Sorry for all these words.

I write lots of dreadful poetry in the hopes that one day it won't be dreadful.

If I should have a son
Instead of naming him after
A great-grandfather he will never meet
I’m going to name him after someone who
Reminds me of the way that
Even though the sun is nearly 93 million miles away
We still can’t look directly at it
Because my son is going to be
Nothing short of illuminating
And if I should have a son
I will paint kind sentiments over his knuckles
So he always knows to use his words
Before he uses his fists
And when my son doesn’t let me cut his hair
And instead chooses to let it droop into his eyes
I will let him
Because sometimes the world makes a little more sense
When you’re seeing it through strands, not magnifying glasses
And when the other parents gasp at me
For letting him ride his bike without a helmet
Or cheering him on while he tries to flip over the rusty top of the swing set
I will tune them out
Because I know that a bruised forehead
Hurts a hell of a lot less than a bruised ego
If I should have a son
I will wait until the blood and the marrow in his bones
Have been sucked out and replaced with sorrow
Before I tell him that heartbreak is supposed to feel like this
And even though she may have been his sea
He might just need to look inside a puddle
And every time my son inhales
I will teach him to smell for rain
Because that is the first sign of flowers
And anyone who says they don’t need more color in their life is lying
If I should have a son
I will put a baseball bat in his left hand
And ballet slippers in his right
And tell him he doesn’t have to decide between doors number one and two
That the only thing in front of him is a gate, and it’s wide open
If I should have a son
I will stand tall above him with a sword and a spear
One to slice through his troubles
And one to stab through his fears
And since I’m standing with two weapons
He will have to be the shield
And the blows that slip through my steel grip
Will push at him like a roaring tide
But if I should have a son
I will teach him to push back like he is the moon
And he is their master
And if I should have a son
And he decides to leave
I will bid him adieu
But I will always set an extra plate at the dinner table
And have a mug of hot cocoa – the kind with extra chocolate – waiting for him
Because no matter how many unmarked pathways he chooses to cross
He will always belong to his mother


Inspired by Sarah Kay’s “B”

(via dreadful-poetry)

you entered the scene like a firecracker
one loud knock and you were raining down on me
you held handfuls of powdery grey ash
that trailed behind you as they
slipped through invisible spaces in your tightly wound fingers
you stained my freshly painted walls as you leaned up against them
the color of an elephants hide
your palms were turned up at me
the look in your eyes harder to inhale than the smell of the ash

’i burnt every word i’ve every written. teach me how to start from scratch’
‘ease into it’ i whisper back at you

do not pick up the pen
the ink will explode in its cartridge
and navy gobs of ink will find a new home on your paper
your hands
your new polished oak desk
do not try to find meaning in the shapes
it’s hard to fail a Rorschach test but
this is one surefire way of doing it

it’s like riding a bike
you can’t do it with a rusty chain

do not pick up the pen
it will not give you looping cursive
and smooth lines
it will stall every few strokes
you will bore holes in the paper trying to
scribble through and make it start up again
just when you give up hope, the ink will come crawling back
the trick is to lower your expectations

it’s like riding a bike
you might never forget
but give it enough time and
those wheels are wobblier than they used to be
keep moving
the faster you go, the harder it is to fall 

do not pick up the pen
it only knows the words you are trying to bury
it will rip them out of you like threads
make sure you don’t unravel 

it’s like riding a bike
it’s no fun if you wear a helmet

pick up the pen
go ahead
you’re ready

it’s like riding a bike
you can watch until your eyes can’t make out wheel for handlebar
you can practice with one training wheel for weeks
but you have to get on the big kid bike eventually
babies don’t try to take small steps
they try to run before they can crawl
take leaps

pick up the pen.

forever365project asked: That post of the text message is both dreadfully amazing and amazingly dreadful, in a depressing, yet thats-the-way-i-kinda-feel but how-could-i kind of way. Anyway, I really like it. Thanks for that. Cheers to clowns and kids, friend.

