[x]

define april fools daythe day i can tell myself a hundred times over that you love me.

the vowelasaurusa -
a what?
a massacre of morals,
prefixes are arming our world
with pros and cons, benefit of the doubt
is that death is near; spelled out in numbers
the world is losing the nile river, the panama canal,
the beauty of the grand canyon is locking away the fears of
dictators of love and inventors of hate. they found us behind you.

e-
easy way out.
of nothing, this is
taking the e of of sex
and solving for x and finding s
and using it to spell shit and dividing by us
and equaling you and i am finding out that the letter
e is being taken out of love and we are left with lov and
i am using that e to add to to my double l, w

remember to forgetbrushing my teeth with your blood,
bluejays are perching on my eyelids
pecking away cornea
your middle finger's bone is my vice,
a toothbrush in the making

human centipedes are forming,
bodies long, tree trunks high
when they come crashing down
they will form you from cracked legs;
millions of placid black reminders
of you

here it goes
shoving quickly now
into electrical sockets
realities coming for you
a thousand volts a second

when you leave don't
forget to wipe your feet
at the door
read my palms
etch your words between
cracks in my skin

roaring infidelity,
you're bursting at the seams
full force ahead, emotions

a thomas jefferson math testproblem number one:
they found us. killing beauty.
we'll go broke to kill love.
kill greed. kill envy.
seven deadly sins,
fuck that shit.
i am seven deadly
lies,
truths,
beginnings,
ends.

solution number one:
kidnap the queen,
force feed her our plans,
scour the world for our souls.
steal the swiss alps,
the himalayas.
form our own barrier.
block out the world.
access google.
delete the history of us.
our lives.
the past.
the present.
the future.
fuck.

problem number two:
we no longer exist.
there went the future,
our pasts erased.
the present disemboweled.
count the stars, erase half the
milky way, we are

we are our favorite authorsi know i've lost you for a while. though i can still find you in the pages of your book suggestions,
words you told me had changed you, set you free, trapped you forever. made you breathe in and out,
count your breaths like ants crawling between your sheets at half past three am. i just want you to know
that caring is still a verb, and love is just a butchered adjective, verb, noun, a part of speech if you will.
and i refuse to let it engulf me. take me out behind the back porch and slay my insides daily. if i wake up in
the hospital tomorrow, remind them to tie my tongue to the roof of my mouth because i can't speak these words anymo

michelangelo's wife named godyou've met karma in the boxing ring,
vincent van gogh is helping me
form my own starry night,
staring the queen of england
soviet dictators all in a line,
gorbachev is just a fun word.

if suicide is an art,
the moths are
perfection,
lights so beautiful
are killers masked
in acceptance,
ballerinas have taught
insects to perform
perfected dances
to the
death.

nothing is not okay anymore,
not that anything ever was,
what ever happened to
two plus three,
and the color blue representing
the sky,
what ever happened to holding
hands or making
love,
or to
being
something more than nothing.
nothing>something.
is the

pompey invented aneurysmseat my words, rotten confiscations of hope i am dishing out like the star of david. a horrible fate for an even worse cause, bitter reminders that the berlin wall is forming a false sense of security around every corner. we are filling the nile river with the tears of a thousand dead lovers, drops collected in jars, jellyfish are inhabiting our night stands in tightly sealed glass cases.

for my birthday i want to be the square root of negative one, an asymptote stuck in asymmetrical relocation towards a direct path away from the circle of your emotions bottling around my cerebral vicinity. i am sending you into satellite, loosing control of

butane promisesi use to be such a scared little boy,
always running from nothing,
and screaming for everything,
and laughing and crying.
but now i am numb, sealed at the soul,
tapered at the seams, i no longer
have a pulse in rhythm or a hair in line,
i run circles around ant piles and lakes and large streams,
i want to feel alive for more than five seconds and it almost feels nice for once, but
it never satisfies what i lost, what was taken from me, what i never had.

for the last time, i am not going to count
or whisper, or scream out loud.
if i am going to die, it may as well be
silence, passion screeching against the upstairs wall,
i repe

i'm not realwe invented screamers out of passed out lovers and complex therapists who claim
schizophrenia is simply due to loneliness, and not even fossil fuels can fuel the hatred
i have buried deep within my hollowed out bones and the corners and streets
of my soul

i wish i could build my relationships out of bricks and paste together problems
and urge myself to have some worth in war stricken convulsions of a world so
lost in something so ugly that being jesus is an art and being god is a talent
and i may be an artist yet i am so lost i couldn't even

count down to ten and across the milky way and breathe in and out and i wish
you would thank

i've always beensand paper running down your spine behind sycamore trees five hundred miles from where we first made love, scathing insects trickling between your ear drums, blood oozing from tear ducts, placid reminders of fortified nothings and beautiful shells of locus, such as the hummingbird skull earrings i adored you with for your seventeenth birthday.

