Poems Quotes

(i shall use like because love is a scary word, even if it is true)

I liked you a lot. I liked your ginger, straw-like hair (and how it bleached in the summertime) and your non-existent eyelashes. I liked how your wisdom teeth made the rest of your mouth crooked, and how your front teeth had to cram together (you talked about getting braces or - if you could afford it - invisalign. I didn't really want you to, but the reasons why would be hard to explain, so I never said anything). But most of all, I liked your freckles. I liked them a lot. I liked how, at night, I got to count the ones on your back, and if I squinted really hard I could make out Ursa Major and, maybe, Scorpius.

I think I liked you more than you liked yourself.

Part 1 of lov liking ginger boys who hate themselves

I smell chemical because all my thoughts are toxic, and with no outlet, the words that bleach my brain start to pollute my blood stream
the first program i saw on my new television was a
warning-sign, reality-check cold-water slap
on the coffee table.
It was a documentary about a troubled family--
the boy blamed his mother
his mother blamed the father
and the father, well the father
wasn't around to blame anyone,
except in bruises, cuts and most painful
silence. sometimes, wounds heal,
but leave scars like imprints of each word
spearing the skin in anger, and even
confrontational therapy does not help,
because you don't know hate until you
hate the people you love,
and you don't know love until you
love the people you hate and,
"boys dont cry.
boys aren't weak.

get up!"

Gangmates and gateway drugs unlatched
doors to him that
let him have the illusion of free
but in reality, when the covalent bonds of
self hatred and self destruction collide
with new-found hope in hopeless plants,  hopeless situations,
the result is deadlier, and more unforgiving than
your own father threatening to end you with a knife
three times in a row
"get up, boys dont cry!"
Sure, he was intoxicated but drunks words are sober
thoughts, they say, a waste of space, you are thrash;
i am thrash, the
boy scrawled in the sand, the same way
others draw hearts.

And he was angry, so angry. So guilty and full
of shame,
had a deep rooted sadness that
could be shovelled out from his chest like soil.
maybe we can never get rid of it completely
but we can change it, plant new seeds where old
weeds decomposed; they said the hardest part is
letting yourself be helped and be rerooted, they said the
hardest part is deciding what to plant, where to re-soil
Because bad thoughts are like dominoes, kid,
one falls and the rest follow.
they are the pungent
smell of decaying words--"get up! boys aren't weak!"

Thing is, he did get up:
he got up in the mornings when
the world screamed symphonies of loathing at him;
he got up when words whizzed past, merely inches
from hitting nerves;
he got up like there was fire at his heels;
he got up when he discovered boys cancry.

Sometimes, all you need is time,
too bad documentaries only last an

format by Cosima2
You're the entire universe
And I'm not even a crack in
The sidewalk
Format credit to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Format credit to OnceUponAMidSummerMorning
“Do not stand on my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on the snow.
I am the sunlight rippened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand on my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.”

— Do Not Stand On My Grave And Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye

but people aren't just puzzles that can be created and taken apart, because with puzzles you can tell when a piece is missing - you spot a gape and you have a vague idea as to what piece is missing - people aren't like that. we are sand, we consist of hundreds of thousands of molecules, we are several hundred million grains of sand and sometimes a grain will fall from the sculpture that is our bodies and our souls. with time we wither as the ocean soaks into our frame and soon we start to sag, the grains collapse and crumple - some fall off in chunks - but we do not notice because we consist of so many little pieces that one grain will not be missed. until one day, after several million grains of sand - several million grains of you - have crumpled and been washed away by the ocean do you start to feel empty, and you notice this gape within you and you have no idea as to when or even how you had lost this part of yourself, you cannot find it because it consisted of many pieces and it is so very small. it has no shape, it is just a mass of nothing, and you crawl along the floor in a vain attempt to find all your missing pieces but they all look the same and is this piece even yours or are you stealing someone else's missing grains of sand? we do not consist of five hundred pieces of cardboard cut into geometric shapes, we are sand and we erode at a pace so slow we do not even realise we are missing chunks of ourselves until the ocean has eaten everything that makes us who we are.


And the war we fought is over

And this is how it all begins,
the “oh, what could have been”s

and the “I’ll never love again”s

the middle and the end,

This is where it all starts,

 the fractures in a broken heart,

the crashing and falling apart,

like breaking is a work of art.

This is where the black and blue

splinter across thoughts of you,

where sorrow makes old things new.

Here is where I lose. I always do.


There is a particular kind of suffering to be experienced when you love something greater than yourself. A tender sacrafice.

Like a pained silence felt in the lost song of a mermaid; or the bent and broken feet of a dancing ballerina. It is in every considered step I am taking in the opposite direction of you.

-Letting Him Go

Every nerve in my body could be damaged or numb,
and I’d still be able to feel you.
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