he wasn't a lost boy
he was simply lost
hands grappling with the darkness
as he searched for the star that would
take him to neverland
wednesday's childit is the third of october
and i am building a castle for us
out of feathers, bird bones,
ocean waves and library book pages.
anything to keep our feet from
touching the ground.
you are sin, he whispers
and his fingers trail cold fire
down my side, scorching flesh
and freezing bone;
brittle pieces of me shatter
as they hit the stained linoleum floor.
don't wake me from this nightmare.
i whisper a nursery rhyme
as i walk down our
kamikaze leaves fall, trailing
fire as they throw themselves from
the branches, down, down,
to cold pavement below.
your words echo in my mind
a constant reminder
that i am sin
tigers and wind chimescoffee smells like coming home
but this time there is no home
only cheap, styrofoam cups
and a boy whose eyes do not
remind me of a supernova or
the tidal pull of the moon or
wind chimes in september.
They are not poetic;
they are tiger-sharp, jagged
razor wire promises inscribed on
a storm-cloud sky:
i will hurt you. i will destroy you.
and then i will leave you.
i tell him i am not afraid
and for the first time
i am not.
one and the samei have a monster inside my head
frozen, shaking fingers claw against colder skin,
seeking purchase, fingernails drawing blood.
get out get out get out
but my monster just laughs
imagined breath puffing against the back of my neck,
thick with the stench of death and madness.
it whispers in a black-velvet voice,
"we are one and the same, love.
you cannot escape what you already
Entropyi spin apart, a galaxy
ever expanding while
trace icy paths down
my spine -- the ghost
of your fingertips
against my skin
even after your memory
Sparrow HeartbeatsMy fingers twine in the loops and swirls of the oatmeal colored carpet, and I dig my nails into the only ground I can touch as if somehow that could hold me here forever. Keep me from flying away, flying apart. Gray eyes stare up at the ceiling, watching as the fan in the center turns hypnotically, occasionally flinging bits of dust. It sifts down through the impossibly hot air, settling around me like grave dust. I can hear them downstairs, fighting again. Their words echo through the house, muffled by carpet and thin walls, just enough to render words indecipherable, but not the meaning behind them.
Rolling over on my side, I face the wall between my bed and dresser. The paint is chipped and flaking, dark marks mar the whiteness. Silently, I trace my finger across them, connecting the dots as I form new constellations, naming them after all the things I cannot have: hopelovehappiness. The wall feels cool beneath my fingertips, and I wonder how it can be so cold when ever
This Too Shall Passi.
so I whisper my confessions to the secret spaces between my rib bones
and fingers trace my wrists, feather-light, the rosary of scars
I offer prayers for each stark, white line but I know even that cannot take me to heaven
so I beg absolution and utter penitent sighs with unclean lips
no coal will ever touch
you hate in the name of love, wrapping your judgments with white ribbons
and pretend you carry salvation to the world on the back of black stained wings
and the blood of those who fell to the cause
all you leave are red footprints on history's pages and
echoes of the unquiet who refuse the silence of death
reaching, grasping, I pour myself out like water over stones
I cannot hold onto them and you and remain but my eyes refuse to accept the blindness
and I cherish the way the wind whispers the secrets of the world
too much to set fire to the fields
steps.humans were made to run barefoot.
we were made to climb mountains, fighting gravity
and to fly across stony deserts and dangerous forests.
we were not made for these,
these bastardizations of heels and soles and
humans were made to run barefoot,
we were always meant to leave traces of ourselves
on everything we touched, every inch
of the world that we would walk.
we were always meant to take with us
the scars left by the walls we would climb,
the bruises left by the falls we would take,
the hard skin and the instant familiarity left
by the paths we would forge
so worry not.
you were never meant to feel the skin of this earth
through designer heels and combat boots.
you were only ever meant to feel the weight of yourself,
a breathing, bleeding, human
charged with electric emotions and spinning
out of control
upon the ground,
meant to break yourself on the roads you paved
and the dreams you wrought in sto
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Midnight Thought ProcessPerhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judge others in life, and we keep track of others by categorisation.
