#creedrescue

[roody11]

Poisonous

They say poison kills

So why am I not dead?

I consume and I devour

The filthy existence.

Like an hour hand I go and I'm back,

I will keep ticking If it stops the aching.

I have no worry,

Let your poison Pervade me,

If it means in your presence I can be.

If my life is a fleeting moment,

I want to be tethered to you.

Like a tailor I will keep coming back

No matter how hard the needle stings.

[ho1y-water]

this same bathroom, these four walls

I’ve had every broken heart of my life in my parents’ house,

my childhood bedroom is stained with claw marks and spattered blood and teary grainy gritty lonely nights spent curled up

sobbing into the carpet.

You said

“I love you”

“Thank you i love the jewelry”

“Do you think our parents should meet soon”

And then you said

hope you’re happy with the next man.

I guess, when you don’t lend everything, you can’t lose it when your lover leaves.

We are all strapped in for the ride tonight.

I’m thinking of you because of course I am, because I always am. Because I’m in love with you.

I wish you’d come knocking but I don’t, because I know I’d answer, and that’s the thing.

Summer, five years ago. Or else summer now. Or else lying dead in a ditch. Whatever. Each moment drags by the same. All just the same, tiny studded blips of cellulite stardust.

I guess, when you’re young, you have to give your virginity to a man who doesn’t love you.

I’ve been the lightest here, the heaviest. The same and different. Healthy brain, electric shocks.

I’ve been the nicest, the meanest here; jobless, jobful. Hopeless, hopeful. Mystic and plain. Always messy. Always in love.

A few more weeks of this and I might have to reconsider this whole thing.

[n1mmii]

you feel like poetry

 it’s 4 am,

it’s just you and me in the entirety of the universe.

everyone else turned into clouds,

now they're falling as rain.

i wake up in your arms,

just how i fell asleep in them.

i feel you breathing,

i feel your heart beat against mine,

i feel you dreaming,

i feel your hair tangled with mine.

you keep me so close,

so close that our souls almost touch each other,

so close that your skin feels like mine,

so close that we might not even be different people,

so close that we might be one.

your voice,

your goddamn voice.

the haze in your voice,

the way you say the words,

the way you carve those words in my soul,

you have no idea about the things your voice does to me.

you’re in your olive green sweater,

i’m unclothed,

but i’m not cold,

you’re all the warmth i need.

i slide on top of you,

you caress my hair,

your fingers tangled with them.

you don't fight them,

you stay there,

tangled, 

with me.

you, feel like poetry.

you’re smiling,

the wrinkle on the corner of your eye,

the soft dimple on the corner of your lips,

you kiss me, 

you taste like cigarettes.

davidoff cigarettes, the ones you like.

i place my hands under your sweater,

i can feel your body.

i close my eyes,

i take it all in,

feel it in my soul,

then carve your scars onto it.

you’re looking at me,

looking at me feel you,

your eyes are partially closed,

but your smile, 

baby your smile’s so big.

you, you feel like poetry.

your hands touch my waist,

go straight up to that deepest point,

they stay there,

mold themselves in me,

decorate themselves around me,

like they belong there,

like they’ve found home,

“please never leave.”

“i want to sing for you” you say,

“i only have one heart, please have mercy on me” i say

 with my hands taking your sweater off.

you sing “sunsetz” by cigarettes after sex

my heart skips a million beats.

my hands tremble,

my soul quivers,

just at the sound of your voice.

your hands are so big,

i would fit just right inside the palm of your hands.

you’d carry me,

you’d take me home,

you’d keep me,

you’d look at me and say that you own me.

it would be an honor,

beautiful beautiful boy,

to be owned by you.

because you,

you feel like poetry.

[lettersofanangel]

I can’t see through the mist

It’s a different storm now

I can’t keep grabbing onto one crutch after the next

I can’t think of what my own face looks like

What a mess

And it’s not his job to clean it

He can’t take care of you like this

I think I’ll just lay here for a while

Until I can breathe

If that ever happens again

[inverbislibertas]

What is mere poetry to the end of the world?  And what should I call it when I pace back and forth with no direction, spitting metaphors and vague phrases about the torment I hear breathing on the other side of my bedroom door?  This time is different, they all say, we weren’t serious before, and all we can do now is lie, lie facedown in our lack of truth.  What should I call it when I write about it all in a way that must be deciphered and challenged?  When I create unreal beings to stand in for myself and for those I love, because above all things, I am a coward?  What is poetry to a world without the time for it?  'A long lost art,' I say to those who now demand an answer, 'like letter-writing to an old friend in the dark.'

a. h. // untitled

[yungflaco989]

Broken.

It's been a year.

I shouldnt feel this way,

But I still do.

I constantly see your face When I drive,

It eats at me.

Knowing that I was the toxic person,

who pushed the one I love to become someone who now is a stranger.

Incapable of holding together the bond that once was.

In your life, she is the main love interest.

But in hers,

You're merly nothing but a background character.

[glowofftheroad]

winter settles like an old coat

of dust around the doorknob, no footprint

heralds arrival to my door. 

i watch,rapt-

the birds are migrating,we've nowhere to go, 

i am alone, between my crockery and shelf,

this dormant self, soft as dormouse.

love arrived, in a well pressed suit

in polished shoes, but I wasn't home.

i dimmed my light to sleep, but the

spirits left me listening-

a tickle of feet, a pull of the hair,

i turn back but there's nobody there,

a kiss on my neck, a touch of my brow

the soft-slow tapping of knuckle on window-

you slipped in like a shadow.

[pelicandensity]

Talking Through Pictures

They live in a shoebox gathering dust in the closet I rarely visit them anymore seduced by the digital age some are yellow cracked with age I'm sure if I dig down through the uneven layers I might even find a polaroid or two I inherited this habit from my mother she had dozens of boxes under the stairs the evidence of our family life in no particular order pictures of me as a baby mixed in with one of some cocky 21 year old just home from the  Army There's even the last picture I ever took of her. She's gone now and so are her pictures but every so often I open the closet door and bravely venture into my past.