This is life. What can we do?

Everyone says life is short, but that's absolutely not true, because living this life is the longest thing that you will ever do.

2 notes

Rebuild.

You’re born ready for battle,
Life starts throwing punches as soon as it sees you,
It climbs up you,
It claws its way up your back to stand on your shoulders,
But you never get used to it,
Everyday you wake up waiting for something different,
Every night you go to bed thinking that it’s over
Because it’s not fair, and how much more could they throw at you, because its got to end eventually, and it can only go up from here,
But that’s not how life works,
It doesn’t acknowledge right or wrong,
It doesn’t matter if it’s fair, it’s the hand you’ve been dealt,
And eventually, minimally, you get used to the rigmarole,
For the first portion of your life, you stay in the lines,
You meet the social ques, you follow the rules,
You go to school, you say you want to be an astronaut or a firefighter,
Because anything’s possible,
And everyone’s already told you that you could be the president if you want to,
They’ve been telling you your whole life how great you are,
They cheered when you got honorable mention and hung your first ‘A’ on the fridge with pride,
Because they knew you could do anything,
Standing there at the beginning of life, they could see the entire world in your hands,
Then you get a bit older,
Life starts to leave bruises, sometimes scars,
No one tells you how great you are anymore,
There’s no one hanging your A’s on the fridge anymore,
And being president sounds like a sick joke,
Everything evolves into a fight now, nothing’s easy anymore,
You spend a lot of time alone, you enter the daily grind, no one reminds you to dream,
And one day you wake up and you’re 25,
And somewhere along the way you watched your own dreams die,
In your own two hands,
You spent too long partying, you got too busy, you had too many bills, 
You couldn’t find the time, now it feels like there isn’t any,
Welcome to the kitchen floor phase of your 20’s,
Welcome to the first time life will take your breath away,
This is the first time it’s going to feel like you can’t get up,
The first time you realize you’re not who you planned on being,
This is the first time you will watch the end of your world as you know it,
But know right now,
That it will not be the last,
So logically you’ve got to get back up,
Because the world isn’t ending, just the one you know has,
Because it had to, because it wasn’t working, because of natural selection, because you weren’t happy,
Rebuild now,
Build a structure that can withstand the next earthquake,
Build a kitchen with a beautiful floor, paint it yellow,
Because life will cut you at the knees again in front of everyone you love,
Because you will have to get up again,
Keep flowers there, and notes for the future,
Pictures of all the people who chose not to leave you,
Make sure it has windows,
Big beautiful windows that you can swing open,
So when you run out of air you can always rely on them,
Hang maps on the fridge instead of to do list,
Know that nothing of yours can die before you have,
Don’t say it didn’t hurt, because it hurt like hell,
But stand up and walk away, remember that you built this house.

Filed under twenties twenty yellow flowers kitchen maps life lines social ques scars bruises right wrong pride windows slam poem spoken word writing slam poetry poem poetry

2 notes

Paper Hearts Club.


She spent years pretending to love her,

Because biology and society told her that she had to,

But you can’t fight chemistry,

No matter how much blood sits there between them,

She can’t hide hollow eyes,

Not to flesh that came from hers,

Not to ribs she pulled from her own side, 

Mother to daughter to tree to forest fire,

Welcome to the paper hearts club,

Well past lonely and too fragile for any meeting in a diner,

Two blind ghost living in a 6 x 6 room,

Constantly pacing without ever running into each other,

Using paper mache to build a womb,

You give it to your daughter as a pinata,

She spent her birthday making paper hearts with flour and water,

They were practicing for the inevitable,

Preparing to be hollow,

Because by the end of it,

They’d both have their hands inside each others chests for so long,

Their organs would die when they let go of them,

Mother to daughter to tree to forest fire,

They both turned into mirrors,

Reflecting their nothingness back at each other,

Perpetually competing to prove the weight of the other,

By showing their compressed spines, their shattered plates,

Their bruised shoulders, and broken vertebrates,

They all became markings of the other ones weight,

Both of their backs were screaming ‘Look what you did to me!’,

Mother to daughter to tree to forest fire,

Martyrs give birth to corpses,

Look what you did to each other, 

Unlearn the word ‘me’, replace it with ‘we’,

Do it over and over again, until it rolls off your tongue,

Until it dissolves the daggers hidden in your mouths,

You came from each other,

How could you hate yourself so much?

