The Wait (a poem)

The Wait

I don’t seek praise
for surviving disappointment
others suffer far worse
than anything I’ll ever know
still between you and me
when it’s your own private hell
you’re standing waist-deep in
it feels like the whole world
the only world you’ll ever know

they need to come up with
a chemo for the soul
but God in Heaven
could you imagine the lines
the broken and
down-turned faces
tapping their veins
until they rise
ready for the cure
ready for the needle and the drip
that will take all the ache
that no doctor can measure
God just imagine the wait.

- thissometimepoet


The things I write about you are not pretty.

For example: You are the ugly way I feel about Los Angeles, mouth a smear like sunset singed with citrus burns. Hollywood hill is a smashed pomegranate against your scorched teeth. All the stars walk the red carpet while I write sonnets to your mouth. It’s been too long since the last time we spoke, I’ve forgotten what everyone else looks like — your hands are trees made of smog, and they have taken root in my lungs. I wish this city would burn to the ground.

For example: The last time I fell in love, I broke all the dishes in the kitchen and bled out on the floor. You were not good for me. You held the bandaids, but I told you to put them back in the drawer. I loved being so broken for you — your heart was a hospital without the healing. My parents never taught me that being loved for your wounds was wrong.

For example: Tonight, I am falling asleep without you. I’ve had bad dreams ever since we met, things about dark-haired women that die because they never ran fast enough. I never ran fast enough. I’m still learning what it’s like not to find your face etched into the wood of my floorboards, and I’m failing miserably. You were not good for me.

For example: You were not good for me. You were California burning, and my lungs couldn’t take it. You were not good for me. You were a broken spine I couldn’t set; I was a scab you always picked. You were not good for me.

For example: Get out of my poetry, nobody wants to read about the ways we broke. Get out of my poetry, this isn’t about you anymore. This is about Los Angeles and how much I hate the sky. California wasn’t good for me — nothing about dying is pretty.

– Burn Victim | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)
"I thought leaving you would be easy,
just walking out the door
but I keep getting pinned against it
with my legs around your waist and it’s like
my lips want you like my lungs want air,
it’s just what they where born to do so
I am sitting at work thinking of you
cutting vegetables in my kitchen
your hair in my shower drain
your fingers on my spine in the morning
while we listen to Muddy Waters, I know
you will never be the one I call home
but the way you talk about poems
like marxists talk of revolution
it makes me want to keep trying.
I’m still looking for reasons to love you.
I’m still looking for proof you love me."
– Clementine von Radics (via 47giraffes)

(via clementinevonradics)

"I, too, remember the feeling. You are caught between all that was and all that must be. You feel lost."
– Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of The World  (via ismiamora)

(Source:, via y-fx)


Death Cab for Cutie | Marching Bands of Manhattan

I wish we could open our eyes to see in all directions at the same time. Oh, what a beautiful view, if you were never aware of what was around you.

(via msfrannyglass)


My body is a temple,
sewn together with transparent,
orange monarch wings and the
pungent smoke from burning
incense sticks.

I sleep behind the altar,
asking for communion to
be poured from my lips
and palms. I pray into
the floorboards.
I have scratched my name
thousands of times into
the pews of my hips and wrists and
I told myself that hymnals
should be left in their neat little rows
and I had no business
flipping the pages.

Weave the wax from
burning candles
into my veins. These
are my opaque
chants, soft and silent.

(Source: birthmark-poetry)