poetry, confessions

hey sup i'm terrified of being alive. all OC

[dizzymcguire]

the dust bunnies hug

to my dust covered bunny,

my rust coated bones

try to sweep.

the more the dirt flies,

the more the eyes cry

as the days fly by like

a broken wing.

tiny bumps and knotted lumps

my words come out in clumps.

to see you cry

is to know the taste of

battery acid.

[dizzymcguire]

her creamy thighs

make cherubs cry,

the honey tastes

of her spit.

somewhere in a frustrated bed sheet

she furrows her brow at the new day.

"what a gaff it is to be

a part of this all."

like a ballerina, she spins

and dances dramatically,

sometimes dangerously

if her lover is sharing the bed.

what i would give to be

the blue in her eyes.

what i would give to be

the blood in her heart.

[dizzymcguire]

back in blue 🖤

[dizzymcguire]

sometimes it feels like

the world would be better off

without me

or my problems.

they're petty problems.

they're a dixie cup of cough medicine

compared to the oceans

being poured into the greater everything

always.

dripping down my chin and shivering my spine,

I slap the cup like an innane child,

while the world keeps chugging,

keeps filling another before me,

telling me, "lighten up,

it's not so hard."

my stomach is full to bursting

and i say "it is that hard"

to no set of ears.

everything talks more than it listens.

I grab my cup and start sipping,

it's the only language

it understands.

[dizzymcguire]

teach me how to love,

it flows so beautifully from your

blue iris eyes and your

pink lily lips.

you make blue rethink it's attitude

and leave yellows yearning to be the true glow of your white.

you talk to me of trust,

of comfort,

of curiosity -

you say you can't thank me enough

for latching my leash on you

and getting you your own tags.

But it's me who can't see

why a good girl like you would want

a mutt like

me.

[dizzymcguire]

the gulls dance together

and the wind shoved it's fingers

down my throat.

I puked the river and

the moon rose,

humming a soft song

to comfort me.

i asked her why,

when,

how? by god how?

but she sat flatly,

beautifully,

behemothly

above the water.

humming her little song,

while I cried my river

into an ocean.

[dizzymcguire]

ice storms passed

and the sky

froze

into

sapphires.

[dizzymcguire]

everyone walks around in eyeglasses.

some smudged and scuffed,

some with broken or missing frames,

some with tints of rose or blue.

the world you see

is not the world I see.

the world I see

is not worth looking at

mostly.

there are many sets of eyes

casting back the sunlight

like a racing river at sunrise.

there are many sets of eyes

that seem to swallow everything they see

and give back only questions

like a blackhole.

Oedipus may have been onto something,

however,

I'd really rather not fuck my mother

to find out.

[dizzymcguire]

the sun rises on cloudy days,

strictly in my kitchen.

it's a little bright,

but I don't mind.

she gently sleeps upstairs

after almost gently dying

last night.

i sneak downstairs,

eat a piece of the sun,

and go to lift weights.

the wound is pressed down upon

and the blood stops gushing

for now.

[dizzymcguire]

all her old lighters died

soon after we met.

lighters that were two, three, four years old

losing their flame as ours grew.

I wondered if they were prophets,

or if they were dying so

a greater flame can burn.

I asked the last of the flame from one of the lighters,

it answered me with a lit cigarette

and nothing more.

sure as this cherry will kiss the filter,

as the lighter will lose it's flame -

the fuel to the fire will end,

and love takes all the blame.

[dizzymcguire]

a taste sweeter than summer.

she feeds my hummingbird heart,

and I drink gently - she is a supple spring flower.

the bath water boils when we kiss

and the room burns hot

against the cool breeze of the night.

her cheeks a rose bush,

her eyes sharp and crisp as ice.

the way we knot beyond language

keeps my belief in magic alive.

if she feels a fraction of my flood,

then we will live happy

through this life

and the life coming next.

I know this.

I am certain.

[dizzymcguire]

six months -

that's what im working with.

in six months I'll be dead.

in six months the country is open for interpretation.

even if everything stays the same,

even if the only thing changing is the date -

I'll set a path

in the limestone of the new hour.

my hands are bloody and blistered,

I'm so tired of carving on.

but I'll be directed,

or even better, dead,

if I really take this period

as my final days.

let the nebula collapse

and the new star shine.

I refuse to be a victim

to Father Time.

[dizzymcguire]

i am

so happy.

so very happy.

happiness is boring to write about,

it's bragidocious

or at the very least

constrained - though universal.

is the happiness of a

line of heroin

the same as when

the sun kisses your face,

the birds sing open the buds,

and the wind doesnt hurt?

maybe.

but this happiness feels like

an answer of sorts.

i have a body to work with,

I have a world to dance in.

I have a true love.

i will fold my laundry

and drink cold coffee,

get lost in the possibility implicit

in a new day.

[dizzymcguire]

there is a meaning to this world,

precollapse,

and it's all found in her eyes.

they reflect like rings from the moon,

they sing like church choirs.

everyone scuttling about,

looking under rocks

and in libraries

and off balconies,

trying to find it.

I almost feel selfish that

I know - that I

have it.

objective truth

is a falsehood

and yet, she is so goddamn

real.

maybe I'm more clueless

than I already think

myself to be.

[dizzymcguire]

crunch and munch

a few stems and caps

and off you go.

where? let's find out.

-

a quiet rebellion,

a start with a suspension.

a question for what

these institutions mean,

and what we may be like

without them.

revolt, rebellion, destruction -

people cry for it

in broken bottles on the street

and anonymous forums online.

a quiet rebellion.

this structure is older than I.

I am but a small cog,

a micro-network,

a happening hidden behind

poorly painted walls

and quieted singing.

to think I could do better

is to think with helium.

what's to bloom

can only be planted

as a seed.

[dizzymcguire]

Hey, I really really love your poetry. Very beautiful and I can relate to it. Keep it up :)

thank you! I spill myself out w everything I write. Appreciate the kind words. :)

[dizzymcguire]

the sun in my stomach

was on the verge of supernova.

the heat she added to me

burned our house down,

and caused an explosion in the gas lines below.

I feared for my safety.

she should have came with a warning label -

perhaps on a thin necklace,

or a small stick and poke tattoo

on her ass.

but I'll be damned

if she isn't worth the danger.

I wave red at the bull,

I pour gas on the fire,

I feed this love like a catapillar.

Voracious and unafraid,

fattening to transform into something

even more beautiful.

Can you imagine?

Even more beautiful than this?

We'll be at risk to prize hunters

and resentful adequates.

It is something the world could never have dreamed of.

Instead, like most all beautiful things,

the reality will be far more

than the imagination could ever congure.

What a beautiful thing it is,

to bloom into love.