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i am wordy as fuck,

and you’re good to go, crouched between legs trembling as these high lips strive to say no, say something– but all that comes out is just wait, when what i mean is wait for me to feel something more than lost and more like lust or even simple longing. you press close but your eyes are just eyes. we weren’t pieces that fit we were just slightly sticky and in the heat we briefly melted into one another, our interiors not quite hot enough to make it all the way just warm enough to confuse the edges at a glance so we intertwined and refined our impulses with flesh but when it came to it our eyes were still just eyes when we wanted windows to what we wanted most

Posted in prose poetry poetry angstpron | 2 notes
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He died in the end.

That’s what happened in the book I bought the day we met. If I’d have known maybe I’d have chose more carefully, with an eye toward the future, an ear out for irony, for coincidence. He died in the end. That’s what happened in the movie we saw the day we met. Maybe I’d have chosen more carefully, had I known how the book, and we, ended. With an eye on the prize or the prizefighter or whatever hearts are these days. Do we love or fight or love to fight or fight to love, it’s a little less clear on Wednesdays and days ending too soon or not soon enough. Love had nothing to do with it, but it’s a word I like to throw around too often, like confetti for ears and eyes and olfactory senses that make the bright lights show up. We’re factories churning out emotions like dogs churn out shit, equally shitty and both are waste. And waste not want not, we make use of the churned out bullshit to create lies upon lies, fabrications that can hold us over for years like the best of false feasts turned sour in the end. And in the end we all croak, whether it be book movie or ill-fated affair lacking in foundation. Walls without floor in the house without home and the love without feelings, the kind we create out of less than what we had when we were children, it’s just mud and false promises. 

Posted in poetry prose poetry angstpron | 1 note
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you put the colors in the rainbow
and sometimes when we get close
i don’t know where my hands go
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feel this heat of unborn emotion
raw intensity scored by a smile
we share this density of desire
for things previously denied
sly hands grasping for the impossible
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this isn’t desperation, but
we are wolves, after all
you’ll flinch before it’s finished
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we construct these identities
around possibilities never-ending
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this is kind of disastrous, isn’t it?
i cling tight to the knowledge that
eventually things work themselves out
chalk it up to fate instead of really
diving into the internals of this hate
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accidental certainty
this is the key to everything
we paint our smiles on thick
put on the best show
and you hug me
like it never happened
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your incisive words
leave me crestfallen
and without the knowledge
i came for in the first place
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this copper heart under
omnipresent oppression
crushed hard betwixt
what is and what was
exhausted expressions of longing
reaching out for what could be
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your winsome smile
it burrowed in from the very start
that feat formerly unheard of
was truly and genuinely fateful
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we walk these streets
not ready for the deluge
we carry on despite
the weights on our shoulders
this matters
because we were chosen for this
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those words were resonant
they served to pacify
my soul rife with urges
bemoaning overblown ideas
this fickle heart swells
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hopefully they notice
my lack of label
the dents and bruises
and return to sender

this unkind journey
always leaves its mark

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