With each inhale I fill my mind
with all the hurt and pain I find.
I push it down, replace the smoke
with thoughts and morals that force my choke.
I take it all, my worries, my fears.
And hold it in, my eyes to tear.
Then one moment so full of bliss,
I can expel death's pending kiss.
For when the smoke does billow out,
likewise my pain, my hurt, my doubt.
how you can manage to know so much by alternativemeanings, literature
Literature
how you can manage to know so much
she's barely an inch taller - but still taller -
squinting at the horizon line and heaving tobacco smoke
through resin coated lungs that should belong to a
fourty three year old smoker, not an eighteen year old
graduate
she laughs the loudest when others cast glances
and hushed whispers
and never misses the chance to tell you
she couldn't possibly give less
of a shit
she likes convenience store mints;
the round white ones you'd find
at the bottom of grandma's purse that tasted like
dust and chemically sweetened perfume,
and home
she went to a school where "dyke"
was spat like poison at her feet
but knew exactly what to say when three
staggering and struggling by eloquence-fair, literature
Literature
staggering and struggling
01.
yesterday, i wrote
your name on a slip of paper
and folded it into an origami star.
it hangs on my bonsai tree
(little trees for big
wishes) as a just-in-case hope
for those times when it feels like
absolutely nothing
can make me
happy.
sometimes, when even stars
and little trees aren't
enough to make me happy, i cut
down the paper stars and pretend
that it is a meteorite shower in my
bedroom, but sometimes that
just makes it worse
because i realize
that shooting stars are actually
falling stars;
we are all just stars that have
forgotten the happy-thoughts that
made us fly,
it's just that some of us are blaz
THAT POEM (Writer's Block) by winterkate, literature
Literature
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)
I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull
she has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.
and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.
gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore
and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage
and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
Red Riding Hood's Cabaret by Emerald-Alexandria, literature
Literature
Red Riding Hood's Cabaret
A dancing girl with fiery hair,
Twirling smoke around her finger
Dances in darkness for a sea of howling wolves
Unclothed, her emptiness is put on stage
To burn in the spotlight
As claws scratch at the floor
She plucks a hot cigarette from one of the fingers
Puts it to her lips and takes a warm sultry drag
"Look, but don't touch" she mutters,
Stepping just close enough for a claw to rip into her thigh
And she whispers into the snarling crowd
"What more do you want?"
as her hips and crimson lips rock smoothly and tempt softly
And while her legs move, her eyes dance and smile,
Unsolvable mazes of golden brown for irises.
A subtle wink giv
a lie that tells the truth by aprilwednesday, literature
Literature
a lie that tells the truth
please don’t write me as a ghost girl,
all blurry lines and faded features
that caricature themselves into the minds
of those that think they see me--
i am not a canvas.
my life is not a blank sheet for you
to paint your vision across,
and i have no wires in my bones--
you cannot pose me so i’ll catch the light
just so,
like a kaleidoscope of clever quirks
and tragic backstories;
i am written in the words i discard
when i write bad poetry at 3am, and if you look,
you can find me echoed back to you
in my all time top five favorite movies.
i am the way my hands hurt
when i get nervous;
i am the urge to speak italian,
even though