is the fabric
lies are the buttons
I can’t wait to be in a relationship again someday:
- We’ll go to see Once on Broadway
- Have hot chocolate at Starbucks like a couple of losers.
- Watch stupid movies together that we won’t actually watch
- Explore museums together
- And cuddle constantly till we get sick of one another
- But most of all - I can’t wait to share my passions and my love for this world and everything that it has to offer with the person I can happily call my own.
I am hopeful for the future.
Bon Iver - Skinny Love
A little tipsy post by me:
I’m not usually the type to write after I’ve finished a glass of wine – or two – or three. And perhaps I’m trying to drown something that’s in the back of my throat or hide from the hallow hole in my chest where a fistful of wasps rattle the bones inside, leaving me speechless and somewhat afraid because this is only an excuse to admit that I’ve drowned my loneliness by waving the flag and admitting defeat.
Sometimes the words on a page are enough to make sense and other times I find myself dumbfounded, dazed and confused –
So I give myself a drink just to give me some weight and Lord knows how I’m not very good at feeling alone as much as you may think otherwise.
College feels strange and odd – the expectations of being a student leaves me questioning what love really is and where it exists because at the bottom of this bottle I see nothing but regret. And honestly, I don’t want to fuck or find myself putting on shoes at 2 in the morning. I just want to find myself by the glow of someone’s alarm and admiring the cartography of their curves and bones because nothing speaks beauty like the human body at its most vulnerable state.
I speak a lot about loneliness because it’s something I know very well – what’s hard is putting into words the last time I felt genuinely safe and comfortable under the lullaby of someone’s musk and kisses because true affection is hard to find.
I long for a special someone to put these words into prospective not because I seek change or happiness but because I know that somewhere out there – living, breathing, creating – is a beautiful soul that will simply get me. In the end I think that’s all we’re looking for – someone to appreciate us beyond our imperfections.
So I’m going to take another sip to give me some weight and count these steps towards a long walk home down a lonesome parade.
(God knows I’ve been here before.)
Seems like I was born in a dead man’s suit.
written by Edward John Trelawny, Adventures of a Younger Son (via quotes-shape-us)
(For my creative writing final we had to present a poem that we wrote – spoken word – in front of the entire class. As I promised, this is the poem that I presented and performed. I hope you all enjoy it and thank you, each and every one of you, for the kindness and support that you’ve brought towards my writing. It’s because of you guys, and the motivation you bring about, that I don’t put the pen down. You are what keeps me writing.)
Just outside the heart of New York City,
away from the bustle of midtown
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 that 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 my finger.
Filled my head with names of poets,
and showed me that poetry is not 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 broken heart with balled fists
because forget God sometimes.
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 bible verses inside of my skin.
Taught me how to pray.
Knew what I was before I did.
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.
Days I found myself train wrecked and smoldering
desperately searching for signs of apocalypse.
And every sunrise grew heavier, a burden on my skin
as I sat filing down these awkward wings in search of normal
you were a beacon of light.
A whispered lullaby from the lips of a seraph.
A hand grenade in a house of worship.
You made me feel beautiful.
Showed me the value of flight.
Infused my felt tip with the oceans of my reflection
then dared the tide to laugh,
to crash upon napkin and notebook and nonbeliever.
I’ve been writing for a year now.
Took up my place as the atheist preacher I was always meant to be
spilling sermon after sermon of starlight sparking with hope
and you’ve been right beside me.
We’ve sharpened our pens into weapons of mass redemption
sending sound-wave tsunamis cascading through the congregations.
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 that 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 poem,
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
biting clawing screaming kicking about the page
I will hold you
In the privacy of our love.
I want to go to a museum -
I want to explore the many paintings - sculptures - abstractions -
As I press my lips upon yours under curious modernist views -
And call it an installation piece.