what have you done to meyou're ripping my eyes from my sockets, parading around town, sullen identities melting from your sodden fingers. you're a pro creation, destroying eternity, practicing masochistic fairy tales i've told centuries

from now, under willow trees you hung dead children from. caressing tombstone head boards, we're lying with the dirt and breathing with the worms. i've sunk so low, the sky isn't blue, the grass isn't green, we're

burrowed in under a hundred years of mary sues and gary stus, i'm a suspender wearing, heart wrenching, grave digging

fool.

i'm cringing behind closed doors, spreading coffins like god split the grand canyon, like human

when a day means everythingvalentine's day is
a suicide note in the
making, i love that.

dear humpty dumpty, i win.i'm stuck,
i never wanted it to be this way,
dirty rotten confiscations are filling my core,
i am losing myself,
within my own bones,
my frame is a tunnel,
a maze of fucked over everythings,
holding up simultaneous nothings,
what if east isn't east?
what if west isn't west?
don't even get me started on
north and south,
those mother fucking directions,
are stretching me at the limbs,
a golden gate bridge of sorts,
i have a feeling it is only a few more days,
until the apocalypse of my arteries,
before i snap,
my body becomes its own
continents,
and
there will no longer be a pangaea named,
derek.

the play on words: act iact i

scene i:
opening scene, or opening of your
legs. either way something is happening.
curtains spreading, this is no walt disney
dream, this is a tim burton nightmare.
mickey mouse is holding an axe, edward
hearthands is in the making.
car enters stage. mission:
call shot gun.
call a shotgun.
shotgun
got shun[ed].
kill. kill. kill.
what?
this is a shot gun
i got shunned,
death is in order.
oh no not in the first scene,
much later.

scene ii
anne frank found us, is that
saying something.
irony at the least.
so the setting is world war two.
what else is new, this is a constant
world war, rejuvenation of the 1940

reality is a grave.the walls are too clean.

it's wrong how clean the walls are, how even the air is sterile. it seems almost cruel to make such a place so hollow and vacant only to have you realize it's just making room. room for muffled sobs and choked-on tears and emotions so thick that if they were to allow any dust there wouldn't be room to breathe at all. it's allowing room for stifled emotional breakdowns shuddering down your spine and smiles quivering precariously on the tip of your lips.

it's not cruel, it's just practical.

and you're looking down on wax-paper skin and glassy eyes and a voice so chipper it hurts to hear. a voice that rambles like som

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 2.0 KB more ▶

More from ~BlueMeadow193

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: March 30, 2010
File Size: 2.0 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 50
Favourites: 90 [who?]
Views: 1,396 (0 today)
Downloads: 13 (0 today)

[x]

i scream softer than i whisper

by ~BlueMeadow193, Mar 30, 2010, 6:31:04 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

this is it, mental suicide, social breakdown.

a king and queen, a hundred fold.
children pouring from every furnace,
i am unsure what is becoming of us,
or if turning the tables is like splitting spines
or cracking skulls.

shedding lips, crucifix formats for our
daily occasions, waking up next to
sheets marked in chalk, post-it notes
placed around the house of where
we should have held hands, made
love, crumbled into one another.

this is bipolar disorder at it's finest,
"fuck off."
"i love you."
point blank sentences, curl them around
our tongues, the royal court reading out
history books,
starring;
queen of the bipolars,
king of anxiety disorder.
[fuck they've caught us on pages,
a hundred stories long.]

there's our throne, laden in blood, crack
children's eyes across our crowns, the
king's jewels all in a row.

what now. what now. what now.

oh right. time to rule. your hair makes
a finely tuned floss, ripping unneeded particles
from crevices, abyss lovers cradled in tumbleweeds.
come on now, decorate the kingdom, i want
asylums at every corner. years in the making,
centuries into destruction.

come on now, cough it up, so i can replant
it out back, grow children, forge informalities.
this isn't a duty, it's a right.

rightfully rip mothers from their babies,
women wrapping lines around your tombstone
preparing a midsummer's meal.

rightfully pluck the teeth from your gums,
destroy yourself one by one. beauty at its
peak.

rightfully tell me you love me.
come on now say it.
don't make me worry.
you bald creature, you're dying alive.
[you dying queen]

and i would just like to tell you,
mary had a little lamb,
but i ate it.

i scream softer than i whisperby ~BlueMeadow193

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i'm dying from the inside out.
i'm beheading the king.
god save the queen.

~Awasteof-paint Aug 15, 2010

parts of this sorta made me want to be with you forever.

~SoulfulBubbles Jun 30, 2010 Student Writer

ahh the beauty of the horrid and the smell of entropy at 4 in the morning mm..
anyways..

I love this piece
I like the flow and phrasing
and in some parts i can relate
i like the different threads of thought in it

XD