not rupi kaur

a hedonist in remission.

[wantpoetry]

Put down the pen someone else gave you.  No one ever drafted a life worth living on borrowed ink.

Jack Kerouac

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Red Sweater

Once belonged to me, a bright red sweater Same frame, same name, my old man owned it too I stride with pride but I know it to be true Though once ‘twas mine, Father wore it better And yet, though I still walk on unfettered Inside my mind I know not what to do Proclaimed surname as though I’m just like you Though I try, my Dad you wore it better This bright red sweater, holy, borne of thorns Ripped from your skin like whips they rend within I never knew the sacrifice you made. Now I, a debtor, have my worn flesh torn Battered, broken, yet whilst my time wanes thin -  Your will suffice: By you my debt is paid!

[wantpoetry]

No. 34

I always liked the rhyme scheme but you were more of a free verse girl And there was a quiver in your voice  When you joked about the last time I told you to fuck off. Leave caring to the stars darling For they are the few distant enough to do it Us? We’ll ravage passion -  suck every instant dry and run wild together Break me down to quarks and I’m still not as natural as you. I’ll paint myself in mud and still be the cleaner But no matter. Who needs real when you’ve got poetry right? I can pull words from your lips like crystalized candy True, they melt in my hands, but for a second... I held them didnt I? You need no convincing to take a chance, the word risk is all you were taught. Tell me, has it paid off? Tell me, would you hesitate? Did you? Writing this, I realize there’s a devil locked in the room inside of me. Inside the bigger-on-the-inside-stolen-science-fiction phone booth of my life, there’s a house with a room with a devil. And I’ve got the key. Ah but here comes the drenching at the end of the slide. It’s been fun, but I actually like my hygiene. The Holy water I bath in - I invite you in. I can see you like the metaphor, but you were right when you said: We are far too real for this.  I write with abandon. I have been reckless too. But when I’m honest with myself, I don’t actually want to be. See, I like being clean(ed) So I’ll take my dip daily.

[wantpoetry]

So why am I attracted to leather jackets? Your addiction-love is what I crave and your lipstick-kiss consumes me. I have tasted of you and drunk my fill - tell me, why am I still empty?

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It's amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.

Harry Truman

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So, I really like this picture. I think I dig the absurdity of it all - it takes the frivolity of its watermark very seriously and I think that’s pretty cool. Seems to me that most of us will identify with at least of the three people shown in here: there’s the fleeting unbridled joy of the (newlywed?) couple rowing at seeing two to-the-nines-dressed-men opt for a swim; the realization of his own inability to reach the sky of the man taking the dive; and the infectious attitude of the one who believes he can. 

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- cancupiscentia carnis.

my Father’s warnings run through my mind: “son, hold your chin high.”, “son, i’m proud of you”, “son - “ and her touch jars me back to our moment. she carves out my pride and whittles it into an idol of her and i’m left panting, alone with my indignity. i don’t want to be honest with you, but it’s like she looks at me and throws me out of her eyes. and then she says she’ll go to bed with me.

[wantpoetry]

An Ode to the Fire

Oh Fire, Fire burning bright Whose fearful flames snatch at the night. Though many may be drawn to you, With careful caution I watch your light. Oh Fire, Fire terr’ble sight I’ve seen cities crumble to your might. While inventors intone your daily praise, My scarred hands heed your searing bite. Oh Fire, fie you fickle friend! Where once was beauty now pain is penned. He that thought to paint your siren-view, I wonder whether gave a thought or gaze To those that, by your hand, will meet their end?

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Hungry for the world, I swear I starve for this

G-Eazy

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- 23.02.2018

I’ve got all these words begging to burst, All these ideas craving to surge out my hardline pencil and on to newspapers, lips and memories. How I wish to leave my print on the canvas of the earth! But nobody wants words when they’re dying  - it’s the simple we need. Kindness. Laughter. Friends. There is so much in the world and it pains me to think  I’ll only ever scratch the surface of a couple of categories of ideas that humanity has bored through for centuries. Ah but I do not want to know, for where’s the fun if  everything is so damn reliable! I love a girl, but I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’m too comfortable with wanting someone to love so I don’t let myself lose the familiar touch of want. or maybe I’m sick of it and thrust love at anyone who holds my rummaging gaze? This is a pretty awful poem to be honest, but it’s cathartic.  I think everyone needs to splurge every once in a while. I’ve all these books that line my shelves,  and I ache to funnel them into my briming mind. But boredom is the curse of those who do not truly suffer So I lounge here flicking ideas at the page and hoping one of them sticks.

Life is better than anything I ever imagined, but I’m terrified all of the possible futures I could bring about will age into mediocrity -  do all youths feel such? Ah but Christ. It all comes back to Him right. More words have been written on the Word than any other words, but is it sacrilege to ask that it not be so intense?

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cadae

              ‘Ere the day                         I         made Love mine goal,                         I        would boast about life’s permanent, excessive abundance.

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Fib #1

(For) I bought once that nobody actually thought they could go to the Hell I’d heard of. Can one truly live with oneself knowing one is doomed? /I now believe we all know, at least in part, that were it us - we would send ourselves there/

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The strength of a man’s virtue should not be measured by his special exertions, but by his habitual acts

Blaise Pascal

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- Oh Mirth

I ache for the familiarity of home: for the faces whose every line I know, And whose phrases my mind intones. I ache for some greatness; Not fame, but worth. To squeeze every drop of me onto these pages I ache for the words, so simple, so straight: they’ll find me swall’wing my tongue And I’ll taste them with glee! Oh mirth! Gracious, It’s you that makes me great while I’m so young and free.