Impressionistic
For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
Just listen to this poem. I love it. Garden by Sierra DeMulder
Sierra DeMulder - Garden
If the first step in getting there is telling you I love you, I will carve it in Braille on your pillow so it’s the first thing you feel in the morning.
yourveryfleshshallbeagreatpoem:
Monsters, Rudy Francisco
This is sheer brilliance.
Because the microphone slouches like a bad boy
whose neck I want to choke.
Because sometimes the poem punches its way
off my tongue, and other times it needs to be
dragged out of my ribcage by its hair.
Because I have said things in front
of a roomful of…
I assume it’s because I usually find myself dedicating time to things that will only last a few moments
I guess that’s why I fall in love with things that will never love me back
and I know that sounds crazy but it’s easier than it seems
and to be honest I think it’s safer that way
you see
relationships often remind that I’m not afraid of heights or falling
but I am scared to death of everything that’s going to happen the very moment
that my body hits the ground
Whatever you dropped in the dark
can be recovered in the morning.
We will find the turquoise ring
that clutched the mud and grass
as I ripped your costly jeans,
down to your soft calves.
The night rain, beading upon your skinny spine.
If you were drunk, I didn’t know.
You didn’t say anything stupid.
Your tongue was blossoming,
pronouncing your kiss, cleanly.
I was glad your breath was hot enough
to melt the night resin off of me.
I read my hands down your simple gospel
and I no longer need 34th Street miracles.
Are you sure you want this mess?
I am a submarine
full of gasoline
and you’re waterproof matches.
I am suspended in the cinema of that moment
next to the house
collapsing in the dirt
where I needed you.
Fathoms under fathoms,
that’s how heavy I laid upon you.
What are you to me?
You are more than on my side,
you are the weapon on my side.
Safety off.
Rest under the shadow of my gut.
Unsentimental kissing.
A gushing reveille for strangers becoming victorious.
Walk through the valley of the 5 o’clock shadow.
Pyrokinetic honeysuckle, let’s boycott the hocus pocus
and get straight to the secret… .
Are you the one snarling in the family photo?
Are you the one crackling voltage in the yearbook?
Then you are the pearl I steal.
Your eyes, a kaleidoscope of collide and escape.
Navigate to me by the map of fallen stars.
Love rises back to you
like an escalator fragrance.
Rudy Francisco - A Letter To Chris Brown
Old topic, but really well written and performed!
1
My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.
2
Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.
3
I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.
I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.
4
I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.
5
She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.
This one. This one will teach us the most.
6
Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.
Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.
7
I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”
8
I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.
9
My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.
I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.
- Sierra DeMulder
(via fuckyeahslampoems)
But tonight let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, poets, let’s turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this.
With your airplane parts.
Move forward.
And repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this,
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
I have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
That if our hearts
really broke
every time we fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m havin’ a fantastic time.
(via fuckyeahslampoems)
These Things Are How You Make Me Feel.
Anis MojganiI believe i’ve posted this multiple times. But it is possibly one of my favorites.
(via fuckyeahslampoems)
