Monday, June 28, 2010

make me move

i want to write a poem about sex, and that im not a terrible person/ speller.
i am disorded but not disorderly. i am broken up. i think nice thoughts like streetlight, and linens, and is there an instruction guid to happiness? i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers
step three, turn into one of those white weeds, blow away

my heart tried to escape out my throat. okay, i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone, ever, not even your imaginary best friends. or real ones. or myself, freud says i'm an iceburg, but i don't know if he means full of repressed thought or just a fridget bitch that will cut you open.
step four, there is no step four if i am an iceburg, i desperarely need someone to warm me in the palms of their hands. no one ever will though, i sink ships and tear them all apart.
once there was a boy who told people she was not terrible, but he could never get the spelling quit right.
as if they knew better

1 comment:

  1. AnonymousJuly 01, 2010

    pod still thinks well of you
    pod hopes you're well
    pod doesnt care that you're not in his life, but pod is always with you in spirit no matter what.
    pod is well but tired of playing the game of this existence.
    pod isn't perfect
    pod is a good person
    but pod doesn't care
    pod just wants you to be happy
    pod wants chips and gravy with you at your favourite shop
    pod wants to reintroduce you to sushi
    pod still holds onto your only picture of when you were small. Pod wants to return it to you along with your soul.