You don't feel fast
until they slow you
writers blockI have writers block.
I don't know when it came
Or how, I just know
That it appeared
Judging, telling me
My work was pathetic
Pathetically awful, incapable
Of making someone's bad day
I tried riding of it of it
By telling it to go, and
That I didn't need it
But I was ignored.
I tried using a friend of mine,
Hate, yelling and screaming
And abusing the block.
Silly me, I forget it has
I try to throw it away, hoping
It gets run over,
But I can never catch
The writer's block.
It's safe to say... Nothing worked.
Have I been defeated by this
Devastating force? Do I give
Up, and take up sports instead?
No. That's not me.
So I sit down in front of my
Computer, and I write. I write
Wonderful, pointless nonsense.
The click-click-click of the keys
Makes the block crumble, knowing
It's criticism has no effect.
As the block erodes, it screams out one final
Protest, until it's finally gone.
My computer screen is filled with
Garbage words, imprinted on.
chords all prowl
never held ground
A roar, a scream
a distorted dream
the nightmare song
No right, no wrong,
Music play its
only tune, calling
It's too soon
In the chaotic
air, hanging hope
skin worn down
spine and bone
whatever I loved
I loved alone.
.You gave me wings
They turned to stone
You gave me hope
I'm still alone
I followed orders
Like you told me to
Always more to do
I've got everything;
Glory, money, but
I was still left empty
Tell me: Now what?
you can't erase me
like an incorrect answer.
I have started to learn
that being wrong
taste it like honey
at the back of your throat,
embrace it the way
your spine would embrace
your mattress after a long, tiring day.
you cannot rub it away;
this is our natural tattoo.
engrave it on your skin,
that the path you walk
is forever under construction.
the important thing
is that we keep building.
we have an instinct to fight.
not long ago
I may have compared humans
to intricate things like roses,
but now I think
we are stronger than that.
call us white blood cells.
we do not rest.
our battles are internal and infinite,
and our conquests are
the beast that defeats us
is the final one,
and we will not go down
without leaving our opponent
scrape your knees
with the shards of your broken heart.
at times you may feel like you want to.
but hearts are not made of glass,
and no poetic metaphor
will make i
Our generationcigarette smoke
in the wall
we have it all
with dying dreams
(poured down the drain
by languid veins)
the clinking of glasses
and racing hearts,
we cannot stop
what we did start
it's all an escape- a sick paradox:
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhyme
all the time?
You don't need to do it,
that's perfectly fine.
You think it's so cool
And it leaves poems gleaming,
But it desecrates flow
And can ruin the meaning.
It's so bad to rhythm,
It's like a bad day
You wonder why you're not
Sleeping it away.
You think it's the root
Of your writing's salvation,
But we all will hate you,
All parts of the nation.
You think it sounds nice
But you don't even know
How ruined the sound is
How badly it 'goes'.
So the irony's over,
Your poems can mend,
I'll stop myself here,
Before you meet
five things they don't teach you in highschool1.
it's okay to fall in love.
i mean, they tell you you're never going
to marry your high school sweetheart and i'm not going
to tell you it's a lie
because it's not. you guys will probably
break up and is gonna hurt like hell
but you'll be okay. remember, you are not the only one
who has felt loneliness like a knife,
the only one to know the pain of lungs collapsing
because they were your air,
and you will never be the only one who whispered
"i love you" two lives too soon.
you will not be the last one to have tucked
hair behind their ear and leaned in for a kiss
or the last one to wake up reaching for a hand that's no longer there.
but it's okay.
your favorite book will not always be your favorite.
like you, it will change over time
to something unrecognizable
that gives you only a vague nostalgia in the tips of your fingers.
flipping through the pages will never
feel the same again.
you will learn to love something new;
your next favorite will teach you something about you
To you who write until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
You said you'd burn bridges for meI broke my bones
in the end
as I burned,
the only answer
was it you
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and