my words are meant to be in motion.
twisting, turning, slithering, weaving
like soft twigs into baskets and pen-ink into paper
a language soiree
my words are not meant to be stifled.
is a poem really a poem
if not spun from the soul like
silken thread, a web
of metaphors and memories and all
that takes up and makes up your mind
it's like taking your brain and
unspooling it like a roll of bubblegum, laying it out
and reading the wrinkles like braille.
trace the lines with your fingers. it's revolting, isn't it?
how each one is infested with you, crawling with thoughts
like bacteria feasting on festering turned flesh
turn the page. load the film cartridge in once more.
watching is easier than listening to my mouth
stumble, fumbling my words like a clumsy juggler
everything feels better with your lips on mine,
mumbled words turning to mush
watch the reel.
each oozing porous cavern in my head
pours metaphors, spewing, vomiting
every
little
thing.
you remind me of
car rides spent squished in the back of my best friend's shitty BMW
sharing cigarettes and conversations, both filterless
a bluebell covered in dew formed from the bay fog
a rusty nail in a plank of rotting oak wood.
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoetryA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
