My one true love, do you not see?
The ground is falling away from our once steady feet.
FootstepsThe trees whisper our namesFootsteps by sharpie-tattoo
As we run to the starry sky
We're running to escape
Society's merciless eyes
That tell us who to be
And what to say and why
Like it knows normalcy and
We need to conform to survive
But I say that it doesn't know
Me or you and
If we can make it to the starry sky
Then we can jump into space
Where no one can fill our head with lies
And tell us we aren't
Good enough or the "perfect size"
We run to find a better place
To settle down and waste our lives,
Working, growing, being.
We shall waste away somewhere and die
But it will have been a better life
Than anyone could experience here
And I wish upon the reflection of the stars
In your eyes that all our dreams will come true
As the trees act as a guide
To this perfect place, this empty space, between here and God.
And I swear that I will not leave you behind
Because I love you and because I am yours
And you are mine.
Now hurry dear, because I'm afraid we're running out of time.
WinterWe light fires to keep warm that result in burnt down homesWinter by sharpie-tattoo
We throw rocks at each other to compare broken bones
We speak words one by one that morph into poems
We fall fast into winter like it's all we've ever known
SpringBare trees make us long for those lush spring daysSpring by sharpie-tattoo
When time didn't matter and we sat and we gazed
At the clouds passing by with their frivolous shapes
Three StepsThree StepsThree Steps by sharpie-tattoo
One step, two steps, three steps. Jean takes three steps into the room when the sound of others interrupts her. A room supposedly empty now fills with the whispers of secret plans and buried feelings. She freezes in her tracks and looks up suddenly. The sight of a man she knows intimately and a woman she does not know burns itself into her eyes.
The man leaps off the couch and his mouth starts vomiting questions and excuses. He runs to his wife, grabs her by the hand, and unravels lies like red carpets, rolling from tongue to ear. His wife simply nods as if she someone set her on auto-pilot. "Jean," he whispers, "I love you. I've loved you for twenty years. You know this is nothing. She's my secretary and we're here on the way to a business meeting. I forgot a few papers on my desk and Lisa wanted something to drink. Why did you come home so early darling? I thought you went to the spa for the day at the spa." Her
renewalyou are small,renewal by ohsostarryeyed
if you can,
i am white washed on the shores,
the grains of sand clinging
to your skin until it glitters.
i will start fires,
if it means something to you;
i will scrub my hands
if my blood is your currency.
i have folded under the bends
of your effort,
your being pressing into me
just by the weight i feel
in my heart.
to hear your voice
is to hear a melody
i knew i could never know again,
that i had sworn to forget;
yet upon hearing it,
felt my body swell with its notes
and burst with memory.
you are still one thousand miles
away from me, and i will pretend
with every fibre of my being
that this is a soft feeling,
because i can hardly
admit to myself that i
would give my lifeblood
and bodily dust to
the gods of the sea
if it meant
closer to me.
the renewal of purgingi am sick.the renewal of purging by ohsostarryeyed
i am curled around the toilet
like a cat in sunlight,
cradling it like my one and only,
cheek rested on the sill,
a makeshift window;
it is a terrible thought.
the bowl is a vignetted glimpse
into my body,
almost pure art
in its portrayal,
of my insides.
that is what it is:
it is a photograph
of my feelings.
i know this makes me sick
but i imagine i am a bird, still
neither locked by air nor earth,
and i feel a little
the lines on my skin, however,
insist that i am human.
i am afraid that they will
in the aftermath of friday,
so i pretend a little more,
a little more that i am
not sick and i will
when i put effort into
i put makeup products
on the underbellies of my eyes,
and maybe i don't look
like i'm so tired
i cut my hair.
it makes me feel less ill,
having my hair done.
but hearing the stylist
hanks of hair hit the floor
strikes me to
what georgia takes awaygeorgia, i hold this against you.what georgia takes away by ohsostarryeyed
what i have is the residue
of sleep, sweat, and sex
on my skin, the slickness
of a body still on my stomach.
i pretend that this is ok,
that if i keep you inside of me,
you can never leave.
the clock beats a wrathful tattoo
with its hands and gears,
unwinding our time with haste.
i can feel the georgian heat,
intermingling like the moon and stars
with the warmth of your body.
i want to tell you that you cannot go,
that i will break into slides of shale,
stumbling sightlessly into the first
open arms (, heart, or legs)
that i can find;
georgia, i hold this against you.
i want to tell you that i will not let myself
consider that i love you,
but i know that
a burialimagine being the first person to discover death.a burial by ohsostarryeyed
your lover has passed in her sleep.
you kiss her, you touch her thigh,
you whisper her name and stroke her hair,
you listen to her empty heart
and wonder at her silence
you wore red to her funeral because
that was her favorite color and
the pastor wouldn't let you play
landslide on the speaker system
in the chapel.
the gospel choir watched you like
the trees sighed.
and when the service was over
everyone asked how you were
but no one really wanted to know.
thursday the air tasted like stale apples.
grief holds you in
like a corset
red twine tying you
when you feel like
the wind is stagnant
and all you know
is the heaviness in the breeze
that never comes.
and you can see it now-
she ferments in the ground the way
juice once fermented beneath your
kitchen window in the sun, you are
drunk on her body and
you never meant to be,
and the heat becomes the
only thing that is thorough
and the only thing that mat