Well, dreadful’s in the blog title so I guess that’s what comes with the posts haha. Thanks for liking it haha, I’m always surprised when I see those words. Also, fun fact: I’m actually really quite indifferent about clowns (although they’re pretty creepy if you think about them) but my friend really hates them and I thought of her the whole time I was writing that. Cheers to you, friend!

i might have gotten slightly carried away…

i feel like such a fake

i’m not a real writer

a real poet

i’m just drifting through 

scrawling along on walls and scratching my mark in chipping paint

my nails don’t dig in deep enough

it’s getting repainted in a week 

i’m playing around in the shallow end and testing the waters for the big fish

my time is almost up

apparently my ask box was turned off this whole time

i probably wouldnt have gotten any messages anyway

but thats now an option

woo holla yay 

This is a poem.
This is a metaphor about coffee and cigarettes and how someone or the other is poisonous.
This is a line about veins because everyone loves to be reminded of blood.
This line is super excessively long and you may or may not forget the beginning by the time you get to the end.
This line is short.
This line is an inside joke that you won’t get but the girl who sits behind me in math class will.
This line is soft.
This line is LOUD.
This line is important so I will repeat the end of it.
Repeat the end of it.
Repeat the end of it.
This line reminds you of the time you fell off the monkey bars.
This line reminds you of the beginning, in case you were starting to forget.
This line reminds you of your mother.
This line is the end.

The first time I drowned I was fourteen
The version of the story I always told went like this:
There was a pool with a ten foot end, 102 degrees of Texas heat, and a clear plastic tube that had seen better days
And the way the story goes,
That clear plastic pool tube carried me past splashing little girls in one pieces with frilly skirts attached
And past lanky boys trying to hold their breath
Until finally, I hit the blue tile of the other end and toppled over into water
And so, as the story goes
I tried to tip-toe up to the surface and catch a few breaths of air
But the water had other plans and my two and a half weeks of swimming lessons when I was four did me no good
So I was pulled out and spent the rest of my time in shallower territory
At least, that’s what I always say
The truth is, there was no clear plastic tube of doom leading me to imminent death
I wandered off on my own accord
Deeper and deeper until I couldn’t crane my neck up far enough to be taller than the water
Not even on the tippiest of toes
Stubborn and unrelenting, I refused to ask for help until the water had drained my lungs and replaced them with fire
And all the while, inching towards the surface, I kept kicking my feet, looking for the hard bottom of the pool
Here’s a secret: There is no bottom
Sure, there’s a bottom when you’re standing on the hard surface and the water only reaches your ankles
And there’s a bottom when you sit down and the water leaps up to your shoulders
There is a bottom when you’re playing chicken with your three best friends and everyone loses
There’s a bottom right up until there’s not
When you can’t tell up from down, there is no bottom
There never was a bottom
There never will be a bottom, no matter how hard you kick
And it’s been four years since I was pulled out of that pool and
My feet still have not touched the ground
And the first time I drowned I was fourteen years old and I still remember
The look of annoyance on my mother’s face as she told me to be careful next time
But next time is this time because part of me is still in that pool, still kicking and gasping for air
And searching for the bottom that doesn’t exist
Tumbling through a land of lost bracelets and lonely flip-flops
The laughs from the surface muffled as all the fear rushes into my ear
I am still drowning
I am 15 and riding my first roller coaster
I am 16 and wearing a poofy dress that I can’t breathe in
I am 17 and graduating in the pouring rain
I am 18 and back in the same pool and
The little kids are different and the lifeguards have been swapped out
And I am three inches taller and ten pounds heavier
And I still don’t know how to swim
And there is still no bottom to that goddamn pool.

Writers block forever.
Suffering from extreme apathy.

Someone inspire me.

I always thought your hands were forged from steel
That the fire was still lapping up against you,
Burning away the callouses and the web of overlapping lines
Pulling at bone after bone
Stretching out your knuckles, your palm, your nails
Your fingers spindled out until they were long enough to wrap around my neck four times
Apparently fire doesn’t know when enough is enough
I have burn marks from every time I tried to put you out
Your hands are blank slates
They are unmarked and unbruised
Unnaturally smooth and sharp to the touch
They have cut mine open and sliced clean through
You are the one pretending not to see the wounds
I am the one apologizing for staining you with my blood

Time heals all wounds?
Time opens up all wounds
Time brings the stringy pieces of flesh
To a pus-filled boil
Time unravels stitches with a single pull
So you can see the dots of blood dispersed through the thin black thread

