This blog is a dedicated space for poets of all kinds. Our aim is to share the work of those hidden in the writing community and of course some from our favourites. We try to find new talent, as all of the staff members have different, diverse taste. Thank you for visiting -- Let the inspiration flow.
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A tree grows inside
of me; I can feel it,
the way it branches
in my veins;
words spill out
as autumn leaves,
in bits and pieces,
as if trampled under-foot;
they pile up like dying
foliage in the backyard of
an old widow’s home.
I try to clean them up,
arrange them into piles to
throw away later;
but the rustling of my tree’s
leaves distracts me
from my goal,
and the last sigh of spring
freezes the water in my veins.
28 
We never buried my mother. She’s in a tin can somewhere in my uncle’s house. If I had the money, I’d buy a spot to inter her ashes, somewhere I could visit each year, or whenever the mood struck me. But for now, a small space in my mind and large space in my heart will have to do.
Jazzy’s note: This made me sad.
10 the way you shake me.
I keep holding on
to the way
you hold me.
Now teach me
to forget the way
you forgot me.
7 And it comes to the point where you don’t feel it anymore. It’ll be with you in the darkness and next to you when you lay down to sleep at night with your covers tucked up to your chin and your lower lip trembling fast, but you can’t feel it’s fingers as they run through your dirty hair and you can’t feel its lips as they nip at your knobby elbows and jagged knees and you can’t feel it’s pulse as it presses against you in the shower when you’re broken on the tile floor and so many pieces of you have already fallen down the drain.
There’s no hope to ever be whole again but you’re not too concerned and you can’t feel it’s breath filling up your lungs because you’ve been holding your breath too long and it comes to the point where you don’t feel anything at all because you’re nothing and you have nothing and you will be nothing until you’re less than nothing.
He doesn’t understand because he says he cares but you’re still holding your breath. He doesn’t understand because he says you’re lovely but you’re still holding your breath. He doesn’t understand because he says I love you and you’re still fucking choking, you wait for it to fill the void that it caused and you wait for the pain, you wait for hours, days, months but you still feel nothing. You wait and he keeps saying things and you keep bleeding but nothing is still nothing even when your cuts heal to scars and your socks still fall off when you sleep.
Nothing is relevant and you’re pretty sure that you are the new novacaine. You are the new demerol, vicodin, percocet, oxycontin. You are still nothing and he still kisses you on your eyelids when you pretend to sleep. You want it to come back into your life but you have no choice. The hurt is permanent enough now and you are so alone with him and you’re terrified. All your dreams are coming true and you’re terrified.
12 At age three, I thought that I
was nothing but toes
rubber-stuck to floors
by the grips of my socks,
and I told you, “Mama,
I want to be an amphibian when I grow up”
Only because that was the biggest word I knew.
At twelve I couldn’t understand why
I was bleeding so much,
and what it…
187 It’s January the fourteenth, and it appears as though God his held his breath for one more winter. I am nothing but toes, pattering their way across icy pavement, hands holding themselves in a white-knuckled attempt towards prayer. I suppose that we’ve all spent some time our knees: when it’s…
17 I met him and I was eight and I knew his name before I knew his face.
He is the sun, or the sky, held out of my reach by terrain and distance and my name means earth in French and I loved him before I knew I did.
Cobalt is the colour of my underwear my first time that wasn’t with anybody I loved, wasn’t with him. It’s the colour of his jaw after a game in January that meant I wasn’t going to see him for a week.
“M” is the letter written like a sinking bed on a crumpled piece of paper. It’s a frown masquerading as a smile and it’s “I love you but I need to let you go” in August before the sun rises over the trees in the East.
Love is the absence that reminds the heart to think and the mind to feel. It’s the blue street lamp that returns when you do.
(Source: neglectfulfox)
40 The cherry of my cigarette burns a fiery red, maybe some strains of orange.
I feel like I’m inhaling the breath of the sun in minuscule form.
Whispers turn the smoke into songs and illuminate beneath the
Moonlight. It’s like an aurora show leaving the collision of our
Atmospheres that belong to these winter winds,I hold my jacket tight against my body, I can feel the cold inhale me.
Warmth escapes through my nostrils and cloud the bottoms of my dreams.
If only you were here to see this beautiful sight I know the stars wouldn’t
Want it any other way.
(Source: lunaa-delcasadore)
5 my mother
thinks i treat
austen
like a religion
read “the complete set of novels”
like a biblei wonder if
i’m searching for myself
within the pages
or hiding myself between them.
6 It should’ve been ideal. It should’ve been perfect. The perfect guy on the perfect date on the perfect night. Instead it was irritating, and it all started with orchids. My corsage. I’d insisted upon them, because I was a spoiled brat and my dress was a lovely deep violet, velvet and satin, and only orchids would do.
The instant you placed the expensive corsage on my wrist, the itching started. Halfway through dinner I noticed a rash extending to my elbow, crawling upwards from the locus of the furious red ring the corsage itself had made around my wrist. Rings echoing still others I’d sought to hide. I took the thing off. It took several more months for me to remove you; the onset of your rash was more subtle and less immediate.
To this day I tell people (if it comes up) that I’m allergic to orchids. I don’t touch them and I don’t let them touch me. But still I think they’re the most beautiful things. And still I don’t know if I’m allergic to orchids, or if my histamines were trying to tell me something.
61 you’re addicted to cigarettes.‘“i love you so much, i’ll quit if you ask me to-” i laughed at that. i told you that you could continue, do what you pleased. who was i to stop you from slowly killing yourself? that’s a choice you have to make, not me.
i’m sitting with you on this smoke-scented early morning, watching you burn the days ahead of you like the ignited tip of an unfiltered cigarette, still saying no words. you put your head in your hands. you say,”i have no self worth”. you’re lying to me between those blackened lips of yours. you know you do, it’s me who couldn’t stand in the way and bite your fingers for you.
(Source: biocurator)
19 you can cut my
flowers if you want.
put them in a vase
by your bedside, so
you can wake at Dawn
to my petals. and even
after all my flowers die,
I will love you.
(via decoruspoeta-deactivated2012121)
11 like the nicotine stain
on your left
index fingerand you swore her eyes
were to be brown,
nearly amber and light,like the whiskey we drank
the days after
i lost her.i remember how it felt,
to have her slide out of me,almost like you.
too soon, too soon.
————————————-
first thing I’ve written in years. I don’t know how I feel about it. Blah.
Sonja’s note: you should feel that it’s stunning, because it is.
14 we’re addicts, and we sell the lie
that everything is still
and plastered to the skycanvased in a syrup
while the clouds no longer passby the light of Sunny Disposition’s
broken, beaten high.
As if it all were made to last
to exhale heart and inhale gas
the mother of my child will be
so shyaway from things
45 