Write Bad Poetry.

write bad poetry. 

wrap your mouth into a cliche. write about icarus, write about roses. write about the flowers in your ribs and the stain of your fingertips and the skin of your knees. write about cigarettes and getting high and kissing the wrong person. and space; write about space over and over in sixty iterations of it, write about star-blood and star-crossed and star-glowing, write about universes and galaxies and gladiators in constellations. write about the space between two people in a small room, write about the space that is too small no matter how big it is, write about the space that is too big no matter how small it is. write yourself a star and eat it, tinfoil-tasting, on the floor of your kitchen, while you regret missing your mother’s cooking. but write it.

write ugly. use too many undercase letters because you’re pretentious. USE ONLY CAPITAL LETTERS BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT A SCREAM TRAPPED UNDER YOUR FINGERNAILS. ,, cut & paste grammar (? who gives a shit ?) ,, r3inv3nt so much u come back 2 l33t speak, dial it down a bit. write in the language of flaubert, then dickens, then the language your father used before he learned english. then write the language of talking to your dog, then write the language of high school essays on books you never finished. utilize the word utilize where it don’t belong. fall in and out of love with contractions. accidentally become bukowski for a hot sec, grow out of it. 

write things you wish you hadn’t. write stuff so bad you can’t help groaning. write things that end in “a;sljflk jfg h” because they petered out while you were typing. write things that feel childish and use so much rhyme it throws you out of it. write things that feel grown-up and unfamiliar, too formal to function, up-their-own-asses. write things too enigmatic; forget what you wrote them about, but tell yourself it’s for the best. write things too obvious. go through a micro-poetry spell, go through a prose-poetry spell, fish the bottom of the box for x-ray goggles and write about how the cereal felt. write about your cat and the rug and un-deep fake-deep terrible stuff.

write things you really wish you hadn’t. stuff that hurts to read and hurts to look at later, stuff that makes your skin uncomfy and your body crawl. write stuff that looks better at the back of your closet. but stuff you can’t get rid of, really, not ever. stuff that, afterwards, makes you feel heavier. stuff that somehow, impossibly, kinda makes you lighter.

write about stuff you don’t really understand, write about social problems you barely experience, write about slam poetry. write about power outlets, write in the style of internet poets, write frost-length sonnets on how pink her lips are. 

write bad. write worse. write bottom-of-the-barrel, and then keep scraping it. keep digging in it. god, how many people are too scared of being bad that they just. never get around to it. that they never even start doing it. what if all they have to say is silly shit about lost love or greek myths or a good kiss. what if they’re bad at it.

be bad at it. do you know how fucking rebellious and wonderful that truly, i mean truly is? and that’s poetry, man. the act of being so vulnerable, you’re willing to completely suck at it. big ideas in small boxes. it takes a long time before you get the packaging to fit. 

go write bad poetry. i can’t wait to read it.

I lost track of the wounds

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was the one you gave me

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was you

In the end

It was the betrayal that slaughtered me

Before the blood loss

When your eyes sliced into my soul

Puncturing the vital organ

I was dead before your blade parted flesh

Ghost before my body hit the ground

~

In the end

My final breath

An exhale of your name

That still tasted like home on the tounge

My blood forgetting to be afraid

In your familar palms

~

But if I am spirit

Why I am the one haunted?

By you

Or some part of you that perished

With me

Begging for mercy

I do not know how to grant you

~

And if you lived

Why did I find you

Haunting your own shell

When I returned to

Forgive you

~

~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips

My mother tells me it is not me she dosent trust out in the world but rather that she does not trust the world with me.

And I learn from a young age what a privilege it is to be endangered.

To be wanted into extinction.

To be desired into oblivion.

In this same way my grandmother tells me that sometimes honesty sounds alot like silence.

That sometimes the truth is quiet.

In this same way my sister teaches me that forgiveness comes when she is ready.

~

Most days there is only forgiveness.

Cupped in my palms

Trying to stop it from trickling through my fingers.

I sip it every morning

Which is to say I seek forgiveness

From myself

Everytime I dare show my face to the sky again.

With the knowledge that I will inevitably break promises I made to me

That I will inevitably transgress against the girl I could become

And every morning I ask for her mercy

But she cannot grant it to me

For I have not granted her existence yet

And in this way I live in sin

~

Self destruction dares to taste foreign on my lips

Like rotting cherries

But how much easier it is to relearn old habits the second time around

When the mouth still tastes like burning teeth

~

I flinch so violently at the sound of my name

daring to disturb the molecules of the ether with something so undeserved

Petals fall from grace

It is my fault

Always my fault

Oh rebellious bones

How my blood blisters my veins

I think this is the way

Love moves

~

and this is how it ends

the last notes of my blood composed of subpar symphonies finally slip out into the void

my radio static heartbeat fades to quiet

and this is how it ends

in my final moments

the universe sings me to sleep

with one last lesson

my mother never had the words to teach me

and the endless silence of the infinite

caresses me into oblivion.

i exhale one last shooting star

weightless at last

as i disintegrate into the galaxy

with the realization of what a beautiful mercy

it is

to be forgotten

~

poetry dump of random lines that mean nothing in particular unless you'd like them to

For does the devil not simply give us what we ask for?

For does the devil not find us all on our knees?

@reveriesofawriter KNOWS WHATS UP♡

Today I am thinking about Alex Claremont-Diaz with the classic bisexual inability to sit properly.

♡

"Give me a smile sweetie"

And I have always been good at

Giving until I break

So I grin until my teeth crack

And I choke on the shards

Of every sharp thing

I was never taught

I did not need permission to say

♡

The sky bleeds pomegranate gin

And no one dares lay sutures

Across the cusp of her rebellion

And so we sip second chances from

The sewers and wait for the

Wound to clot with sticky fingers and

Stained lips dripping hollows

Gorging ourselves on handfuls of grief

From the gutters, carrying our mother's rage

In our bellies until next rainfall

♡

When I think of stars I think of

Music notes falling from the sky

I think of each of them hitting

The skin of the pavement in a series of

Shattered promises that echo like gasps

Accidental harmonies

I think of melodic dissonance

I think of the collective inhale of rhythm

Rewiring our heartbeats for single

Shared moment of apology

♡

When I think of clouds

I think of forgetting

Perhaps in another life

I could have told you why

But I can no longer remember

♡

Afterall what is my existence but

Circumstantial evidence

For my body aches these days

Stretched thin over the skeleton of my

Mistakes, waiting for sin to split

Skin and bloom across the surface of

My doubt

♡

synonyms for meaningless // 03.31.21