oranges,
i am zest.
my body contains me,
my body is a nest, is an ocean,
my body is waves and swells,
my body is thunder.
it rolls and crashes and collides,
it defies cages and cartography,
it is everlasting.
fuck you,
i am nature's creation.
It's early morning.
I said goodnight to you some time ago,
not intending to sleep.
Instead,
I've been lying in bed
thinking about winter
and distance
and writing the same poem three times over
in slightly different ways.
(Not including now.)
I like to think
that I can be quite the poet if I try,
or when the mood strikes.
And the words are there,
I know they are.
It should be springtime,
but yesterday there was snow in my hair
and the wind bit through my coat
and even now my room is too cold.
Now,
if I were a better poet,
I would be able to make the analogy
that pounds so insistently within me
as clearly as my heartbeat.
Comparing you to sp
I do miss you,
that much is certain.
But I miss you as one would miss
a gangrenous arm,
freshly amputated.
I miss
the familiar weight of you,
the ache that became a constant in my life;
I miss you
as you were part of me.
Your presence
poisoned me
and now your absence,
though necessary,
has left me unbalanced.
I miss you.
But I do not wish you back.
i write terribly when i'm happy by scaramouche16, literature
Literature
i write terribly when i'm happy
I sit down to write
but my words fall away
every rich metaphor
meta-forming to "stay" --
it's just all I can say,
every hour, every day,
but I guess that's okay.
And it's you and it's me
but I can't find the words
when they used to come out
simple as major thirds.
Yes, I'm struggling here.
It's the best I can do
'cause it's you and it's me
and it's me and it's you.
So I'm not good at rhythm,
even worse with rhyme,
my attempts are pedestrian
can't even keep time--
but the beat of these lines
should be good for a start
since I matched every stress
to the beat of my heart.
No I don't have a point
I should quit while ahead
When you wake up, everything hurts.
A persistent cough that steals the breath from your lungs,
a pounding ache in your brain,
and something more,
something deeper.
You reach out, wanting,
and nothing reaches back.
Go back to bed,
and maybe tomorrow it will be different.
It will never be different,
but you say these things to yourself
for the same reasons you send get well cards
to cancer patients.