virusesyour words are germ filled, I watch them crawl through telephone lines, the whole world’s in danger but only I notice. I’m tempted to call you a monster, to call the doctor, but I know this is just youviruses
viruses and all. You did not mean to give me chills, to make my eyelids itch, for me to lose my sense of smell. But I did.
I’m leaving a voicemail because I stubbed my toe on an antidote for your parasites, (bed rest and silence
only went so far,)
and under the pat-pat of leaky faucets and hearts, I found syllab
life flickeringI am afraid that someday I will awake to find you melted into your mattress, stuck inside your bedframe, maybe drowned in the left corner of your loveseat.life flickering
…though maybe it will be a slower process, and each day that you release smiles from the surface of your face like overdue homework, (awaiting deduction points for &nbs
sidewalk directionsyou speak with the wisdomsidewalk directions
of graying men, whose rough lives have melted into cliché existance and what young optimism peers through the cracks in the sidewalk
where you’ve chalked out directions
to life (for us) --vivid colors suggest
laughter and melted popsicles
bake your advice into
chocolate chip cookies; I burn my tongue every time
no lifeguard on dutypaint is peeling around the edges of my eyes, again, the wrong shade of blue painted over itself. grains of you hold me in place, the diluted varnish of not-laughing next to you makes me lightheaded and strangely comfortable.no lifeguard on duty
we balance together like tightrope walkers, I hope you know- because if I fall, dear the trampoline will groan under the weight of us both.
(that bounce back can be painful.)
so I would prefer that you stop asking questions that sound lik
we are taprootsI will not panic in the absence,we are taproots
of your xanax hair that makes you feel like those things you try to believe in. Like your humor,
like your smile, like you're inflated to the bigger person you wish to chew on without letting the fat cells sink
to thigh-level and your skull to sky-level.
Your scowl is the one thing that makes my eyes turn into spiral stairs at 8am. We are more than car park friends now, I wait in phone boxes and you sit on rooftops
with your theorem-lids vomiting sleep -- you should not let them hit the ground, we do not know this g
Tips For Editing Poetry***Tips For the Novice (and otherwise) - Editing***Tips For Editing Poetry
The blanket statement, "Editing/revision harms poetry," is simply wrong. It's akin to a photographer claiming that focusing the lens ruins the emotion of the photograph. It is the details, and the appropriate attention paid to them, that separate a photograph from a snapshot. Imagine a film maker slapping every frame he shot up on the screen without editing for continuity, for pacing, for effect. What a disaster. That is not to say that editing can't be destructive - there is such a thing as poor editing, just as there is po
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Fuck me harder. No harder. Make me cry.
I'm thinking second period DR.
the formatting isn't good on this version, i'll try to upload one where it is as it should be
~M
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Now all we have to do is pretend that fork's plastic and we'll be all set. Hours of entertainment right there!
Anyway, yeah, that's it. I loooove you!
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wake up, kids, we've got the dreamers' disease
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