Last week, I cut my leg with a razor
(I think it was an accident)
Today, the gash has turned a color even Martha Stewart couldn’t pick a frilly name for
It’s like a symphony of infection and pain and time is one hell of a conductor
Three months ago, you said goodbye
(No you didn’t, you said “screw you”)
I waited weeks for the blood to stop gushing
Before I realized that it was just opening up wider
You put the Grand Canyon between my limbs
Sutures aren’t enough for a split that big

Tequila heals some wounds
You know the burn of it sliding down the back of your throat?
That’s how you know it’s working
The fire in your gut is the antiseptic alcohol
Melting away all the bullet holes and stab wounds
The collection of unattended injuries amasses over the years

Fire heals other wounds
The arms of the black tendrils of smoke
Reach in and pulling out all the scabs
Red and orange and blue lapping at your scars
Until they melt off your skin and turn into ash

Time heals no wounds
Time is the exposure that kills faster than the infection
The sting of the air that keeps the blood flowing
And the gashes growing

I will carve my sorrows into your mouth with my tongue so every time you swallow you taste my fears.

i. He walks like he always knows where he’s headed
The way the small of his back curves with every stride
He walks tall, like he can’t be shaken up
His foundation is solid at the core
Where mine crumbles and cracks

ii. His eyes are always glistening
Even though they shine a deep mahogany
I swear that every time I throw a subtle glance his way
They glow green like sunlight hitting the treetops
I’ve never been a strong swimmer and
Oh, do those eyes make me drown

iii. His jaw is cut like a diamond
All angles and sharp turns
I dream of kissing the corners
Working my way further along
Until my lips finally meet his

iv. His hands have the roughness of a boy who’s climbed mountains for what he has
But they feel gentle to the touch
Like all those rough patches couldn’t possibly dampen
The kindness that ripples at the surface
Every time our fingers rub
I feel sparks fly off our nails

v. He always smiles as wide as his mouth goes
No close-lipped, teeth-hidden attempt at looking graceful
When he laughs I can see all the way back to his molars
He smiles with his tongue between his teeth
And all the happiness in the world pressed inside his dimples
When he smiles I forget that I am sad
The gaping hole of his mouth fills the one in my chest

vi. He looks at her like their friendship is an inside joke he never wants to share with the world
He lies down next to me and slowly inches along
Until their heads are touching
And their elbows connected
He smiles at her like she’s in on his dirty little secrets
He looks at me like I’m disposable

vii. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m someone special
The way he raises his eyebrows when I make a stupid joke
Melts my heart like it’s made of snow and I’m being hit with a heat wave
He leans in close when we show each other the things that make us laugh
And he smells just like coming home
I always find him staring at her just a bit longer
I hope to god I’m hallucinating

—seven things i hate about him

Let me tell you about my God
About the way even the moon bows in humility
And the wind howls in submission
How every mountain and every ocean bends and sways
In his pull
How even chaos conforms to order
Bowing and bowing and bowing

But first
Let me tell you about a girl
Who didn’t just carve a turkey this Thanksgiving
But also her ribcage
A swirl of blood and steel
A cut above all the rest
And let me tell you about the way she saw that God every plunge
And so she didn’t go deeper
Instead she dropped to her knees
Because the view is a lot better from the ground
And cupped her hands together
“I’m sorry” she said
The words felt familiar against her tongue

Let me tell you about my God
And the way I always know someone is listening
Just like the way the girl clutches her knife and
Before she even breathes her apology
She knows she is forgiven

Let me tell you about her God
And how she thinks the world has got her beat
But the strongest soldiers get the strongest tests
And she puts away the pills and the swords

Let me tell you about our God
And the way the guarded walls of her heart
Stop her from making a big mistake
And she cries because she thinks something is wrong with her
But she doesn’t understand that everything is right with her

Let me tell you about our God
And the way she swims in an ocean of
Fake friends and cold parents and self-hatred
But she still gets up every day
Because maybe she isn’t so alone and maybe good things are in store
And everything she’s been through is for something
And every time her knees hit the soft fabric of her prayer mat
She knows the melodies of the words escaping her mouth
Make everything okay
That every single verse is wrapping itself around her mind and body
And shielding her from harm
Because the girl who uses the sword
Needs one to protect her blind spots

Let me tell you about my God
Let me shout from the mountaintops and
Whisper in you daughter’s ear
Let me show you what a sunset looks like
When you’re hanging upside down from a treetop
Let me show you every fine granule of sand that sticks to your toes at the beach
Is a miracle in and of itself
Let me show you the world through the eyes of a believer

Let me tell you about my God
But first, let me tell you about me

—Updated version.