Perhaps we should forget what year it is, and what we are…and just be.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.
this is an accomplishment.
by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.
to be honest, that part never goes away—
but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangs
and threatens to swallow everything i am
if i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’s
tail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.
he will not even touch his food until the sun has
set as deep as possible. he is giving you every
chance to come back.
i try to tell him there’s no use,
that you will never come back.
but dogs don’t understand things like that,
don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.
they believe in the sound of a key turning a lock
and the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome mat
no matter how many times they’ve heard
the car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.
2. this must be what missing you feels like.
i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.
i keep breathing. this is an accompl
tocophobia.the world of pregnancy and childbirth
has been boiled down to the white,
neurologically healthy babies
in pink and blue knit caps.
“that one,” says the tearful father.
“she’s beautiful,” says the nurse
while the mother rests.
but why is it
that the default image of motherhood
is a white middle-class couple with a picket fence
and a golden retriever?
let’s postpone that cruise to the caribbean
and make a baby.”
what about the prostitutes
who get pregnant?
what about the girls in africa
who carry their rapist’s babies?
what about the babies left on the firehouse steps?
what about the welfare mothers
because they can’t pay the hospital fees?
who have heroin tracks on their arms
(like stitches that can’t hold them together)
where the patient bracelet is snapped on?
what about the 500,000 american children
waiting to get adopted?
what about miscarriages and women
who can never have kids?
we preach for the
Cliches I Have Datedi.
Anna collected stardust
like pennies, except
pennies are worth something.
Claire had ink
running through her veins; dead,
from an unsterilized needle.
Robin had birdbones
strung together on windchimes.
Sarah’s eyes were always
to the sky, and never
Lizbeth took my breath away
with every punch to the stomach.
Rosalie had too many things
in her ribcage; emotional adrenaline
triggered her arrhythmia.
Emily left me
for a boy with starrier freckles.
I am one cat away
from a stereotype, or one girl
closer to a happy ending.
Believe in YourselfIt's the oldest story in the book,
but I'll say it again:
believe in yourself
Girl, you are a hurricane
chock full of sticks and stones,
broken ribs and empty promises,
but never calm your storm
because your wildness
makes everyone tremble
You don't realize it
because your eyes
are blinded by the sun, but
you are a star too,
and others are looking up
at you from Earth, so
don't let them down
You are only five foot two
and yet you have learned
to stand proud and tall,
so hold your head up high
you are not just
broken bones and promises,
and you are not just
a fake star
You are a girl fighting
while covered in sweat and tears,
so I am sure
that you will make it
if you believe
in your own self
the wateri almost drowned a few years back that december.
you were making waves before i even hit the water
on a hill in hartford and elsewhere out east.
it's crazy to think we never would meet if it weren't for me
losing my cool and now i can't kick it, but fuck it.
it's as if it we're meant to be and you were meant for me;
both broken, we push it, and smile, and bullshit.
sometimes i skip rocks and she sings songs.
the tide turned sometime when you hit a different dialect,
a different tongue, my stomach turned, lines blurred,
i wanted to run or at least push myself into the pool.
sink or swim, crash and burn,
it's all the same, i live and learn,
but what's there to gain when the mistake isn't mine
and i'm still doing time staring at the water,
staring at the water,
staring at the water, i remember
i almost drowned a few years back.
her blue eyes
only to see
how others are all free
she is trapped inside herself
tries, but unable to be freed
she is stuck, she cannot get away
instead she stays unwilling to escape
let's lay down and watch the sky fall.i've taken on the habit of latching my watch
on the sixth-to-last notch so that it's too loose for my wrist
and every time i reach up to tame your mound of auburn hair behind your ear
time slips away from me
and we can entangle ourselves in the possibility of forever in its absence.
envelopes under the bed, loneliness stand for dead(the crevices in the floor remind me of his smile.)
when it's 2 AM
in the morning
and i'm sneaking back inside
after a long night of drinking cherry wine
and reading sandman comics
under your garage
i try to become a feather
but the floor creaks anyways.
