Alvie Alive

A collection of original poems written over the course of my life, ranging from specific to vague, and from somber to turbulent to serene. Site: https://alviealive.carrd.co/

[alvie2alive]

Dead!

Sometimes I stab my heart with a pen,

Hoping something will spill out on the page.

Words, maybe, or blood,

It’s all the same anyway.

I sit with the pen in my heart

And nothing comes out.

Does that mean I’m dead?

I’ve tried to find the hot empathy

That once flowed from my veins

And spilled everywhere;

The floor, the dirt, the page.

But I think my blood has congealed,

Shriveled up inside the arteries.

What constitutes death:

The absence of beating

Or the absence of feeling?

[alvie2alive]

Nothing Burns Behind a Screen

The country is on fire.

People burn and die

And you drink the smoke

Like liquor.

You stare out your window

At the flames licking your doorstep

And you take photos of yourself

In the way the sun beams

Through the smoke.

You fan the flames

And call it saving,

You pour gasoline

And call it heroic.

You're a god,

You're a savior,

You're the voice

Of a generation;

Have you not realized

That you can't see your flag

Through all these flames?

[pmamtraveller]

"Waiting Gradually Eats The Soul"

by A.F. Vandevorst.

[alvie2alive]

Eliza

Every day, she shoves all the things

That spark something in her chest

Into a box, and shoves it

Into her closet with everything else

She likes to keep out of sight,

Even though her closet

Is so messy it can't be closed,

But that's another story

For another time, and

She can't be bothered to think about that right now.

Why does it hurt so much

To want?

Is this the human condition?

She feels like a baby giraffe

Stumbling around

Before it fully learns

How to be alive.

Maybe she just needs

To learn how to be alive.

But how do you learn

How to be alive?

That's another thought

For another time, though,

Another thought to shove

Into her Closet Box.

How do you convince yourself

That you're not useless

If it's true?

She's moving, all the time,

But she tumbles down

Instead of walking

Diagonally, down a path

Just slightly off the one

She's supposed to be on.

Doesn't everyone feel

Like they're not doing enough?

I wish I could write

About good things:

The sun on water,

Birds singing,

The beauty

Of human life.

Everything filters through,

And good things

Are too big to fit

Through the gaps.

Along with words,

And tears, and

I shouldn't think about that right now.

Pencil fades, pen is too sure.

My voice never shakes enough

To get my message across,

And earthquakes kill.

I eat quotes in the morning

And lyrics for lunch,

Shove story after story

Into my mouth at dinner,

Elbows on the table

And speaking while chewing

And I don't need silver spoons

When I can cover my hands in it.

They're swallowed

With bitter taste

As they kick and scream

To be released.

But, please, I need this

When pencil fades.

[alvie2alive]

Snare

Often times, music carries me

Like a parent carrying a child

Arms safe and filled with care,

When I’ve fallen asleep in the car

And my body has no strength to spare.

Often times, it takes effort

To keep this heart beating,

Keep these lungs from having an affair

With the stagnant air six feet under,

From falling in love with despair.

But when the breath and beat

Starts to drag me down,

I fall asleep in the arms of snare;

The bass beats my heart

And the guitar fills my lungs with air.

I let the rhythm wrap its arms

Around all that gives me life,

Let it seep into the things I can’t repair

As I slip into the anonymity of sound

And let the snare and heart share.

[alvie2alive]

Double Wide

Religion seeps in my poems

So easily, as naturally as blood

Flowing through veins.

I have never spent Sundays

Praying, wearing my best,

Worshipping something

Bigger than myself.

Crosses and bibles,

They bear into me with

Watchful eyes when I pass,

People saying grace

Before dinner felt

Intimidating, wrong

In the sense that

They are so right.

But even still, I write

About prayers and gods

And plagues, heavens and hells.

Maybe it is a way to describe

Something indescribable.

I have always been jealous

Of people with so much faith,

So much hope that

Kindness still exists,

But churches and bibles

Always smell just like

My grandmother’s double wide,

Sweltering humid heat

Weighing my body down

Along with my love,

My head, my heart.

Maybe it is a way

To feel belonging

In places I never could,

Or maybe it is something

To throw rage towards.

The concepts of holiness,

Good and bad and sin,

They are real and tangible

And yet cannot be described

In ways that I believe.

