#poemsontumblr

At first I'm full of guilt Cause I'm full of relief I wipe my tears Cause now i feel free

I wanna feel love Like it's described in love songs I wanna feel love Unending and unbounded Even if it hurts

Everything hurts anyways So wouldn't it be better If it hurt for better reasons?

I wanna feel love That I wouldn't imagine Could ever end

I'm supposed to wanna talk all the time And I think I did at the time I guess timing is as important as they say But either way I still lose

Feelings Trust Track of my mind And after its over I put it all on rewind

I speak in bridges they cannot yet cross, My words fall like rain on closed windows. Their eyes turn away, their mouths curve sharp, Sounds bloom in a tongue that locks me out, Laughter I cannot translate, Echoes I pretend not to hear.

Some days the air is heavy with thorns, Kindness hidden behind restless hands. I stand where silence pushes back, Holding patience like a thin candle flame. Even when respect feels borrowed, not given, I remain, unarmed but upright.

Your bloodstains on my bed sheet,

my drink in your hand.

The imprint of your touch lies in front of me.

Your smell fills my apartment, even

after you close the door. The tracking of your hand tracing my back; that lingers too.

I shut my fridge and stand up slowly,

my heart beats in your palms.

Days consist of dressing plates, walking slowly, and dwindling.

My place, you say, is of a calming kind.

“How so?” I ask. “Because it smells like you”.

An invisible kiss passes through my window and lands in your pocket.

You leave.

I draw the curtains just to lay back in my bed of smoke

and stare at my perfectly boring ceiling.

I will wonder, as I often do, how I will feel about life in thirty years,

remember how the culmination of its moments presses hard into me.

Will I forget how my friend’s burger matched perfectly with the colors of her shirt?

Or how I scratched my legs on dry cactus flowers in a dark forest?

Even though it’s been weeks since I saw you last, I still find your hair in my bathroom.

I smell the clementines we ate in our old home

– how you would put their white bitter skin in my mouth.

You knew I enjoyed that too.

It’s November now,

and I look forward to winter and

the sound of exploding leaves under my sole;

the wind wrapping me up in a cold blanket.

I’ll forget about your silence in the chatter of parties

and how I used to sink into your absences.

Now I learn words and tuck them

under drunken conversations;

I sow seeds along the lobes of my brain and water my own beliefs.

I walk with my hands on cold concrete and dangle my legs in the air.

I don’t mind the fall.

The impact serves as a reminder that I’m alive,

that I bleed and that death can be beautiful.

I won’t pick the scabs. The wilting waters the healing.

My mind soon forgets the bloody stains on my bed,

now washed.

The half-drunken drink in your hand is now

empty, and, like the glass,

all I am left with

is a faded imprint on my body.

I had a lot of criticism with this one and another one of my poems, way back when I was submitting them to teachers and fellow students at my university. I think it's because it read weird, but at the time I had reread a fanfic and I legittimately had came up with this as part of a "dark and brooding" scene where the main character was waiting for back up. But you can't exactly tell your teacher and classmates that, now can you. At least, I didn't have the guts too. But, poetry is also about interpretation, and there is no artform quite like this-form.

Captive:

It’s dark here. Although only God knows, where here is. All I see is the shattered light, that could only be procured by moonlight.

I don’t know how long I have been here. Months? Maybe. Years? Not likely.

My mouth tastes like copper. Like the taste of blood when you accidentally bite your tongue, Because you were eating too quickly and didn’t realize. It tastes like the kind of copper ma warned me never to put in my mouth, Like the penny I thought would taste good but hurt me on the way out.

It’s cold here. Wherever here is. Its colder than the chilly air found only in the fall, but not colder than the air in the mountains, When you don’t have a jacket to keep warm.

I don’t know when my saviors will come get me, I don’t know if I will ever see my family. I don’t know if I will ever feel the August air, when the humidity is just right, and the peak of summer has finally ended.

Here is some more older pieces of work. I'm so sorry that majority of the writings/poems I have, all come from dark places.

The ellipses:

The ellipses of orbit could not have absorbed this. As we lacked awareness I felt it regardless.

We were the mistakes of the broken, the words all misspoken out of turn

We watched the leaves fall, in a prison that was too s m a l l . We no longer count the hours, but await our punishment in the towers of this prison.

God I miss the way I used to write.

Caffeine-fueled frenzies of passion and fingertips darting across my keyboard or a pen in a notebook. Not only at 3:00 A.M. (though that was certainly the case a number of times) but all hours of the day. When I would fill pages upon pages of words.

I wrote when I was on breaks at work or in between taking orders and putting fries in the bag–scribbled in my pocket notepad or on a stray napkin.

I wrote when I couldn't sleep or focus in school. I wrote all the time.

I miss being so full of the drive to create!

☆ I found myself feeling jealous of a trolley that'd been chucked in the Water of Leith, and I knew I had to get it together ☆ (and I know it's a river not a canal but if I'm ever not taking artistic license I'm dead) from the POV of a Canal Shopping Trolley | kmbg I’m no stranger to abandonment, but this is different. I get that function over form rarely applies to fly tipping but the flock believe I should stay a perch for their young, settled into this mud cul-de-sac. You know, in my last life, there was always someone breathing down my neck, or pushing me to the brink with their need for more more MORE. So it’s been for the best. Here, we all want less. Besides, at night I can see the sky I suspected all this time waited above that plexiglass. And sure, it’s getting colder but I lack sentience and don’t mind.

☆☆ in 1996, Bridget Jones lamented about the seduction of the informality of messaging mediums. clearly, we haven’t learnt much since ☆☆

| I Can’t Be Trusted to Text Appropriately | KMBG |

Are your words real 

if your tongue never forms them? Does it count 

if the air doesn’t vibrate with the thrill of it all? 

Of us. Of the game we’ve made of deceit.

Tell me there’s such a thing as platonic arousal.

Placate me. Sorry, what I meant was fuck you. 

I think you feel similarly about me, wishfully. 

I don’t think we know how to be. We’ve always lived 

and died on messy boundaries and still, every now

and then we splash paint around, leaving handprints in lieu 

of responsible lines. If God's a foreman, 

he's running out of tolerance for our claims of ignorance. 

Each time, our skin stains faster. We know better now, and less 

of each other. Are they my words now? 

Sure, it’ll only be a few years before 

one of us digs our fingernails in and begins 

to chip away at new cracks in that same ridiculous paint. Again.