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Horses“We are free!” she screamed at the daisies and we were horses who ate the grass “We are.” sitting in a patch of purple flowers sucking ends sweet like grapes and chewing clover “Sour!” she laughed.Horses
“We are free!” she screamed of school buses in summer and we wore bikinis rubbed lemon in our hair to turn us yellow in the sun “Two months.” she sighed.
“We are here.” I told her of the earth when we played make-believe drank beer with dinner and slipped into dre
by ~matcH-Box
My Love is not a FlowerI cannot write a sonnet will not stack structured lines about the feel of your skin and the taste of your mouth (though both are smooth and warm and squeeze out all my dirty words drip drip drip them from my pores and I am cleansed But I am not sure how to make that rhyme.)My Love is not a Flower
I cannot write a sonnet For my pen and paper know no odes just broken syllables My ink spills out
black, bleeding, red words
deep, clotted red Not like the red of your lips.
I’ve never compared a man to the sun. &nbs
by ~matcH-Box
Puddle Feetlittle red feet puddle-splashed grew calloused on the rocks of our garden. My father poked a pin into my brother’s sole while he was sleeping and chuckled that great-blue-belly-laugh when it wouldn’t break through. the little boy grunted and twitched between dreams.Puddle Feet
He didn’t visit Sick Father Time much those days he was asleep in his sterile home away from home He was too un-grown to know they were father-son instead of that man around the house when he was young.
So father closed his eyes and little brother was there
by ~matcH-Box
LeavesI cannot shake that afternoon we crouched beneath the leaves head cradled in my hands you watched me like a collision on the freeway horrified yet unable to rip prying eyes from pretty flames licking at the sky. On the drive to meet you I mapped out my words meant to tell you I needed space that perhaps it was better if we never kissed or touched or spoke again but instead as we walked along the path you grabbed my hand turned my stomach and jumbled the lines I’d scripted in my head. I turned to water splashed ontLeaves
by ~matcH-Box
Favourites
Luna,you -- a concept i can't place my fingertips on, when i use them to dial, break open a smile that was meant for the night when the moon hung herself over wetlands and dry sands that our nostrils inhaled.Luna,
but how does it drip, like solemn light of moon, in a rhythm of heartbeats whose pace has no pattern?
still, it marches past bloodstream, returning from trenches dug with a razor or visa or spoon.
scooping up lunar white in smiles like a mother's pride; her soldier's home and satisfied -- he's limbless but he's loved. &nb
by =feel-the-waltz
porcelain poetryred runs raw through lines dancing all over me tonight its about singing poetry to a book why try?porcelain poetry
screaming inside out with lips stitched shut dont scare the bird away
pierce deeper, italics on white paper its about keeping it beautiful why not?
one day I'll write an immortal prose one day I'll drop my scribe altogether
by ~philosophie-c
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