Mother to daughter to tree to forest fire,

Welcome to the paper hearts club,

We’re still waiting for water.

Filed under mothers daughters poem slam poem slam poetry poetry writing forest fire me we pinatas hearts paper club

8,090 notes

humansofnewyork:

"I’m just trying to live through this problem man created. Nature didn’t create the problem. Man created the problem. And I’m going to be honest, I’m going to say it, it was the European man who created this problem. European man invented the gun. Then he made a bigger gun, and he said: ‘I’m gonna keep this big gun for myself, and I’m gonna sell this small gun to you." And ever since then, he’s been keeping the big guns, and selling the small guns. So everybody’s got guns but none as big as him. And I’m through with it. I’m blind in one eye from Vietnam. If you want to die for this garbage game, that’s your fault. I’m through."

humansofnewyork:

"I’m just trying to live through this problem man created. Nature didn’t create the problem. Man created the problem. And I’m going to be honest, I’m going to say it, it was the European man who created this problem. European man invented the gun. Then he made a bigger gun, and he said: ‘I’m gonna keep this big gun for myself, and I’m gonna sell this small gun to you." And ever since then, he’s been keeping the big guns, and selling the small guns. So everybody’s got guns but none as big as him. And I’m through with it. I’m blind in one eye from Vietnam. If you want to die for this garbage game, that’s your fault. I’m through."

2 notes

They wanted love poems, but I only read Poe.

Walk tall away from all connections,

Always move quickly after cutting ties,

Because landfills set up like dominoes,

Give off the allusion that you never needed any rope,

As you crawl downwards in any direction,

If you sink deep enough it all goes black,

And if you can’t go that low,

If you run out of air,

Find an empty room,

Build a nest,

Keep everything in arms reach,

And never leave,

Just stop listening,

Stop answering,

If you stay quiet long enough,

Even the most persistent get bored,

Everyone disappears if you wait long enough,

Hide out under sheets,

Under a weeks worth of filth,

From guilt and pride gone bad,

Stay in the dark,

The light has a way of revealing new scars,

It always works out,

If you never go back.

Filed under Writing light dark the longfellow war prose poem poetry waiting edgar allen poe

0 notes

To loud to disappear.

I know that there’s no excuse for some actions.  I know I’m angry, but sometimes you just can’t put another thing in your chest.  Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you know is right, because sometimes you loose that choice.  Every once in a while it comes down to how many ticks left till the bomb blows.  Short fuses and empty tanks, that’s when it gets dangerous. That’s when you loose all the power, it coincides with feeling indestructible.  Turns out that’s when it matters most, when you’re not even really there anymore.

Filed under writing blurbs prose insomnia

25 notes

Put your skirt back on.

Never dumb yourself down because they assume that’s where your start is,

Don’t wear skirts, they won’t take you seriously,

Don’t be too pretty, they’ll take it as soft,

Don’t wear tight clothing, because they’ll mistake you as a play thing,

Don’t be too feminine, because they won’t hear you when you talk,

Lower the tone of your voice,

Your high pitched tongue is like a dog whistle to the muts,

Never use the word feminist, because they’ll hate you before you even open your mouth,

Don’t mention that you make more money than him,

Don’t tell him you own a house, 

Don’t tell him about tour, or living in a van with five men for two months,

Because he’ll put two and two together and they’ll add right up to slut,

Don’t emasculate him, remember that he’s the man,

And because he was born with balls, you were born to respect them,

Remember that you’re a painting of a daisy to his strong, hard frame,

Remember that you are absolutely nothing, if he’s not there to keep you in place,

Learn how to cook,

Put all the heads back on your Barbie dolls and never tell anyone you decapitated them,

Never mention that you spent hours pulling out their perfect hair,

Because you thought if you could collect enough of it, maybe you could use it as your own,

Stop, don’t buy in, you’re bigger than the box that they left you in, 

No, no because if you can emasculate someone just by being yourself you have a responsibility to find someone else,

