Just outside the heart of New York City, away from the bustle of midtown and the slow and steady churning of the gears of commerce, beyond the lights, the big attitudes that seem to linger in the air like human exhaust, and the ever-lengthening shadow of the skyscraper – you own a bed.
And I know it isn’t completely normal to be jealous of inanimate objects but has anyone ever told you that your bed is a lucky motherfucker? It knows the concept of home in ways that I can only write about in poems because every single night it sighs peacefully beneath the rhythmic exhalations of your breath; it knows the cadence of your dreams. And I would gladly take its place if it meant that I could touch you in the moments before sleep steals you away.
Do you know you redefined the world for me?
The day that you first called my name, my heart back flipped inside of my chest – I felt the planet shrink to the size of a basketball and then you spun it on your fingers. You filled my head with names of poets and showed me that poetry isn’t about names at all – it’s not even words sometimes.
It’s a potent cocktail mixed at the corner where unbelievable pain meets insurmountable strength.
It was like you built a temple there and I just happened to stumble past, cursing the heavens, nursing a troubled heart with balled fists because forget God sometimes – forget happiness. And right at that moment with the grace of your existence you grabbed me by my clenched jaw – softened my hands into saucers and filled them with the gentle pulse of an endangered species.
You raised the poetic verses inside of my skin –
Taught me how to write again –
Knew the words before I did –
And then you caught a glimpse of my exploding-fire-hydrant-heart, and while others ran for umbrellas, you danced inside the rain. You called me “poet” on days the world called me hopeless.
There would be days I found myself train wrecked and smoldering, desperately searching for signs of the apocalypse. And every sunrise grew heavier, a burden on my skin as I sat filing down these awkward wings made out of wax in search of something normal –
You were a beacon of light –
A whispering lullaby from the lips of a deity –
A hand grenade in a house of worship.
You made me feel beautiful –
Showed me the value of flight and infused my felt tip with the oceans of my reflection, then dared the tide to laugh –
To love –
To crash upon napkin and notebook and nonbeliever.
I’ve been writing again ever since I stumbled upon your temple – took up my place as the poet I was always meant to be, spilling stanzas after stanzas of starlight sparking with hope and you’ve been right beside me. I’ve sharpened my pen and you’ve sharpened your vocals into weapons of mass redemption – sending sound-wave tsunamis cascading through symphonies and orchestrated paragraphs –
You’ve been right beside me –
Reminding me every day that this poem could never be beautiful enough –
You’ve been right beside me –
The smoking gun that connects us to destiny –
The closest thing to a human poem the world has ever seen.
And I admit, I don’t yet know what all of the words mean, but I just want to hold you.
Like your first journal held the ink of your first words –
Be the words –
Be the poem.
I will be the page for you to rest upon –
A haven for your madness –
The epicenter of your truth –
Be it violent or angry or biting or clawing or screaming or kicking about the page –
With the mountain of clothes on the floor –
The empty glasses of water on the shelves –
The coated and scattered bed sheets meeting dawn and biding away dusk –
With the radio humming quietly in the foreground –
With the door closed –
The shades shut –
I will hold you.
Many lays the rain has brought me,
Other songs the winds have sung me.
Many birds from many forests,
Oft have sung me lays n concord
Waves of sea, and ocean billows,
Music from the many waters,
Music from the whole creation,
Oft have been my guide and master.
written by Kalevala poem (via maggisakura)
Wake - The Antlers
It was easier to lock the doors and kill the phones
Than to show my skin, because the hardest thing
Is never to repent for someone else, it’s letting people in
written by Friedrich Hölderlin, Hyperion. (via ninetythieves)
I once dated an artist who I fell in love with
but then she broke my heart and
called it an installation piece.
You take my money.
You took my sanity.
You took my happiness.
And now my soul.
Stop fucking me over.
My life has value beyond shitty grades and GPAs.
Your pastimes, consisted of the strange
the twisted and deranged
And I loved that little game you had called
And how you liked to aggravate the ice cream man on rainy afternoons