undernightskies:

We carry our sadness
like loose petals.
I capture old feelings
in cupped hands
before they reach you.
I want to rip holes
in the rising heat.
My heart stretches with envy
at the neatness of your dress.
I’m damp and pollinated -
you’re a closed bud,
a corsage.

theagonistes:

*As featured in Thistle’s Spring issue.

-

Divergence

Almond eyes, those cyanide
lines of flight

he followed past
the lick of the door

that witnessed
as I pursued with burning

on bare feet scalped
by the chattering grain of the floors,

ten swords together drawn
to rend the noose

of those looping hours
encroaching upon rare breaths —

a palm, a fist,
jūkenpō:

our mutual body rupturing
into new gods.

esperancelee:

"straight girl friends", esperance lee, 2013

esperancelee:

"straight girl friends", esperance lee, 2013

weather forecasters so dumb. what the fuck a thunder shower? It’s fucking rain

imperfect.

lulu-llama:

I hide imperfections behind
the precision of the application
of my eyeliner;
the eyes are the windows
to the soul
and my windows are murky,
stained with splattering teardrops.
You can feel the cracks
in my soul when you
run your strong hands over it
and believe me when I say
poking my mind…

It’s Piano Monday! This week it’s blues. Here is “Monopoly,” the one (and probably only) blues piece I’ve ever written (and probably ever will write). Have a great week!

thedailydoodles:

"The Last Sunset", a Haiku
Staring at the sunKnowing it’ll still be thereLong after you’re dead.
Wanna appear in your very own Daily Doodle?  CLICK HERE!FAQ  TWITTER  FACEBOOK  SOCIETY6

thedailydoodles:

"The Last Sunset", a Haiku

Staring at the sun
Knowing it’ll still be there
Long after you’re dead.

Wanna appear in your very own Daily Doodle?  CLICK HERE!
FAQ  TWITTER  FACEBOOK
  SOCIETY6

not woman, not wraith.
not halcyon, not cyclone.
not blood’s maroon moan.
not the siren whistling through a war zone
not the snap in the suture.
not the ship grown from her hipbone
not mooring, not magnet,
not the trapdoor before the throne
how will you kindle?
which bedpost? what eclipse, which epic?

I’m the battered chassis of thin ice
you are my ruin rolling its heavy dice
above us, the dawn gathered grey
these quiet rebellions
that carry us through
our small deaths
each day.

us whiskey women with our teeth so white
they gleam like the stars that kiss the mountains,
us late-night storm warnings with tornadoes in our fingertips,
the whorls of our hands
getting wrinkly in the souls we spill across floors,
us danger-zone high-risk disaster areas, full of sharp bone slabs and falling emotions,
full of the moon because we feel wolf,
full of the wind because we feel empty,

you find us in your bed with your skin raw
where we have dug in, you find us in the corners of rooms because we don’t need an audience,
you find us in your classrooms where we sit just-so,
the long lines of our necks like the sickle of a blade,
we are death’s mistress and he is seduced by our riskiness

but in the late night if you catch one of us and let our thorns find your veins and hold our petals so gently that we feel safe,
if you tell us we can leave when we like and refuse to chain us by your side, if you love us for our wild -
this is when you find the warm hearth with slow passion, the
sweetest honeysuckle all wrapped up in barbed wire,
this is where you find the heart we have patched up and surrounded with briar because we were sick of being broken,
this is where you find our scars and the places we stitched
together with our own sinew, this is where
we will love you with hurricane walls, the fury of a tempest at
your command, if you find us here we will give you our
whole beings with a fierceness that would break
our mother’s heart -

and good lord, do not make us let you in
if you just intend to leave again.

Destinare

jayarrarr:

We spent years in silence,
staggering dust-strewn land-
scapes tramped, our footprints
marking where we’d been,
where permanent
firmament belied the fear
of forward, yet forward

ever forward we stumbled
still, myopic minds focused
on flickers of maybe
with warmth hope read
as yes

one day, brighter
the flame burning now
steady as our feet, each footprint
marking one step closer
to knowing this long
and winding path
leads us together;
brings us home.

© 2014 by Jennifer R.R. Mueller

there’s no such thing as home after you turn twenty-one

vagabondkingpoetry:

brown sand castles;
built all day long during the summer,
only to be destroyed
by Father’s voice:
time to go

now childhood rubble;
long ago forgotten
on the beaches of
Ogemaw County,
my gray stubble peaks
at me in the mirror
as i hear my Father’s voice:
your mother was vain

and the floorboards of
our old home are now
dilapidated; each step
you can hear the pasts
pain - sounds like my
Father’s voice, as the
sand castle falls apart
underneath your feet.

there’s no such thing as home after you turn twenty-one

vagabondkingpoetry:

brown sand castles;
built all day long during the summer,
only to be destroyed
by Father’s voice:
time to go

now childhood rubble;
long ago forgotten
on the beaches of
Ogemaw County,
my gray stubble peaks
at me in the mirror
as i hear my Father’s voice:
your mother was vain

and the floorboards of
our old home are now
dilapidated; each step
you can hear the pasts
pain - sounds like my
Father’s voice, as the
sand castle falls apart
underneath your feet.

http://defense-mechanisms.tumblr.com/post/79687243352/so-were-standing-here-in-the-laundry-room-all

defense-mechanisms:

So we’re standing here in the laundry room
all hopped up on fireball whiskey,
and you can’t let go of me.

And I can’t let go of you.
We’re all hopped up on fireball whiskey,
and we call it love through our inebriated state.

You tell me how your lover sleeps
beyond the door of your…