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Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell you
that this grief is temporary,
that even if you feel lost,
you are not a ship adrift
without a crew.

But darling, grief still
sits heavy on my tongue and
I will not lie to you.

[Grief gathers at the back
of my mouth and renders me useless
on days that feel like the day
she died, my limbs heavy,
my heart sore.]

Instead I am going to tell you
that grief is not the last thing
you will ever feel;

there will still be
rumpled sheets and lazy smiles,
your fingers will still find
my naked waist beneath the blankets
and mine will still fit neatly between
the knobs of your spine.

We will sti

Solitary ConfinementI am terrified that tender thoughts
of Him would someday leave me,
as emptiness invites illusion.

And nothingness, where love
once blossomed,
could invite tenderness to return:

I should pierce my own heart,
and would rather die alone
than succumb to Love and its woe.

man-madei'm building a forever
of words.
pillars constructed from forced promises
for a girl you can't help but feel sorry for -
for a girl that says sorry too much;
for a girl who begs to be touched
and swears she'll die from heartache.

they say it's something about her eyes
(and she's heard the lines before
but blushes every time).
give me time, give me time,
sing-song-siren;
everything will be fine.

the sky is not falling
(even though your senses mingle
and overwhelm until you are left dumb;
unable to direct yourself
up or down
in or out
because hell is in the sky
and trees are in your heart).

i may not love you all the time
but i'm finding rea

safer detergentloofah and bathrobe and bedroom meant for another
comforter meant for daughter of man

the sheets here smell of you, though here you have never been

the sheets and blankets smell of a rental house in Hawai'i in 2003

three thousand miles from home
four thousand miles September
five thousand miles before I knew you

characterisationa pinch
and snort

he's sorry he doesn't talk to you any more, that he's let the wolf in his chest stir and rise from the long winter sleep
behind everything he breathes a sense of remorse
under everything he exhales guilt--
far under.

he's little fingernails scraping up the insides of his lungs like the insides of a pumpkin on halloween
he's cigarette smoke between cracked lips

he's the coldest desert dweller you've ever seen,
the shadow of a dune,
a long-limbed, white-skinned
traveler.

Indirect EpiphanyThe cold morning moon
Is a fragment of silver on your fingertips
It is a blushing, whispered kiss
In the hours between life and love.
The truest things are unspoken and wise,
Need no proof and are not lies
The sweetest words are rain
And the look in your eyes as you wash me
In a specific cycle designed to cleanse my soul.
I'm not a martyr but I'd walk into Hell
If it meant you could give back
Enough of myself to save me.

UntitledI have seen enough to know that reason
is undone by love in its first season
before the bite of amour lies in rest,
in waiting, to ensnare the second best;
because all things I want to keep die young
and all truths dissolve on the tip of tongue.
All that I want to keep I cannot hold,
beside a man I will never grow old.
To this unhappy fate I am resolved
'till the mystery of you is solved
my tremulous heart is too weak for this,
the sorrowful parting after our kiss.
If I should lie in darkness for reprieve
and always wear my heart upon my sleeve;
oh God! Then kill me now, oh! Let me die
and then this sordid heart in loss shall cry
belov'd an

you are a beautiful and unique snowflakemy name is Tyler
and you are not special

and you are not special but you're so fucking special
and most everyone likes you and you are so strange

you kissed him and saw fireworks but the fireworks were a full few months before
and you look like a person but talk like a politician
and

my name is Tyler and we both work food service
I spit on the french fries
and you produce French food

preaching Higgs, Boston, some kind of murder scenario
saying you are the molten core of the earth

e Spivak e
oh,
oh,
the last time,
the last one,
the throw-up,
the real deal
the big man

the cheese

you are a beautiful and unique snowflake

letter to abuser,essapmi na ot emoc evah ew smees ti
,dneirf ym
(tihs elttil uoy)

