Poetry
Crían a estos hombres como cazadores, cuando tienen que aprender a cultivar. La onda no es obtener una mujer, sino saber cuando es hora de entregar. “Pero siempre me dejan al final!” Entonces no era la indicada, nada más. No le haces bien a nadie estancado en un pasado sin
Poetry
Beaten Used Bruised Abused Pardon me mother Did I not stutter enough? Soften rough edges so you could stuff a fraction of the action thrust upon me against my will I apologize for being physically ill I won’t trouble you you’ve had your fill these are all my
Poetry
There’s a door that we unlocked Walls between the self and thoughts Things we abandoned left to rot They’re coming back I cannot stop Mom Please repeat after me Make these strange compulsions cease “you can stop writing. it is okay to prioritize your wellbeing. nothing bad will
Poetry
This bloody muscle beats too fast Color floods paper thin walls Slowing this drum may cause a collapse Scrambling excuses to stall From freely given to now being earned Steps must be taken I’ve no time to yearn
Poetry
You went up in flames Then you burned your hand This time you just burned the tips of your fingers Maybe next time you’ll figure out the stove is hot
Poetry
Weary feet struggle to carry Where am I trying to go? Wherever I look someone has trod Once more I will try to grow I changed every leaf this time But I still don’t for stay too long Ragged roots reach down deep Burrow into the unseen Mycelial strands
Poetry
Most of those who tried to teach me gave up. Failure was heaped onto my shoulders. I was too slow, sometimes too fast. Whatever they said, I could never keep track. I tried to ask questions, confusion deemed wrong. I cannot see words, I only hear song. Oh sanctimonious teacher
Poetry
The name I was given never fit An awkward birthright like shoes too tight Pain in every step A god to demand rather than defend I have three names, all of them chosen Within them I write levels of devotion Inky for the world Amethina for my friends Nova for
Poetry
You merely adopted the darkness I was born in it Filthy Covered in oil slick A single drop of water in what was once a tall glass Oil keeps it sealed shut Feelings bubble Fit to erupt Movement starts to shake me up Water pushes oil up and out! My
Poetry
Two years The evidence of his sins inscribed on my flesh His eyes look over my shoulder Forbidding peaceful rest Two years Panic fuels an endless race in my heart The pressure of his secrets collapses my lungs I had to go to hell to find the button Press restart
Poetry
The best thing a black hole can do for the universe is die. You need a connection in order to survive. Do you really think the mere fact that you’re alive is more important than those you love getting to thrive?
Poetry
The rot is subcutaneous, it leeches out from inside. My bones were decomposing before any of them arrived. So it's difficult to blame. Was I born this way, or was I maimed? It's not like knowing that would change anything redirect what life could bring, but