Scars [07.06.14 11:59AM]
I have scars from you.
The ones that I can see
from where your nails
dug in too deep,
and I bit my lip
not to scream.
The taste of iron,
from all my blood
But, there is the untouchable,
unseen, forgotten scaring.
The kind that makes me feel
like a child lost in a department store;
quietly hiding in the t-shirt wrack,
wondering if it’s safe to come out.
Untitled [06.03.14 2:19AM]
of a damsel
waiting up past dawn
trying to decide definitively
if the girl is worth while.
whispers of wanting
and waiting for a whim
when her limb wraps around
Up past dawn,
drawn out thoughts
like knife lines on a cutting board;
waiting to find,
you’re hugging yourself in bed.
She isn’t coming home.
She’s up past dawn
deftly taking that other girl home.
I tore pictures of you apart this summer.
I couldn’t recognize you anymore,
And I thought if I put my favourite pieces
I might see your face, the way photos no longer remembered.
So I decided I wasn’t going to go to class this morning. Firstly because I really need to do laundry (down to my last pair of socks and underwear), however, both washing machines in my building are broken. I also said I would catch up on my reading, I’ve yet to pick up a book… What am I doing instead you ask, posting on tumblr and playing guitar. Seems like time well spent.
Walk with me down lizard lanes,
lazy lanes. With the smoldering
heat from the sun beating us down.
Even the smallest of creatures
will take refuge in the shadows of rocks
to escape the suns burn.
But, we won’t feel a thing.
Walk with me down lizard lanes,
lazy lanes, to my favourite lagoon.
I’ll slowly undress you, and we
can cool in the deep ocean blue.
Watch the sun and the moon
trade places, the stars
speckling all the black spaces.
I’ll trace our shadows on a
cave wall in chalk, because
everyone deserves to see
love. Even if it dies.
Even if all that remains
are indecent white lullaby’s.
So I’ve been doing a lot of research in my spare time on different authors I admire for a novella that I’ve been thinking about writing for a while, and I’ve noticed a theme. Behind most great writers is not only their muse, but their incredible support system, which is most often found in their partners. For example, Nabokov would have thrown out the first few chapters of Lolita if it wasn’t for his wife, and Fitzgerald would never have created Daisy. As I was reading on, and on, I realized, I have everything I need to be a great writer, because I have that. I have a girlfriend who supports me and thinks that I can be a great writer even when I go weeks without picking up a pen. And I think that’s all you need.
Like An Artist [1.23.14 10:23pm]
You’re like an artist;
meticulously you study your canvas
for what some would call imperfections
like a snag or a dent. Though—
you like to tease out the differences,
creating a pseudo-map, mile markers
like bodily constellations.
Create an atmosphere like
lakes cast in moonlight or fire
lighting a path in the night.
You choose your instruments
methodically like the
conductor of an orchestra,
because you want to write
the world’s best symphony.
You paint her face delicately. With
apprehension, you allow your brush
to taste the red of her lips. It dips
in to trace the curves of her breasts
down to her hips. Purple smears
and red lines, the pale colours of
her eyes. Stroke by stroke,
you dishevel her finesse. Until
you feel the crescendo rising
from her hips. Hear in on
her lips. You drop your brush and,
take a step back —
you’re like an artist and
I want that painting back.