when you wake up from a nap
only to discover that somehow
you’ve been buried in sadness.
Category Archives: soul speak
books.
i want to be with someone
who sees the way i look at books.
someone who notices
the way my fingers trail over covers
as though the right one will speak
straight to my soul.
i want someone who sees
the fire in my eyes
when i talk about
the things that move me.
i want to be with
the person who makes me
feel like im not sorry,
no need to apologize all the time.
someone who will hold me
so close, so tightly
that our souls cannot be separated.
thats it.
thats all i want.
just fucking love me.
no title.
i whispered i miss you
and you said nothing
and its okay that you didnt.
youll miss me someday,
either because you saw me,
and loved me,
or because you didnt
and then you saw me,
and understood what you lost.
good thing.
i am tired –
it has been a long day,
one still going.
i am afraid to put you in words.
i am afraid of the ending.
inevitable,
but then endings are inevitable,
always.
to be present inside those moments,
has been refreshing,
an orgasm for the soul,
if you will.
i can see the light in the tunnel,
it’s irony, really,
seeing as how i’m just
trying to stay in the dark,
wanting you to be endless,
the kind of forever,
i don’t really believe is possible,
ill say it anyway,
you’ve been a good thing.
such a good thing.
art form.
there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.
#fromthedraftsfolder
the problem with knowing exactly what you want
is that you can’t special order love,
you can’t design it the way you want,
you can’t make anyone love you.
there’s no special drink you can chug,
no spell you can cast, no amount of magic
will make him like you, love you, want you.
and no matter what…
#fromthedraftsfolder
nostalgia tastes like coffee and donuts
at 2 am on a weekend;
it’s a warm beach and sand and a kite,
that refuses to fly vertically;
it’s a wal-mart at 3 in the morning,
and pizza and a brown fouton.
it’s the taste chocolate chip cookies
fresh baked or boxed.
nostalgia is a dangerous thing, especially,
late at night when it’s raining.
it feels like the perfect
head to chest ratio.
#fromthedraftsfolder
fleeting from spaces,
the safest of places,
rock to rock,
stumbling at times.
the best thing i ever did
was learn to live
in the moment,
then it doesn’t hurt
when your spaces
are so so safe anymore.
anxious bitch.
my brain is screaming at me to run,
to get the fuck out,
telling my heart to race,
making my insides feel like
some kind of shit soup
but i can’t allow myself
to fall into that trap.
i have things to do
i have people who depend on me
to keep my shit together.
so i will smile appropriately,
i will write shitty poems
and eat m and-fucking m’s
and keep my shit together.
fuck you, anxiety.
ghost
even the chaos doesn’t distract me enough,
a hundred thousand questions can’t stop me
from torturing myself.
i wanted you.
i wanted you in the way that an addict
wants that hit of whatever gets them
the heaven they think they want.
i wanted to bury myself inside of you,
burrow right into your soul.
i wanted to see what made you,
the good, the bad, the things you hide.
i guess,
in a way,
i did see all that shit.
the light, the dark, the depth,
just, that’s all i could get.
just a view in from the outside,
i hope you are well,
and i hope that you really are as beautiful
as i made you out to be,
inevitably, i’ll think of you,
this isn’t goodbye,
it’s not a see you later,
it’s a graveyard epitaph,
for a living ghost.
