untitled by eros turannos on Flickr.
25th Jul 201400:31681 notes
24th Jul 201400:40197,680 notes
24th Jul 201400:02185,337 notes
24th Jul 201400:0149,713 notes

it’s raining
it’s pouring
but i can’t hear my baby snoring

it’s 12 am and i’m already awake, i skipped tired
so i walked straight for a while
trying to induce a sleep conscious 
unconsciously while slinking in the couch
wrapped, cocooned
listening to the rain swoon as wind
wraps her sexy legs around 
it’s drops, and they dance together
after hours
under storm clouds and lightning showers.
so if you step to the right
i’ll left, and we’ll pitter patter around each other
sticking to window sills
noses pressed up against its transparency 
i’m not in the mood for more parenting
or a lecture about how i should be succeeding
but i am in need 
of a little green, or something to fly me up high
at 12 am, what else is there to think
but splashing in puddles in dreams
and if my tears wash away all the days decay
like rain clears away the nights play,
then can i make my own landscapes
and see backwards up to the sky
where’s the wind to lift me 
into her arms, will she dip me
will she lick me, 
will she love me
the way you love me
past 12 am?

kurt said it best:
a box, inside
it traps me
unwraps me
unravels the fabrics
of my future life
in worry, stitched
with pain
no longer guilded
with promise.

21st Jul 201409:3329,118 notes

I’m floating, far
where’s the rope
trying to stay tethered
while they
reach with their left
and grasp telephone cords
wink, lust, whispers
I miss you, lacks
in my clouded mind
i keep telling my self
to shine on,
but maybe I’m a crazy
diamond too,
and maybe the chips
in my sides fractal light
in the faces of others
maybe I just blind them
maybe they can’t really see me.

for years i’ve been pulling inches deep into the brain matter that produces my headaches and heartaches, grasping at words trying to make sense of the feelings in my chest that are untranslatable. and when i would do it, the words were like silk, the feeling of exposing and exploring is addicting, but the residue it left was sticky. i’m critically analyzing my mind with the intense bias of my own self. 

but before i knew there were always things to pull and press to see if anything would come out - if it did, i latched on and attacked it, trying to squeeze sometimes drawing out blood. constantly ready to attack my own thoughts, constantly ready to breathe in a stiff sigh of relief when my anxiety subsided.

so now i search and try to pick apart the feelings that you leave in me, and happiness isn’t something i’m used to. there’s no sticky residue that coats my day dreams, no poison my brain creates and coax me to drink. lightly softly fully deeply i love without thought, without depth, without analysis. sinking smoothly breathfully, i navigate through dark waters, unable to see the floor, needing to trust that my lungs will turn into gills the longer i wade in the oceans depths. 

as a writer, i’ve grown used to finding problems and writing out the solutions. as a writer, i’ve forgotten that putting into practice the things i preach through my fingertips are imperative. as a poet, i’ve forgotten the importance of prose structure, of basic grammar, of actually finishing my sentences. as a poet, i’ve loosened up my ideas to burst into small fractals under small pressure. as a writer, i haven’t grown, even though my writing has. 

17th Jul 201409:237,349 notes
Opaque  by  andbamnan