"In Writing, We Must All Kill Our Darlings"

Hunter, 20, starving artist.

[poet-laureate]

Are any of your poems about certain people whom youve loved? They sound very genuine and from the heart.

All of them are

[poet-laureate]

My heart used to be filled to the brim with toxic cynicism and id regurgitate my sarcasm to ward away any beauty that may present itself pushing it so I don’t have to face the ugliness inside myself but i guess a hundred cups of coffee melt away my shell and I was left, naked and alone on countless Saturday evenings until I met you. And now starry nights don’t seem so lonely since I have you to look forward to. Your lips dim the anxiety burning in my chest to a dull throbbing and when I put my hand to my chest it always chants your name Now I don’t feel so cheesy saying we were made for each other and at the beginning of time when the universe exploded into existence the atoms that make up our being, were side by side, holding hands. and now a hundred million years later they are again.

(via poetryislame)

[poet-laureate]

each unique in its own right the build up uncertainty did she just lick her lips? she’s staring right through me. our foreheads are touching this has to be it. i mean i can’t pull her any closer. she breaks the silence with a question— “do you miss her?” her cheeks are against mine i know she can feel the redness stirring she scrunches up her face concern? i can’t even say anything because i do but only in theory the way you spend all day craving that noxious drag off a cheap cigarette bummed off your best friends dad only to realize you can’t even taste the blood bubbling on the inside of your mouth. because you’ve bitten it off in an anxiety ridden attack. i miss her but i know if i go back it’ll never be the love i dream of i go for the kiss. oddly unfamiliar. before leaning back. “do you miss him?”

first kiss (via poetryislame)

[poet-laureate]

Someone in this world adores you, I can tell you that most definitely. No matter your toil. Because the sound of your name makes them stir in their sleep. Makes them sweat and heave, turning riptides into their sheets. Just last night they dreamt you were on the edge of a cold bridge, Gripping the rails so tight your knuckles turned red–then white, Breathing a misty breath–a soothing relief With each passing roll of your chest. And they nearly jumped out of their own skin, Leaping out of such splendid slumber just to catch you. Smashing their head into bed posts—busting lips, Bathing mouths in blood. And lamented the fact their after–in the mirror, tending to superficial wounds. For not being able to hold you—wherever that may be. To catch your fall such a great wish they don’t even mind the stitches, There’s someone out there who adores you. Because there have been nights–many now–spent with pen and pad, Trying to scratch out a metaphor about the way they look at you One that could adequately capture some depth– You are as chilling as the wind to their spine. And you creep up their backs every time. Certainty found only in sunrises and supernovas. There’s someone out there that adores you my dear. Who sings love songs with you in mind, With that dorky grin you once told was infectious, For once you have a smile all for yourself. I hope you take it.

(via poet-laureate)

[poet-laureate]

You were a flower I remember. With petals red as blood out of the newly opened wounds you called your heart. And more recently… your reason for being alive in the tundra of your home. But you were the flower who bloomed regardless. Whose teasing aroma sought suitors from world’s around. Only to be struck my the thorns you gave laid as a defense, ruins from your toiled past. And yet sometimes a rose is best plucked betwixt her spiked abdomen. Hands eagerly placed on the shallow breast–her beating sternum chanting her anthem– for years left unheard. And yet when she weeps the tender words so long left hanging on her mouth she is not afraid. Her lover weaves around the treacherous terrain once called her ribcage–now sembling more a battleground. Soil bathed in ash, still proves fruitful. She grows here still–and she always will. Once my flower spread her legs to show me petals hidden betwewn the silky threads of her thighs. And the fragrance–a nectar most divine and sweet. Seemed to me an opiate deemed right for king. Yet all reserved to me. How pleasant, to have fingertips trace the outline of every majestic curvature within your sordid busty frame i will never stop drinking you in, if you must know. And i will live my life perpetually within the black and white greyscale that is your crotch–fitting so pleasantly into mine. How sadistic of you to keep your eyes closed, let me dive in to the majesty that Is your dripping desire. I will not hesitate to have you. Make you mine with the way my tongue glides so effortlessly down your skin. Why it must be fate that your mouth so eagerly calls my name in this ecstacy. In this deep breathed escapade, bodies so masterfully entangled.

