.:Before I Decay:.

All words are mine unless otherwise stated. "Poets put their hearts on their sleeves, but they do it so beautifully." -Pearl Quick Using words to try to say what I feel. I respond to prompts, requests for poems, and any questions in general. Enjoy!~ Hit Counter

[b4idecay]

stripes of a sunset

stripes of a sunset

lavender for remembrance

gold on my fingers

  these hands are engulfed in paint

my knuckles will bulge through clouds

  a sky with no brush

this open canvas calls me

my thumb stretches South

  like me, it just yearns to be

a part of something larger 

[b4idecay]

the stars of city dreams

when unsteady eyes beat back

the heavy lids of two lonely fortnights,

let your bare limbs lay off-kilter

until your breath catches the slow pulse

of your heartbeat, catches the tempo

but confuses the ¾ meter for 4/4

or 2/4, like how 2 of my four limbs

have learned that their center line

is you. like these two hands are

holding the sides of your face

and as irises appear from under

night’s lashes, I want to ask you

to find your balance here, on me

to confuse waking and falling, on purpose

to not be silent if you feel this too

and 4th,

to know this is only one night of many.

whether we are really waking or falling

we are we—you are not you, I am not me—

we are we, now. so if you feel this too,

lovely one, don’t stay silent.

  and body language is acceptable.

form words from wild hip rolls

and (unsafe) safety foot falls,

form timely and mysterious idioms

in phrases with too many turns

and not enough stillness

and not enough leaps

and it could probably use another hair whip,

but after all those gyrokinetic gyrations

find yourself laying close to me, find my

hand on your stomach and the stabilization

in my cold touch. lovely one, find again

your balance here, on me. on purpose.

I know you feel this, too, and that you

won’t be silent for much longer.  

  as unsteady eyes beat back

the heavy lids of this morning,

experience waking into my kinosphere,

a sphere with blurred boundaries and

an indefinite reach past our distal points.

it rings with the deafening silence of

the soundless utterances slipping from

your parted lips. the room echoes with

the operatic libretto of Nessun Dorma

and you are the princess in her room—

but you aren’t lonely because we are we—

and victory still chases the dawn.

  we are we, and victory comes at dawn.

I will almost certainly confuse the

tempo of your heart pulses with its meter,

my cold hand might warm and stray

too high to counterbalance the weight

of every lonely, heavy fortnight.

but this the kiss that will break that silence

that will make the night as light as the dawn

that will make the stars of city dreams

disappear again into reality. 

[b4idecay]

We Could Watch a Movie

....or I could push back your hair that looks like someone took a straightener to autumn, ignite that feeling when our lips want to touch, and, burning my way through the formalities of human interactions, Trace the outline of a ribcage while there is warmth at my fingertips. Let fever take you, let it sizzle and tickle and spark that religious fervor, and with no god to cool it down, you'll soon feel how heat leads to mischief. I am but a simple artist with a simple passion: Learning how masters forge in the fires of a new year the crackling sensation that hides behind the eyes of you, the masterpiece, smelt from green tea and French vanilla. I am a tactile learner, so if your dad asks you in the morning "Why the smile?" Tell him we burned formalities, and I whispered into your lips for a while. 

[b4idecay]

Careful Where You Place Your Feet

This is an experiment in labeling what I am looking for

  The You that I am trying to find can’t be simply touched

and

  regret has a salty aftertaste, grains of it

haunt your gums, teeth, tongue,

the words it produces long after you have

forced down whatever you think you swallowed.

  Hands at my back, clawing like there was a second chance under my skin.

  Small hands still resting on my back—

she placed them there. Her arms were heavy

from all the affairs she thinks she carries,

from bodies pressed together

from holding pressed bodies together

from testing the breath of chest

to see if mine or his is best.

  Are those few kisses all it took

for the very mystery to fade?

Every time I hear your name

I’ll wonder whether to feel betrayed

and

when I see you in a moment of weakness

but commit, stand firm in the defense of

the ancient idea that this outward beauty

that stumps my hands, bites into my nails

is a manifestation of what must be the

most stifling form of inner perfection,

I am encouraged by half my thoughts

to keep honoring the age-old process.

They would have me imagine you as an amalgamation of every colour,

therefore representative of the best, the worst, the most passionate,

the coldest and most forlorn, the unforgettable and the most easily forgotten—

certainly you are all these things.

  The other half however would remind me that

I need not imagine any bond labeling you as mine—

because there is none and never will be—

so next time I should be more careful

in choosing where to plant my feet.

  There is more than salty regret and vodka lodged in this “you’re beautiful”.

[b4idecay]

Burning through Fingertips

You held the sun above your head

and danced as though the world

had never seen what your

small hands had to offer.

  You don’t work out but

your arms are strong enough

to hold up the biggest star.

Even though your hands cup

the sides of it like the head of a small child,

oftentimes threads of light slip through

your fingers, bathing your body in heat,

washing it in the kind of inhibition

that can’t be expelled in just one or two rinses.

When I brushed my hand across your cheek,

I winced in pain but soon came to understand

as my fingertips were seared and scorched

that only someone who is still in pain

could lay his body against yours

and not be hurt again.

  If I woke up burning, whose name would I call out?

Would I think to yell for you, to save you,

or would I let the flames engulf the silence

that surrounds where we lie until I am the

coolest place you can crawl to,

until the flames die out

or we die with them?

  I think that I might keep this mouth shut.

I would bite my lip as I first feel the heat

torch my clothes. Through the fire,

I would see your slender, sweating face,

breathing heavily but perfectly unmoving.

I think I might keep these hands still.

I would not reach for you if this burning

has but one intended target.

  Only I could lie down with you.

I hurt enough to hold you

and save you for a time—

a temporary reprise.