Someone stronger, someone sturdier,

Someone who isn’t intimidate by a painting of a flower

Put your skirt back on,

Don’t use a microphone tonight,

Make sure they know that your voice is loud enough on its own,

Because its been bottled, and boxed, and its been painted, and its been sold,

Because its been waiting for years to find a way off of the tight rope,

Because it’s finally ready to cut it,

Fuck it, because I’m finally ready to set the entire line on fire,

Because you don’t have to be men,

and we don’t have to be ladies,

Because we don’t have to be anything other than exactly what we’ve been being,

And I won’t hang you on the wall, if you won’t put me in a frame,

I’m sick of the cat calling, I’m sick of the names,

The lack of respect, because of the size of my frame,

I am not fragile, I am not lesser than you,

I do not care if you tower over me,

If I have to lift my head to see you,

I will make sure that I’m always at eye level,

Dear men,

Dear politicians,

We are not, and we have never been, a situation to be handled,

We are not things, we are equals,

We are beating hearts, we are warm bodies,

Dear men,

Dear politicians,

We are not, and we will never be, one of your problems.

Filed under women men ladies boys girls society husband wife marriage stigma barbie dolls pretty dog mut money feminist feminism feminine poetry slam poem slam poetry spoken word writing frame fragile politics politicians cat calling tongue

0 notes

Cigarettes and Wine.

Being lonely is a habit, like cigarettes or wine,

Fits like an old skin when the sun goes down,

More comfortable than familiar arms,

Being lonely is a quiet choice hiding as a tendency,

It’s a silent decision masked as a normalcy,

Your tricked into believing that you were built that way,

Fooled into thinking you were born hollow,

But the only time you feel lonely is when the cigarettes just don’t do it,

When the wine runs dry, you slip into old habits,

And you put that sad skin back on like it never left your body,

You sit low in it,

You hold your breath in it,

You pretend it’s not rotting,

Because it’s all you’ve got,

It’s the last vice you have left,

And only a fool would face this world without a second skin,

Only a fool would dare walk out there without a back up plan,

This way if they part you like the Red Sea and use your bones to build a raft,

You already know that if you sink low enough it’ll all go black,

Because being lonely is easy,

It’s fighting to be happy that’s hard,

It’s filling hollow chests that takes times,

It’s walking in the light that’s dangerous,

There’s nothing risky about hiding away,

There’s nothing brave in wearing a suit of armor in times of peace,

There’s nothing easier than being lonely,

There’s nothing harder than clawing your way out of it,

It’s a choice, I just wasn’t ready yet.

Filed under cigarettes wine lonely Habbit hollow body vice black low red sea skine dones happy poem kinda poetry writing

1 note

Your house is burning down.

What are you doing?

Your house is burning down,

Everything you love is inside,

And you’re standing around fighting about who should throw water on it,

Standing around trying to figure out whose responsibility it is to put it out,

Now everything you love is gone,

Now everything you love has been reduced to ashes,

In the shape of the box that you have put them all in, 

Everything you have taken time to grow,

Everything that was born between your own two hands,

All of it’s gone,

Because you were preoccupied with making sure it wasn’t your fault,

Because you were too busy hunting down someone else to put on your cross,

You let everything you love burn,

You can’t spit at a four alarm fire,

It takes a long time for it to get that big,

It takes a lot of blind eyes, a lot of turned cheeks,

Your house is burning down, where is the urgency?

How did you let it get this far?

Do you know where your daughter is?

She doesn’t either anymore,

She remembers the flames though,

And she still wonders why all of you stood around watching it burn,

She has nightmares about,

They feel so real she wakes up in hot sweats about it,

Sometimes it happens when she’s awake,

Like a clockwork orange slideshow,

Her eyes are forced open by the memories of your inactive hands,

She’s still in the flames,

After all these years,

But now there’s no one left to watch her burn,

Now, now they’ve all disappeared,

She’s still waiting for the fire alarm to sound,

She still thinks they’re gunna throw water on it,

But there’s no one around to hear the sound of her tree falling,

So what happens to a lone tree rooted in cement streets when it snaps but no ones around to see,

Or there’s just no one left that cares,

Or it was always an abandoned street,

Maybe there was no one ever there,

What happens to the girl on fire when there’s no one left but her in the heat,

That apple never had anything to do with that tree,

It just got lost in the wreckage and there was no one there to see,

That apple never wanted anything to do with that tree.

Filed under house home family fire abandoned apple tree streets wrecking four alarm love burn box ashes writing poem slam poem slam poetry spoken word

0 notes

I’m a sick, sick girl.