Oh flower of mine. .. (via notafuckingpoet)

[poet-laureate]

They call it “falling” because it feels so fucking good to have the wind run through your hair. Weightlessness, bliss found only in birds and intravenous drug users. It’s the high. I’ll never stop chasing it. They never tell you about the landing. How it feels to have concrete lodged where your teeth should be. Cracks in your skull, bleeding out your ribcage, insides splattered on the sidewalk. There’s imprints in the pavement from last I jumped. I’ve barely the time to pick myself up. There’s dust and caked blood on my shirt. Wounds that haven’t healed. Bones out of joints I will not leap again. But that’s ridiculous to say because I’m an addict, a romantic, chasing that futile rush at every turn. The few seconds defying the gravitational pull off reality. There’s no rehab for this addiction. I’ve tried it all. Purge after purge, methadone, yoga, diet and exercise, there is no cleanse. I will forever find myself standing at that edge and I Will Jump Every time.

(via notafuckingpoet)

[xanocaine]

No, it wasn't worth it (but i'll probably do it again next weekend)

i awake on the tile of my bathroom floor in a pool of my own vomit bits of blood splattered on my door mixed in with superfluous amounts of Budweiser and late night fast food burritos i can barely prop myself up to soak it up with a towel elbows on the toilet seat, dry heaving thinking about the life decisions that have led me to this moment and i’m not sure if i’m trying to justify my actions or blame it on the stress but eventually i can drag myself off the floor, by the edge of the sink but unfortunately, in doing so i am forced to look at myself  in the mirror matted hair, caked in lumps of burritos bloodshot, crying eyes. so I close them and it helps with the head ache but not my self worth so I hop into the shower  and wash off the night

[xanocaine]

Your body is poetry waiting to be interpreted by a lanky, awkward literary scholar sprinkled with vague metaphors and a vision of beauty I want to wake up with you your face supple and beautiful in the light shining through the open window ruffling your hair in the breeze

i want to shower you in kisses (in the shower) i need you to give my morning meaning

[xanocaine]

I told you I loved you. (and) I said it with a kind of passion that I’d never really experienced before

I mean I’m only 17 years old. Supposedly this is the prime of my life.

And I’m using this time whispering some age-old overused Hallmark greeting card scam turn-of-phrase just to define how I feel

But nevertheless that’s what I told you. You said you almost loved me. 

That I needed work That I was a bit rough around the edges (whatever the hell that means)

But I do not like that

Because It makes me feel like serrated. that my jagged corners are sharp that my words draw blood or my skin is abrasive to the touch

But I know this not to be true The contours of my personality may be jagged. but they are nothing compared to yours coarse like sandpaper trying to polish me like I’m a tarnished piece of wood living only to be carved to your whim.

I want to be more to someone than just a weekend side project I mean Jesus Christ this isn’t build-a-boyfriend I cannot be stuffed full of compassion. Sewn up to my eyes with self-esteem

I’ll always be a lame 2nd rate poet

And you’ll never like my friends. So why did I tell you I loved you?

[xanocaine]

Im in the shower and im not sure if the droplets falling are tears or sweat infused dew drops i realize i am shaking earth quake shattering my kneecaps i am sobbing because through the artificial rain i feel you as warmth through the cold breeze as suddenly as a light in the dark drowning in my own sob story trying to manage self esteem as steep as mountain tops, fuck. I want you next to me

[xanocaine]

Trees scattered half heartedly across mountainous landscapes i ran away without you, and im so sorry i was gone before i left, though footprints in the beaches of your heart adjacent the ocean of your psyche shouting ‘i love you’s into empty canyons just to hear the reply so i travel in a beat up station wagon, from coast to coast i smell your hair when i fall asleep shoving my face into my faded back sear it makes it hard to forget you especially when every Christmas scented tree i pass has our initials scratched into the trunk and from sea to shining sea that will always be the case

[xanocaine]

avant-gnarly: He would always tell you  ‘to the moon and back’ when asked if he loved you which I find a severe understatement because love is not measured in distance miles and light years pale in comparison to the throbbing heart wrenching chants of your name in my chest and earthquake causing; sound barrier shattering kneecaps i will never love you ‘to the moon and back’ ill love you like a tree in a country nobody can spell where citizens pray and worship at your feet– And just by the power of your presence you  collapse mountain tops into the palms of your hands Turning ten thousand sleepless nights Into a poem With room enough for two. and sometimes it soothes me knowing that somewhere near the top of this towering beast  of unshakeable beauty behind my delusions of grandeur my name is carved under a leaf, covered in dew  because it’s 4 o clock in the morning and  you’re just waking up with a hangover You have work in three hours and a song comes on  You know the one. you always smile when you hear it. maybe someday I’ll be more than a passing thought fluttering through your half-drunk mind like falling flower petals  off a dying tree

