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?
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.
She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,
And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.
She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,
And I even knew it back then,
Before I knew I was a lesbian.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,
And so am I!
My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.
She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,
And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,
And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,
And I knew it then,
I was a pre-teen lesbian.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,
And so am I!
My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".
She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,
Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,
But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girl
waking you up
on a Sunday morning,
than keeping you up
on a Saturday night
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.
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
Still LifeAs a child I planted a single
seed where the sidewalk ends,
near the place of your remains.
It grew into an oak; strong and rigid.
Every autumn, I would watch
the leaves as they wither
away; as if to tell me that the
darkest times are coming
And that I should brace myself
For your death
Winters, I spend looking out
Into dusk, and admiring
the beauty of still life.
Through your slumber
I patiently wait for
The ferryman to carry
You home, but I've yet
To feel your warmth set free.
Springs, I see the branches
Rekindle their light,
I see the sunshine
For the first time
In forever ago.
I feel at ease.
I feel at home.
To the boy who cried bitchi.
That’s what you called me
The second time we spoke
You said I glittered
But the gold had long since then
Left the contours
Of my jaws
that I don’t know how to
I am a diffracted spectrum
That knows no bounds
you said I reminded you
of your abusive uncle
and you tried to seek solace and safety
in a girl who belonged to no one
I will not say sorry
for being unable
to your ideals
you called me a bitch
since i've known you
6 of which
I know that I am far too static
I lack tact and often
Leave a bitter taste in your mouth
And in all honesty
Apathetic to your whining
I pointed it out to you when we first met
Find another shoulder
To cry on
blue.her eyes are like the sky,
her hair is like the clouds.
no one laughs at her when she makes a joke.
no one smiles when her bare feet
hit the blacktop
and the sidewalk cracks.
and all the world's her grayscale, the only color
a musty shade of blue
strung in her hair.
and she thinks of her first memory
as she lets go of the balloons in her hands
and they rise as she falls and screams at the world that everything will become a picture
in a history book one day.
her lips are melting ice
and her cheeks are dead and pale.
her hair is wet
her eyes are lost
her hand, once clasped
around a wispy lifeline,
is now limp.
she floats like an ethereal
spread across a dream
that drags her to the deepest ocean
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she