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
you’ve spilt.
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]

Malformation of
primitive forms
products of
the definition
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
your waist.
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.
Distrust —
Distraught —
She’s up past dawn
deftly taking that other girl home.

(Source: thekillerclimax)

I tore pictures of you apart this summer.
I couldn’t recognize you anymore,
And I thought if I put my favourite pieces
Together again
I might see your face, the way photos no longer remembered.

Tetris [2.22.14 1:14am.]

I try to fit with you
like a game of Tetris;
I want to be the F to
your T — But,Mostly, I’m the
annoying square.
I just don’t fit

(Source: thekillerclimax)

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.

(Source: thekillerclimax)

Lizard Lanes

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. 

(Source: thekillerclimax)

"The day I told you I loved you was the scariest day of my life because I knew I was no longer living just for me."

Rebecca Durocher - Too Close to the Door

(Source: thekillerclimax)

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.

(Source: thekillerclimax)