[poet-laureate]

Stay True To hell with the archaic sentiment of falsetto optimism, especially now. How could you keep up the facade? You will die from that broken heart faster than the gun pointed at your temple can fire. Stay true, stay blue let the sad days pass. Embrace your inner Narcissus, if only in passing smile for the mirror you so often curse. Let that smile lead the day, and pave your way away. Take a dive into your own mind, swim the sea of self-consciousness let that tidal wave of melancholy wash you clean, make yourself pure. Do not lie with your put-upon smile, emotions cannot be caged or tied up, even if she was into that. Please stop trying to con yourself to complacency. You are stronger than the sick that plagues your insides. Take nights for yourself, just you and the moon, and the bottle of Jäger you will meet again, in the morning. Vomit up those unpleasant thoughts, let the rock you hit be a landmark. Never let yourself go there again.

[poet-laureate]

She's in the distance, always blooming just shy of the horizon. But through mangled vision I still manage to take her in like the first brisk air of autumn, lone and bold and true to form. she's an anthem to worldly desire. I bet in her whimsy lies a nectar that tastes like long awaited rain after a vicious drought. I'll inhale serenity like it was my very last earthly breath. So stately from afar, how will I match up to her gaze? Will I crumble under it? Will I smile so wide I reflect her sunbeams off my pearly whites. Maybe then she'll see the way she shines. If I'm lucky she'll look so deeply into the emerald seas of my iris She'll see the smile that melts me into the place I stand.

[poet-laureate]

I’m of the misfortune to be barefoot in my own room, Rooting around garment entrails—a toiled body’s forgotten spoils. Trying to rid my hysterical hand of it’s tremors—an affliction you always hated. I guess there’s irony in me wearing your earring on the side of my foot. But I’m too drunk to connect the emboldened dots. But it’s probably something to do with the way you stepped all over me, And the things I held close, could this be me gaining advantage? Or is it the fact I’ll never get rid of you? Or get you from under my skin? Am I strong enough to walk? No, I’ll just press it in until nothing’s seen but a colored ball. It’s not the kind of thing I’m usually into, but apparently I’m a masochist Because this DIY piercing fits better than my favorite shoes. The one’s you forget about until you’re cleaning your room. What kind of poetic shit do you think that means? I bet it’s that I miss you, huh? Fuck.

DIY Piercing,

[poet-laureate]

It’s something special; And in my dreariness I cannot tell if it’s the moon Reflecting rays off her iris. Or the natural ornate Twinkle of her innocence. Regardless, it’s those hypnotic beacons in her skull That call me to her side in the dead of night. Like a lighthouse guiding ships to the safety of shore. Because Lord knows I’m blinded, even with eyelids shut. She tastes like the Sun on a cloudy day, with Wisps of rainfall spattered across her skies. Tongue extended if only for a moment, Just to drink her in. Those days spent droning over the mundane— It’s the silent struggle one bears. The monotony of the struggle is my cross, And in eight hours’ time she is there. Sipping Chardonnay out of a plastic cup, A sort of simplicity in her innate royalty. My humble queen, staring at me with fire in her eyes, Legs crossed. She tells me it’s time for bed. And of course, I obey.

///Something, Something, Lighthouse///

[poet-laureate]

Young fawn, With nose raised to the brisk air, tasting Subtle Autumn tones in the wisps that Chill your feet, touch your bones. Wide-eyed—open to the world’s immensity. Drinking in the virginity of the forest. Miles upon miles of meadows— Hidden in the clearing. Venturing forward in full gallop. Able to take every trial thrown, with grace. Till staring into headlights— How much can so delicate a frame take, When trapped cruelly in man’s crosshairs? Beady eyes beaming right through iron-sights, Remorseless, torturous, steeled through the hunt. But she so wanders, blissfully fearless and doe-eyed. Curious and nimble—testing branches with Jumping streams with ease. Heresy called when boots leave fauna Hard trodden and bare. Seeping their filth endlessly—beer cans galore. And empty packs of Marlboro Reds. Does the arrogance ever stop? With a façade of sheepishness—and unapologetic hands, Some predators are harder to spot without a rifle. Napoleonic bravado undisguised by camouflage. Pocket knife handy to carve initials into conquests. Does the fawn have hope to resist when hit with charm instead of bullets? Can she stand on her own when spiked with Rohypnol?

///Young Fawn///