I’m a sick, sick girl,

With expired potential up to my ears,

I ran away a while ago, to do my time with like minded boys,

With freshly buried bodies stacked like boxes behind their eyes,

I’m a sick, sick girl,

I put out the sun years ago,

So I wouldn’t have to worry about any light catching my eyes,

I never had caskets like them, I just didn’t have anything,

I was hollow, they were full of dead things,

But black sheep heard together to avoid getting hung from family trees,

It didn’t matter that I was empty, all that mattered was that I wasn’t wearing white,

I’m a sick, sick girl,

A fugitive by my own hands, I spent years painting myself black,

Never felt comfortable in white, always felt dirty walking in the light,

So I rolled in the mud until they could call me swine,

I’m a sick, sick girl,

I was meant for the night, for alleyways, and dirty cities,

Bouncing quarters off of bed corners over cardboard boxes lining gutters,

I was meant for the streets, for the underground, and the rejected and the losers,

I’m a sick, sick girl,

Because I thought the alternative was boring,

I thought the alternative was shaped like a box,

I thought that looked more like death than masochism ever could,

So I chose the other path, I’ve been grave dancing ever since,

I’m a sick, sick girl,

Because I chose to believe that anything was better than what they had left,

Because that wasn’t enough for me, because there was never enough for me,

Because there aren’t enough things in the world to fill me,

I’m a sick, sick girl, because I’ll always want more.

Filed under sick sick girl swine underground loser alternative shaped like a box masochism grave dancing slam poem slam poetry poem poetry writing fuck

0 notes

Dead friends.

They said you should be ashamed of yourself,

Carrying my name like dancing demons on their tongues,

People I’ve never met before,

Three years later, still spewing daggers from their mouths,

They’ve been looking at me for so long their necks have frozen in place,

Their bones have atrophied from standing still to see me,

I accepted a while ago that I will never see a new day, I will never have the pleasure of knowing a clean slate, that what has been done can not be erased,

These are facts.


And every night I wash my hands like lady Macbeth, but every morning I wake up dressed in red, head to toe,

You see while you were busy gathering pitchforks and lighting stakes on fire,

I spent three years beating myself to a bloody pulp,

I’ve waved the white flag, my hands have been reaching for the sky for over three years,

but I’m done now, I can’t say I’m sorry again,

So keep poisoning my wells now, keep dancing on graves with similar names now, keep blogging about me,

Tell everyone you know how bad I hurt you, show them the scars, open your chest for them, make sure they know exactly what I did to you,

Make sure this one gets you off, because this is the last time,

I’m done waving flags for you, I’m done holding up my hands for you,

My arms are tired,

I am tired,

I let you turn me into a coward,

I sat and watch as you and your friends took my spine from my back,

I should have never sat down, you see my knees aren’t meant for bending,

And I told you a few poems ago I stood for my forty lashes,

I don’t know what I was doing ever lifting my head to look at you,

I hope you feel my name kicking and screaming in your mouth,

Rattling like skeletons behind your prison bar teeth,

I hope my name haunts you, I hope it follows you to the grave,

I hope it wraps itself around your ankle like a ball and chain,

I hope you never learn how to loose the weight,

What I should have done, is stopped your mouth from running the minute I saw it get away,

Because you took something that sat solely between OUR feet and put it on display for the whole world to see,

Because you took my name like a dead dog on leash and dragged it through every mud puddle in this town,

But I’m still too busy hurting myself,
And you’re still too god-damned proud,

So I’ll keep on walking, just until I get to see you crawl, until I see you on your knees,

Because it took me twenty years to learn it, but karma’s really the only thing that tastes sweet,

Trying to cut me down to size you took my head clear off, 

There are no clean hands here, so I’ve thrown out the rules, 

There are no friends on the opposite end of the battlefield, 

You’ve bread me to lie down with the dogs, so I’ll see you in the flea bath,

Signed a friend that once was.

Filed under dead friends lady macbeth red white flag i'm sorry coward spine karma forty lashes chest scars demons ashamed poem poetry slam poem slam poetry writing fuck it

0 notes

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, “In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.” Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
Elwood P. Dowd (Harvey)

Filed under harvey elwood p. dowd james stewart