[alvie2alive]

Conceptualize

Did you know that you can grow wings?

If you listen to the choir sing

And feel the novocaine numbing,

Plant your feet into pavement,

Feel empty air and start running

With the new wings you've built

Out of so much nothing.

The skies so cold and thin

Against the skin you're retouching,

No weight on that old heart

That you've been snuffing.

You shed all your something

To the ground miles down;

You love the deducting

When the choir sings,

Love the praise of earning

In your novocaine brain.

You are so cunning,

Hanging light on your wings

With the crown you're clutching.

If the choir sings loud

And you sing along stunning,

Would you feel the words

You insist on humming?

When you sit on sidelines

Behind gates you're shutting,

Does the fall of wings

Still feel so crushing?

Do you laugh at water

When wings meet flooding?

Of course I'd laugh, you think,

When those wings are bluffing!

After all, those wings up high

Feel no praise or plunging

When they've taken flight

From so much nothing.

[alvie2alive]

Digging a Hole To the Other Side of the World

Things are weird.

What else can I call it?

In truth, there are

Several words here,

But I swallow them

Like hot tar

And feel as it

Burns me from

The inside out.

Things are weird

When you spend

Your days with

Painted doors and

Crooked grins.

Things are weird

When they grind

Against your teeth

Until they shave

Into animal fangs.

Have you ever

Broken a line

Of poetry into

Tiny slivers of

Swallowed tar?

Have you ever

Steamrolled

Your way through

Life and yet

Couldn't turn

The ignition

Of your own car?

I vomit pretty

Words from behind

My animal fangs

And nothing

Matters now.

The world is

An angry thing,

Such a weird

Thing here.

The core flows

Slowly under

The life like

Tar, cracking

Mantel and

Erupting hot,

Spewing such

Weird things.

Can you imagine

A cold earth?

Painted

Doors and

Haunted

Dolls in

My closet.

They never

See the

Daylight

Anymore,

But the

Earth has

To weep

Sometime.

Have you ever felt your own skin

Like a costume? Ran your hands

Over the prison cell of your image

And held the key so tight it might as well

Melt back into steel in your palms?

Playground kids used to try and

Dig a hole to the other side of the world.

It always felt dramatic, unrealistic

In the same way you learn to trust,

But I would sell my sick soul

To shovel my way to the core and

Lather myself in burning magma

Because if I am melting from the

Inside out, I might as well burn from

The outside in, too, and nobody has

Ever seen Earth's core and maybe

There is something there to find.

The earth feels awfully empty

Beneath my feet some days,

Cold like caves and

Hot like empty

Skies in summer

As Earth chokes

On her magma

And swallows

Her tar.

[canales-poe]

The colors of the sky

Did you know the sky is different colors?

It likes to dress to par with sections

Of the earth it so belovingly embraces

Every single day without fault

It’s, as well, just written different

It’s a "color" or a "colour"

And in latitudes of difference

It is regal in a white dress

Where the sun hits her just so hard

It needs a straw hat to survive

Up in northern hemispheres

The attire now changes to more

Vanguardist

The blue in its eyes is always pure

And sometimes, too

Though rarely seen

For its lover, earth,

It shows a dress with color hues

That mimic currents in her dance

End of workday, its back to home

And just today they had a plan

The sky has black and yellow makeup

And wears a ribboned red dress to par

Although the earth has now a vow

To close its eyes when going back home

The sky is naked,

And you can see her white moles

Contrast with her pure black skin

She is, of course, embarrassed of it

But earthlings viewed her on a whim

They told her, sky, your every spot

Is glitter mystery in our eyes

So don’t be shy, we’ll spend the night

While naming every single one.

[alvie2alive]

Where Things Begin

I have been watching and hiding

Behind glass walls forever;

The barrier between men's and women's,

Between wants and expectations

And the way things are normal.

I have stared through these walls

And glanced out of the corner of my eye

At the world beyond and between,

Thought about taking a hammer

And breaking my way through

With brute force, with gentle curiosity,

But instead I stared.

It was easier to lie my hand on the glass

And feel the pulse of a true life

Beneath my palm, it was easier

To let it be something faded,

Left to sit backstage at the show

While I painted myself each morning.

It was easier, until it wasn't.

