Devours life, and creates more,
Like an endless hunger,
it never stops,
doesn't wait for anything,
benefits the fast,
punishes the slow,
As time goes on,
The world continues"
SacrificeIt should have been me.
Why did he save me, knowing he would die?
I should have helped him,
I shouldn't have left his side.
But he gave his life for me,
A coward afraid to die.
Would I have done the same in his place?
Just for the sake of survival?
This was a hopeless battle, we lost everything.
Yet he still had hope, hope to save the kingdom.
But when it was lost, I saw his eyes turn dark.
He lost everything he cared for, yet he kept on fighting.
He no longer valued life, and saw that I did.
He dove into the enemy, signalling to me.
"Run," He shouted, "Run as fast as you can."
I did, but I was caught by the enemy.
They took me prisoner, and I was executed.
But the last thing I remembered,
My last thought,
Was the chance he gave me,
Even though it was for naught.
DepressionI am one of the most painful things in life
People die before me
After a hopeless battle of suffering
I corrupt every soul, Nothing is without me
Large or small, I always grow
Unless you're strong enough to break me
With my enemies happiness, joy, and cheer
Against them I crumble in fear
But for now I sit in your heart,
weighing down more every day,
until something happy comes to mind
The Creation Chapter 1I wake up from a nap as my name is called from the intercom. "Lieutenant Morrison report to Command for briefing," followed by three other announcements calling for members of the 431st special forces."Great, another wild goose chase," I think as I comb my fur to look at least halfway presentable. I then exit my small room and run as fast as I can down the wide hallways, navigating all the familiar twists and turns.
After sprinting halfway across the base I finally make it to Command. As I walk in I notice Captain Jameson, Sergeant Relm, and Lieutenant Grey, three trusted special ops soldiers and good friends. "So what's this all about? If this is our team then it's not some simple elimination mission." I ask, sitting down and putting my feet up. The commander walks in and we salute. "At ease troops. As you know, you are some of the most skilled operatives in the legion. A group was out on a mission when they picked up something strange on the radar. After further investigat
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.