Is she lonely too?
Or is my callousness too broken
She never brought me through love
and all of this. Rhyming in dark sunlight
beside her eyes
I try to refrain when the door unlocks my room
but incredulous keys
reaches through and leaves me again.
All I want is to leave.
Acting has its own appeal
and it rings off the tounge like time on the moon.
I don’t mind, your
and torrential hate.
Rain on my day when friendly fades.
As good as Spanish wine, I’ve seen
the landscape’s eyes. It’s neither green by the sea
or dry by Madrid but it’s blocked and tiled like
castles. I cannot judge the square of Spaniards.
Ciego to culture are my foreign friends. Picturing
how stuck they are. In their head:
the idea of dejando is worse than yendo.
My city shines; but Barcelona is better. Spain—
Yo soy parte de esta.
// at 11am
poetry comes to life
Mother brought out the slates to clean
and yes, a
Turtle shell hides in hell.
these thoughts become memories, I think.
A boy is friends with two best girls
But can’t seem to become
less lonely in the days to come
Because that boy is me
They— trespassed my heart and burned my brain
Oh, this brain on portable trials
For solitude. numb is in pain
but pain goes away.
Feminist cycles. emo misguided
Rhymes are lame, anyway
where—a sad ballad of pencils moves
towards a toe on the cliff. Slowly laying face down. So
confused even with the help.
I am becoming
at 11am. but who? //
in my loneliest hour it kills
i should maybe take pills
little blue and forced down tough
bloody chrome and age old love
priceless advice I can’t keep track of
i say “please don’t go”
My world tattoos earnestly
I should maybe care silently
Pages and stages control satire
Lined blank pages fill this wallowing mind
Sick of being tired does not help the kind
Dreams and pretense
Wilder circling, feeling less
and there I lay
can you be tired?
The feeling of pondering
Share this with me?
i care so silently
the hills roll quietly
away—please show me.
A white blank page // and a swelling rage- Mumford and Sons
the leather spine is broken once again. In poetic conversations. my anger resides anonymously. A powerless plasticity.
and as the cell phone rings and flashes. I cower silently. they talk with resentment against my opinions. In this hour of productivity.
my defensiveness is a sorry nature. You’re high tower? Step off. bitterness in anger. Foreshadowing enigma so sour—conveniently.
aptitude for attitudes in ways to empower. Insignificantly.