,ssenisub dehsinifnu htiw syaw detrap evah ew smees ti
,nekorbnu tey swov htiw
edamnu ro nekopsnu tey swov htiw

dneirf ym ,wonk ton lliw dna tonnac uoy
.sleef ti woh ro tlef ti woh

nothingsometimes the dark is all that binds us
to one another.
light becomes deleterious,
sounding to somber seams
and threatening fractures.

we weave a blanket
of the void between us
and find comfort in our wanting.
even with my boyish fingers
i am not strong enough;
i cannot outlast
the mushrooming chasms.

i bury the empty in the rocks
of my stomach
but it blooms beneath my breast.
it pushes against me
filling my cavity
with a thing
that will never be destroyed.

i am free and weighted.
my breathing is hollow;
my anthem is jaundiced
and my spore-song
is suff-
ocating
all of
me.

posion ivyi can't promise i'll always remember how to breathe.
but i've learned to keep my mouth shut unless it's leaning in to meet yours, and even though that's come at the expense of words, everyone tells me it's best if what i swallow, stays down. and even though you call me fragile, you have to hold me tight, and hope when i balk, my legs don't splinter this time instead of nearly hitting the floor. and i don't know what to tell you this is --some call it chronic depression or seasonal affective disorder, but my doctor told me just to drink more milk, and my grandmother tells me the best vitamin d comes from the sun.
but milk makes me shutter at one hundred and twenty per 2% glass, and i blister and boil under the sun until my skin is kissed with cancer. and depression, we all know i've always had, but it shrinks and grows, uncontrollably, like the ivy on my grandmother's house. she tore each vine down two summers ago and even still, it left moonlight streaked against the wooden shingles th

florajasmine tea
tastes like perfume
and spring,

the fragrant
honeysuckle
before summer

bursts

sweltering
and saccharine;
always nauseous,

unlike may
and her gentlest affection.

flooded, craving droughtjealousy doesn't burn. it paces floors
incessantly and i kneel at the doorway
of its opulent raggedy hallway without a

say in the muttering (of course, i am
always waiting for good tidings with
my bouncing knees, with my hands tucked
beneath my thighs) in the gore (throat
sweating blood like condensation like it
has nudged its way out the back door,
stifled from the restraint of not screaming)

has no say in the whittling (fingers are
extraneous and he doesn't need your touch.
but you offered it). jealousy is solitary

confinement, the white wash of it lily and
linened and longitudinal, spanning the map
of me, no pond or penisula unlas

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Eternal SunshineIf I asked for change
then I should have known the sky
would listen;

I wanted to hide
away from the past, and from the
man who became a stain
that wore on me;

In his place I found lust
where I wanted love,
and someone who erased me.

Red LoverRussia is red,
Russian cats are blue,
my heart is no longer frozen
under the permafrost of you.

March Forth in SpringSeasons change, glossy and fresh like wax
leaves that fall in Autumn, a gold flaxen
a small grain of truth can bring a new Spring,
and from that springs forth a brand-new Summer
to warm a heart that is colder than ice
Oh! the seasons change; the heart grows wiser.

3:33I'm being followed by the clock,
Thrice repeated - that's the number.

I wake from my bad dreams,
To digits like 3:33, 6:33, and 4:13.

If I'm haunted, cursed, or otherwise
inconvenienced,
Text me at (333) 333-3333
And I'll respond within 3 days
3 hours
3 minutes,
To thank you for the analysis
Of my over active imagination.

The Space BetweenA tempest calls,
can you hear the brontide?
The Moon sails across a sea of the bejeweled sky;
before the demon-dark evening he presses
the Sun against the horizon and makes love
to her tremulous flames.
But the universe stretches on forever
like an echo and a prayer,
and Sun falls through space and is
sometimes too late for morning,
or sometimes even the midday.

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Vindictive

by ~februaryblue, Dec 29, 2012, 8:38:28 PM
Contests / 2012 / Four Line Poems

Laughter,
in
tempestuous
whispers.

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Four Line Poems

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Vindictiveby ~februaryblue

Contests / 2012 / Four Line Poems

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