If there is one thing I've learned

From this beautiful, beaten life,

It's that glass walls are not worth

The absence of being.

There is so much hate, so much fear,

So many things to be afraid of

That sometimes I can't choose.

But the joy--oh, the joy--

That's where things begin.

There are enough bullets flying,

Enough reasons to be afraid.

There is even more joy.

[formerlyluckymanticore]

Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.

[alvie2alive]

Hate Feeder

I take hate like pills,

Drink disgust like wine

And laugh at jokes that were

Never meant to be funny.

Like what, you obsessed?

You stare enough to insult it,

Stare enough to notice?

Do you think about me

When I'm gone, after it's over?

Do I matter enough to you

To make you want to hurt?

You have to care to hurt, you know,

So you must care too much

And lucky for me, I care too little—

About what you'd like me to do,

What you'd like me to be.

Instead, tell me what you hate

So I know what I am;

Tell me exactly where I cross the line

So I know where to walk;

Tell me the dress code

So I can create my own;

Tell me what not to do

So I have a plan.

Hate me so hard you love me,

Despise me so much you supply,

Resist me so much I exist.

[alvie2alive]

251

I am still reminding myself 

That I am not dead.

Still relearning how to say hello

And how to feel kindness,

How to feel human, how to feel at all.

I swear to God that He drained

Every drop of color from Earth

And replaced it with blue water

That crashed down into my lungs.

I swear to God that I will have words

When I break my way through the gates,

Because no love was in those waves

And I have nothing holy left to lose.

I cannot feel my hands or feet or chest

And I think they've been replaced

By some awful spark of fate,

Filling with locusts and bruised by hail.

Even after the doors slam

I still hear them mixing with mine;

Hers in the hall and mine in my mind,

Handles swarmed by gnats.

I have seen a gun up close for the first time.

It’s nothing like the shotguns

And BBs I’d seen in the sunlight—

It looks awfully similar to her,

Sounds awfully like our doors.

I am still learning how to talk about it,

How to write about it, feel about it.

I am still reminding myself

That I am not dead.

[alvie2alive]

Frantic, Fabricating and Free

Shaking in my bones,

Shifting on my feet;

Maybe I laugh too easy,

Maybe I leave too early

And arrive too late.

Buzzing beneath my skin,

Blurring in my brain;

Maybe I talk too fast,

Maybe I wake too early

And sleep too late.

Am I nervous or nostalgic,

Noxious or noble?

Am I conscious or caving,

Cheerful or choking?

Either way I am frantic,

Fabricating and free.

[alvie2alive]

Parties Are Funeral Receptions for Alive Things

In my dreams, my body is a coffin.

Delicate angled ridges for arms

And beautiful mahogany in place of a mouth,

Only moved if it's toward the grave.

And yet, I'm still alive.

There's something inside and that thing

Is the furthest from alive you'd ever see,

But the wood beats with the pulse

Of someone you'd still want to hug.

Others will visit the front of the crowd,

Leaning down as if to say their goodbyes

Before the dead really becomes dead,

But they only sit, kick their feet up

On the door of my coffin where my poetry sits,

And they tell me about the morning traffic

And gas prices and the shitty vodka

That the reception is giving out.

Though the voice I hear struggles its way

Through the box of my body,

It's comforting to hear something alive.

Sometimes, it feels as if I still have lungs to breathe.

[alvie2alive]

For All the Wordless Thought

Sleepless nights and shapeless fears

Beg for your attention

From the black void you bear,

Biting your tongue until it bleeds

And you still cannot clamp it shut

Even with the lips you sew

Against the swarm of seas;

Oh, to restart all of the retreats,

To shake and sweat through your shirt

And befriend the bugs crawling

Behind your broken ribs,

To make away with the mask

You melt into your maker;

Oh, to black out on benzos

And to come back again,

To experience destruction

Without death.

[nightshadewine]

and the witch said to me, i can make you live again, but not all can be undone, and i replied, i just want to see trees again, i want to breathe the air; i want sunlight in the morning hours and i loved running up the stairs. she said your body will be broken, and some years will be in pain, you will hibernate the youthful years, and never be freshly woken, but i can make you live again, even with all undone. i said i miss the taste of salty tears, and illness days in bed, i'll look at clouds when i hurt, and streetlights when i cry; even if i ache half a life, just let me live again.