This too shall pass.
Sarah.
There are so many stories I could tell you.
There’s 7 billion 46 million people on the planet
And most of us have the audacity to think we matter
Hey, you hear the one about the comedian who croaked?
Someone stabbed him in the heart, just a little poke
But he keeled over ‘cause he went into battle wearing chain mail made of jokes
Hey, you hear the one about the screenwriter who passed away?
He was giving elevator pitches and the elevator got stuck halfway
He ended up eating smushed sandwiches they pushed through a crack in the door
And repeating the same crappy screenplay idea about talking dogs ‘til his last day
Hey, you hear the one about the fisherman who passed?
He didn’t jump off that ledge
He just stepped out into the air and pulled the ground up towards him really fast
Like he was pitching a line and went fishing for concrete
The earth is a drum and he’s hitting it on beat

The reason there’s smog in Los Angeles is ‘cause if we could see the stars
If we could see the context of the universe in which we exist
And we could see how small each one of us is
Against the vastness of what we don’t know
No one would ever audition for a McDonalds commercial again

And then where would we be?
No frozen dinners and no TV
And is that a world we want to text in?
Either someone just microwaved popcorn
Or I hear the sound of a thousand people pulling their heads out of their asses in rapid succession
The people are hunched over in Boston
They’re starting app stores and screen printing companies in San Francisco
They’re grinning in Los Angeles like they’ve got fishhooks in the corners of their mouth

But don’t paint me like the good guy ‘cause every time I write
I get to choose the angle that you view me and select the nicest light
You wouldn’t respect me if you heard the typewriter chatter tap tap
Tapping through my mind at night
The same stupid tape loop of old sitcom dialogue
And tattered memories of a girl I got to grind on in high school
Filed carefully on rice paper
My heart is a colored pencil
But my brain is an eraser

I don’t want a real girl, I want to trace her from a catalog
Truth be told I’m unlikely to hold you down
Cause my soul is a crowded subway train
And people keep deciding to get on the next one that rolls through town
I’m joining a false movement in San Francisco
I’m frowning and hunched over in Boston
I’m smiling in Los Angeles like I’ve got fishhooks in the corners of my mouth

And I’m celebrating on weekends
Because there are 7 billion 47 million people on the planet
And I have the audacity to think I matter
I know it’s a lie but I prefer it to the alternative
Because I’ve got a tourniquet tied at my elbow
I’ve got a blunt wrap filled with compliments and I’m burnin’ it
You say to go to sleep but I been bouncing off my bedroom walls since I was hecka small
We’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls
My mother is an 8 year old girl
My grandson is a 74 year old retiree whose kidneys just failed

And that’s the glue between me and you
That’s the screws and nails
We live in a house made of each other
And if that sounds strange that’s because it is
Someone please freeze time so I can run around turning everyone’s pockets inside out
And remember, you didn’t see shit
— George Watsky, Tiny Glowing Screens Part 2 (via hemingwaywasjusthere)
Fifteen
I am fifteen years old. I grew up with dirt roads and best friends, sunburnt shoulders in summer and candy on our tongues. I did not learn to appreciate this place until I realized that roots are nothing to be embarrassed of, just like stretch marks. “Stretch marks are like lightning tattoos,” I overheard one day, and that was when I decided to tattoo my hometown into my veins. The air of summer in the country is sweet and harsh because I always had blood on my mind, sitting on the edge of the cliff at Stop 13 and praying for my lost friends. This was a time before I knew what praying meant, but their names and voices were tattooed on the inside of my lips and tongue, stinging each time I tried to forget them. Eventually, the sunburns faded into freckled memories, a pinprick of a tattoo for each day we spent outside, learning how to be proud of our roots and our prayers.

Fifteen

I am fifteen years old. I grew up with dirt roads and best friends, sunburnt shoulders in summer and candy on our tongues. I did not learn to appreciate this place until I realized that roots are nothing to be embarrassed of, just like stretch marks. “Stretch marks are like lightning tattoos,” I overheard one day, and that was when I decided to tattoo my hometown into my veins. The air of summer in the country is sweet and harsh because I always had blood on my mind, sitting on the edge of the cliff at Stop 13 and praying for my lost friends. This was a time before I knew what praying meant, but their names and voices were tattooed on the inside of my lips and tongue, stinging each time I tried to forget them. Eventually, the sunburns faded into freckled memories, a pinprick of a tattoo for each day we spent outside, learning how to be proud of our roots and our prayers.

please
tell me which part of yourself
you hate the most
so I know exactly where to plant my lips
every time I see you

six word poem 4/2/13

atonguewithbutsixwords:

Prompt: “I’m terrified, and yet, hopelessly in love with a man.  I feel fortified and safe in him while at the same time I do feel a bit frightened by his potential.

Write me one of your poems, Six.”

Fearing loneliness,
she 
married
her
scarecrow.

burnsherlock:

thereichenbachqueen:

My knowledge of the solar system now lies inside of you.

killing me would’ve been kinder

burnsherlock:

thereichenbachqueen:

My knowledge of the solar system now lies inside of you.

killing me would’ve been kinder

When I think of him, I think of his black button earrings and striped shirt. Black and white small bars, flowing off of his body to loosely blanket his bones. “I wouldn’t be able to join the army because the packs weigh twenty pounds more than me,” he laughed and burrowed his fingers into the green lawn of Westminster, small black jeans hugging thighs I dreamed of kissing. He squinted as he looked up at the sky before turning to me to smile. This is the only outfit I can picture him in. When I was in love, he was tall and his jeans were tall and his shirt moved away in the air like ghost hands tugging. Now, in the pictures, three years later, he has become a small starving memory tucked into the seam of the jacket I wore when I met him, still never washed. I inhale the scent of the sleeve and can faintly remember London’s smoke and his cologne.

When I think of him, I think of his black button earrings and striped shirt. Black and white small bars, flowing off of his body to loosely blanket his bones. “I wouldn’t be able to join the army because the packs weigh twenty pounds more than me,” he laughed and burrowed his fingers into the green lawn of Westminster, small black jeans hugging thighs I dreamed of kissing. He squinted as he looked up at the sky before turning to me to smile. This is the only outfit I can picture him in. When I was in love, he was tall and his jeans were tall and his shirt moved away in the air like ghost hands tugging. Now, in the pictures, three years later, he has become a small starving memory tucked into the seam of the jacket I wore when I met him, still never washed. I inhale the scent of the sleeve and can faintly remember London’s smoke and his cologne.

To the boy I used to be friends with,

Yesterday,
You saw my new haircut and declared it was “short.”
I think you said it because it was easier to say than
“You resemble a boy I know.”

Yesterday,
You asked me if I ever wear dresses then proceeded to say
That I look like I am always wearing men’s clothes even though
It is winter.

Yesterday,
You asked where my tattoos were and then gave a laugh
Saying, “a bicep tattoo?
You’re an interesting girl.”

Yesterday,
When I made a joke about my small genetic mutation,
You asked if the extra X in my makeup
Made me a boy.

Yesterday,
You made a “joke” about how people
That don’t fit into gender roles
Aren’t trying hard enough.

Yesterday,
I realized that I don’t want to kiss you.

To the boy I used to be friends with,

I hope you never see
How confident a dress makes me feel.

3.1.14