(the helium filling my brother's birthday balloons remind me of his hands.)
my mom doesn't really approve
of me sucking the air out of
but i like the way
my voice won't sound
it makes me feel
a little less
(his lips were the closet light at the new year's party.)
we were playing
spin the bottle
with an empty heineken.
i'm not much into
the weed scene.
but that night
i reached the clouds
and when the spinner
landed on me
you knew we'd
be doing pirouettes
with something other than our tongues.
the closet was small
and smelled like soap.
but the way
the lights flickered
like honeycomb -
tasted a lot better
than the hangover
in the morning.
(umbrellas felt a lot like his eyes.)
That I am not myself
I am the faceless waste of my influences
That I obey the media like a god
And society like a saint
That I am one of the crowd
I do what is expected
What is wanted and what is told
Even when I know it is wrong
That I cannot think
I am a walking machine
That has given up freedom and thought
For the sake of a simpler life
That I hate based on color
On sex and religion
Unless it is popular
To say I love instead
That I am a murderer
A thief and a scoundrel
I witnessed the greatest crimes of our time
And stood by in silent admiration
That I hated because they told me to
I killed because I wanted to
And lied because I could
But worse, I let others do the same
That I'd do anything they'd allow
And everything they'd want
That I prefer to hate myself
Then for them to hate me
All this I confess
Stop Romanticizing Poets 2K14This is how I write my poems:
You’re blonde and you have blue eyes.
You’re the perfect subject for my next great hit,
a long rambling epic or a two page sonnet
which would start by comparing your hair
to rays of the sun and your eyes to the ocean
at daybreak. Even if you’re more of a dishwater blonde
than sun-colored, and your eyes are less ocean and
more sky, I swear I write this poem and think
vaguely of you.
But here is a secret: I’m not writing a poem about you.
I’m writing a poem about the idea of you.
And I don’t know if it will be a love poem or
a break-up poem or a “please don’t go home and
commit suicide” poem or one of those
heartbreakingly honest poems that feels like
you put your pencil on paper and bled.
I don’t write poems like that often.
No poet does, not really,
we write poems about you and your blue eyes
because we don’t like how bleeding feels,
and it is much safer for us to pretend to fall in l
The Elevator ManEight hours a day, five days a week, for forty-one years he had pushed those buttons upon command. His place of employment - The Jansson Grande hotel in New York City. It was one of those hotels that had five stars for everything; suites, service, food, entertainment. Quite simply, it was the "best of the best."
But no one ever seemed to pay much attention to the little man who operated the elevator, the main one located just off the lobby. Occasionally he was mocked, derided. No one ever treated him with respect. From the time he was a child he was treated as someone undesirable, someone you would and should avoid. He was always smallish in size, nervous around people and quiet as a mouse. He never looked anyone in the eye, always kept his cast to the ground, even when spoken to.
His daily routine never changed. At exactly six o'clock in the morning he would rise, fix the same breakfast of one poached egg, a slice of t
8 Things I Learned Before I Turned Sixteen1. you are stronger than you think
and when you tell other people this,
do not be offended when they start talking about muscle mass.
they will not understand until they wake up
one day and are disappointed to find themselves
2. reading books about thin people
doesn’t make you thin
just like writing poems about happiness
doesn’t make you happy.
3. make new year’s resolutions. even if you know
they won’t last longer than the shower
you make them in, do it anyways because
you’ll love the idea of the person you were
washing off of you with the dirt.
4. you’re going to fall head over heels
over ankles over fingers in love with a boy.
this does not mean that you have any right
to keep him.
5. someone won’t always be there to tell you,
“hey, good job on getting out of bed today.
good job on going to school and doing your homework.
good job on surviving today.”
but good job anyways.
6. change your hair color. change your s
Stars Wish on People TooDefine me when you take swigs
the number of your hair.
The unmoving frames
of your Sunday musings
whisper in caps lock;
they want to be forgotten-
they told me,
like I could save you from myself
I’ve always wondered
what it would be like
to play the piano
with my feet on an acoustic run;
the shadow that isn’t friends
with the light like a body part
I’ve always known,
but never quite seen.
I sugarcoat myself
hanging by mere fiction,
a pendulum and a metronome
What are we but allusions
to the people behind us,
ambivalence to the rivers
that never meet the ocean.
It’s frightening how
we’ve been lost for years
but no one’s come to find us.
Dusk it seems
is the lesser of two evils,
midnight is just too mysterious.
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.
i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.