I don’t feel like a writer anymore
I barely feel like a person
I’ve been washed up and wrung out to dry
Shivering under slabs of cement
This concrete jungle grows just fine without me
I’m yesterday’s news, trapped in the smudged ink
Of a newspaper no one is going to read anymore
If this is what circling the drain feels like
I hope the pipes lead somewhere nasty
I deserve nothing but the slimiest of sewage.

You carved this
With broken fingernails
All the beauty in your hands
Spilled like oil on pavement, 
Muddled and unsettling.
You do not belong with the trash
There are streaks of color
In that oily mess.
Forgive yourself.

There is no forgiveness for the wretched
I will forgive myself when the ink from
All the stories I was too afraid to write
Will pour itself down my throat
Hot and sticky, burning until I double over
And work itself into my veins,
Until it turns the lines under my wrist black
I will forgive myself when my faults bury me
Just like I’ve tried to bury them.

Pull the arrows from your thighs
And keep yourself from
The cemeteries you visit
For a moment, just one,
Let the the ink sink back
Into those pages that never were
Wipe your lips with your hands
It’s okay if you’re shaking
Remember the stillness that comes
When you treat the stories like
New friends,
Rather than deadly oceans.
You are not wretched for
Painting your passion
Into twisted shapes.

I don’t know what stillness you speak of
When I write, the paper ends up crumpled
In balls beneath my feet
My hands are not nearly dexterous enough
To navigate the landscape of a story
Much less stop the stark white page
From recoiling at my touch
The only shapes I can create are
The ones carved into my thighs
I can’t remove the arrows
They’re holding me together

What can I tell you?
Maybe something
Less direct… .
Eat something,
Something small.

I’m not hungry
I’ll eat when I can feel
The sharp pangs of my stomach destroying itself
Twisting and turning, sharp as a blade
I’ll put the fork to my lips
When there’s so little left inside me
That when I try to vomit
The only thing that comes out is blood

Draw smiling faces
On your wrists,
Your stomach,
Your thighs.

Maybe with a knife
So when the blood is pouring down
You won’t know if those faces
Were smiling or crying

Hold your favorite article of clothing
Like it is a newborn child.

Which one?
The red shirt that
Makes me look like a misplaced firetruck
Or the black pants that show off
Every revolting piece of flesh on my legs
I don’t know how I can make such a difficult decision

Stroke the mirror and ask it to be as unforgiving as possible
Thank it for showing you the world in reverse
Hold on to what is outside of the mirror.

Maybe I should shatter it instead
Break it into pieces
Just like it broke my confidence

Tuck yourself into a small space and become
and smaller
until you are just atoms.
Settle into motion of the universe
Remember that even the most insignificant stars
Burn along the currents of darkness.

I’m too big to be small
No matter how much of myself I chop off
Losing a bit of my heart here
Some of my muscles there
I will always be the loudest voice in the room
Shrill and piercing
I can peel off layers of myself
Until I am the size of a seed
But I will always be too large
And too ungraceful
For anything but getting stuck

Take a walk
Run your hands
Through the fog and
Rest, on the tip of your tongue,
The scars of the moon,
The night is quiet and young
Innocent, not yet cold,
Steeped in white, burning flowers
Curl against the edges of the night
Let them soften you.

My feet were not made for walking
They only know how to run
But it’s so dark I can’t tell if
I’m looking at the street or
The inside of my own eyelids
I kept tripping over shoelaces
That seem to untie themselves
So I ditched my muddy brown sneakers
For the scratch and bite of
Bare feet on gravel
Even though I have memorized
This dark landscape like it is my palm
I still keep tripping over the same rocks

Forgive yourself.

I can’t.

dreadful-poetry (unitalicized stanzas) and tldrift (italicized stanzas)