I am consumed by whatever

that sun chose to curse you with

so I will be gone in the morning—

a temporary reprise.

  As lonely as I will be again,

yn the ground or wherever I go,

I know that asking you to give

to me everything that you are

again would be too selfish.

[b4idecay]

smile. don't make wrinkles.

don’t worry about laughing

too much or too often.

smiles don’t make wrinkles.

they makes these moments

last as long as I can hold

my breath.

  I keep trying to stop you

from holding your face still,

to help you realize that

you should be here and

not at an hour ago but

  you’ll always be moving

time, shifting days and months

around minute whims,

but you and

that same rainy day joke

and seeing that cheery face you

wear whether your day has

made you grin or not

will never get old.

You’ll never get old—

not with me.

[b4idecay]

Let It Go

the feeling of inadequacy that seeps

through every friendly compliment—

let it go

just

let it go

the affection you deserve but

you never seem to receive—

ask yourself if you can let it go

  and the hand that claims to hold your heart

but clenches too tight and holds you back—

it’s ok to

let that go, too

[larmoyante]

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.

Allen Ginsberg (via sailllboat)

[b4idecay]

Laughter and Tears

My mother laughs like the world owes her punchlines.

She throws corny jokes and wannabe gang signs up

like the way you toss your fist when you can’t dance to the song

but you’re feelin’ the music anyway, and my mother can feel it—

the orchestra of her bones and the organ that tickles

every part of her fancy and her kissing lips.

Out come her chuckles, flowing over my aches,

Leaving whole and half notes on my door

as they bounce from wall to wall:

whatever pain you’re feeling, they sing,

is only temporary, and if you look,

my favorite son, there is humor everywhere.

  My mother cries like the world owes her a break.

Sometimes, when her sporadic laughs aren’t loud enough

to resonate through every room of the house,

I listen to her weeping, and I wonder again

what my father’s laugh sounds like,

if it ever brought my mom comfort,

if it ever forged a dam for her river of tears,

if he was ever around

to hear my first giggles

as a child, and to laugh

enough times in response

to be a father.

[b4idecay]

Still Waters Run Deep

You grab my hand and pull me close

and squeeze like you know me,

smiling through words shining

like diamonds in the rough of your past.

I hope that this time you’ll get your answer

and that my hand will be the one

that will guide you into the future.  

Opening my palm to the ceiling,

you traced the lines on it.

You said they look like crevices

and you wondered what had managed to fall in,

if everyone that I’ve loved has left things in them

and they’ve just been piling up

like clothes in a left-and-found box.

  You were surprised when I told you

that I have only known love once,

but that the experience was enough

to inspire more poems than days that

the two of us had shared together.

  Though the way you reached for me then was simple,

in you, I can see the complexities of a melody.

There are enough troughs and crescendos in a poem like you to be

the third song of joy the Earth has ever written—

after the ones that created dancing and my mother’s laughter.

  You grabbed my hand and pulled me close

and asked me what I could see.

I see you as a treasure chest,

full to the brim with brilliant words,

and thoughts, and pains, and worries,

and rays of hope, and tears of joy,

and kisses to cure the silent treatment,

They’ll brew somewhere deep in your chest

or hide in the tips of your toes until

you just can’t hold on to all of them anymore

and they’ll come falling from your lips

to crash land on the ground.

  When you feel weak and empty,

I will pick up the debris again,

collecting the many pieces

and sneaking in some driftwood with my name it,

so that the next time your mind goes blank

my name will float past your eyes

and you’ll rescue me from drowning

in the blue of your irises.

  In divine descent,

your hand reached down from the heavens

and pulled me up on top of a mountain.

Like the Japanese emperors of old

you viewed the land and everything your eyes touched

was yours and was covered in ocean.

  Still waters run deep.

In the silence that followed as

your rivers and creeks flooded

streets of London and your waterfalls

crashed down on Minnesota like

your broken pieces of self,

we exchanged a mutual understanding

and we confessed to each other

that even using words to capture moments like these

would still leave so much to be desired.

  It’s time to call it a night.

But I won’t let you slip away—

not this time.

Both our phones are dead

but Midd Rides is still running.

We can go away from here

and lose our feelings

in the mobs around us.

  I still have dances to show you.

I still have time to hold on to your hand.

  When you finally let me go

and wished me a good night,

I was betrayed again by the frailties of this human form.

Frailty, reminded that I am frail, and

that I was not made strong enough

to feel the power of something like this.

[smilesareheavythings-deactivate]

When a writer tells you he loves you, believe him. When he allows the voice of his art to manifest through his own, and not the timbre of ticking typewriters, believe him. When he utters those words he’s held close to his chest for so long, that they’ve practically branded themselves on bone,...

[larmoyante]

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”

George Orwell, 1984

(via larmoyante)

[b4idecay]

be seeing you

be seein’ ya, babe,

like a Big Bang theory rerun—

explain to me again

your Halloween costume.

like I be seein’ ya out there

and the effects of that body

don't really faze you but

they write books ‘bout it

anyway…

be seein’ ya ‘round

‘cause I sure ain’t lookin’

at no one else.

[growing-orbits-blog]

I grasped the two syllables closest to me, and replaced my heartbeat with your name.

Anne Michaels, from Fugitive Pieces (via growing-orbits)

[larmoyante]

That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.

Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation (via larmoyante)

[b4idecay]

insomnia (3)

spotify has notified me on facebook

that you are listening to a song

that once carried us both.  

I wonder if you're

just trying to find a way

to close your eyes.

just like I am.

[b4idecay]

insomnia (2)

the world as it should be, right?

unfettered by the shimmering

of wet dreams over a barren bed.

like my mind knows better than

my heart what my soul wants, as if.

this world I am stuck in at night

is pretty fucking pretentious, yeah.