felonys-amazing-poetry-tm - Tumblr blog

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

tell me you love me

moreover, tell me you love me and let it destroy you and beyond that, too, let it destroy us

tell me you love me like cracked ribs in both of our chests

your wounds puncture me

bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh and lungs in my lungs and

oh

i do not know where my body  begins and  your body  ends and your blood is my blood is pumping in my heart in  your chest inside this big goddamned cavern

inside us both

oh

love is your  teeth rolling in my mouth against mine

tell me you love me

moreover, say it with my tongue and  my lips and my blood in it all

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

you‘re fucked up. and you’re tired. you are so, so tired.

so you write

you write them broken, you write them human, you write them spitting blood out of bruised lips, sneering and crying.

you write them desperate, you write them lonely in their bathroom, eyes red. you write them with broken mirrors and you write them angry.

you write them like they could be loved, like they are on the edge of being loved, like they could just be loved if they were only to try harder, to be enough.

you write them hated, and hating themselves, you write them ashamed and begging to God, you write them ears ringing. you write them panicked and aching, and yearning and empty.

you write them hungry, you write them with cracked lips.

you write them and you pretend that it’s not you in the pages.

you write them and pray to God yourself, that you’re not being written too.

you write them.

you’re so tired.

you keep writing them.

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

you wake up human

human in all the ways that matter blood bones teeth

and bitter aching love, caught in your jaws like a bird brittle-boned and apologetic

i’m sorry for it the humanity the shape of my hands and the shape of these restless wings

human lips snarled and heart bared love is a violence on this mortal soul and you love it like a beast

god, do you love it

and you (human. blood. teeth. bone.) will let it destroy you

you (human) you (bird caught in gentle, shredding teeth) (like it could love you) (like it could love you wretchedly and holy and rotting and beautiful)

you, human (bird. teeth. flesh. wings.)

you fall asleep dream fly

a bird in ways you can’t escape trembling heart hollow bones wings. feathers. wings

i‘m sorry for it sharp tearing beak the softness of my feathers and the blood under my skin

human and you are human flying and falling cloying, roiling love

and god, you love it and god, it will destroy you

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

one day

(when we are older, you know?  when it is not us and already stiff joints, but us and already creased faces, and hopefully they will be smile lines but i guess us and our creaking bones know better still, we are young and we pretend to hope, so when we are older then)

one day, when we are older

will you come home with me?

(home: not to be confused with  a too-small apartment, or a place our parents call “home”, not to be confused with a place  at all, really just home. where i am not so lonely and you are not so gone)

one day, when we are older, will you come home with me?

(will you come and will it not be so lonely? will it be okay? will i stop aching? will my throat stop tightening whenever i turn a corner where my family cannot see? will the tears stop dragging raggedly at my lungs when i refuse to let them fall?)

(if you are with me, will they need to fall at all? please, will you come with me? please, will you understand my loneliness? please, will you tell me if it can be fixed? please, will it be okay? please, will it be home?)

one day, when we are older, can you come and make it home?

please, will it finally be home?

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

being an adult is so heavy

thick on my tongue like syrup or blood honey maybe, the way it chokes me

heavy like my mom’s arms whenever she hugs me heavy like my dad’s hands with all the things they’ve taught me

to fix things to hide things

it’s all so heavy

being an adult

a parent

glance out from underneath my curly hair -the only one in the family to have it- and appreciate that i am not quite either yet

not an adult or a parent

though it seems like i’ve been pretending well enough my whole life

well enough to raise my sister

all the wrong ways

(self portrait by a bad sculpture i would title it, ”a broken mirror“ parenthesised beneath. ”all the wrong ways” yeah, that’s about right)

well enough that my bones and joints already ache

knees and neck and knuckles

(give me a few decades and i’ll manage to tell when it’s going to rain rub my hip and say “looks like the weather’s turning“ as if it hasn‘t been turning all my life ”knees and neck and knuckles” crook my finger knowingly at the youngin’s)

it’s so heavy

i despise the day my hands turn heavy too

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

i’m so honoured that you illustrated this!!! it’s lovely and it makes it hit that much harder :’)

set a scene. what are you imagining? here, have this one.

1.

a boy. a boy with jet black hair and golden eyes (they are honey now) (but that comes later) a boy.

a man. a man with blazing eyes and burning hands (they burn so so much) (they keep burning) a man. a father.

a boy and a man.

a room. a room and so many people and so many eyes and they are cheering and laughing and- (an old man turns away) (he turns away often, but that’s all he can do) a room.

a boy with golden eyes and a man with burning hands. the room full of cheering.

~

the boy.

there are things the boy does not know. he does not know how to make his father love him he does not know how to be good enough he doesn’t know why his mother left  and why his sister doesn’t love him anymore (he does not know what a father should be) (that comes later too)

there are things the boy does know.

things like “bait” and “slaughter” things like people having lives that matter things like speaking out because there’s nothing else he can do (things like the pain of burns) (things like dishonour)

the boy, and he will learn (just not yet)

~

the man.

he is bitter, and the part of him that is not hate is apathy. he’s empty. he’s full of pride.

and maybe he just wants to see the world burn

(he starts with his son) (golden eyes pleading)

~

the room.

it’s more of an arena and nobles gather round to watch the two characters of this ill-begotten play

a boy

a man

the room

who knew golden eyes could weep tears so blue? the boy on his knees, and he doesn’t know how to make his father love him but he knows how to beg he knows how to plead

callous hands and maybe his father will love him maybe it’s a caress and maybe the fire in the man’s eyes will not reach the flame in his hand

who knew love could burn so hot?

a cowering boy, golden eyes squeezed shut a towering man, hands ablaze-

no, a new scene then.

~

2.

a leader. a leader with armour meant to be decorative and a stare begging the enemy to back down (he doesn’t want to fight) (not his father and not them) a leader. a boy.

a second leader. a man with tired eyes and weary soul a heart not willing to let his men die while he watches on (a man who does not know he will love this boy) (a man who will watch these eyes turn from fire to honey) a leader. a father.

a boy and a man.

a ship. a ship and swaying deck and a boy not made for the sea, and strangers who were born from the ocean itself. and one sees the individual and imagines his own hands bloody and the other sees his people and is relieved they are safe (they are both wrong) (there was nothing the boy could have done) (the man didn’t foresee the danger of loving a boy like this) a ship.

a leader with a desperate stare and a leader with tired soul and a ship. a ship with rocking deck.

~

the boy leader.

what is there to say? he is a little too broken a little too full of pain a little too ready to take the guilt and blame himself (he cares a little too much about the individual) (he does not stop caring)

there are things he still doesn’t know

like how to smile big and free like the boys on the ship like how to take a break without feeling weak like how to understand that letting yourself be hurt is not the only way to show respect (like what a father should act like) (that comes later)

the boy, the prisoner, the leader of nothing, really, anymore.

~

the tired man.

it’s straightforward really, the years have bruised him but his eyes are sharp and mostly? he just wants to be kind he just wants to be the one to raise his children he wants his home to be there when he gets back he wants the world to have more peace than it holds now (he wants the boy to have peace too) (he knows neither of them will get it) (he wishes anyway)

but there are things he can’t have

things like watching his son become a man like watching his daughter pull the tides with a wave of her hand like his wife kissing him, one last time (like the peace of a son not his own) (he keeps trying anyway)

the man, the leader, the father.

~

the second scene is this, then.

the ship.

a home and yet, merely a transitional place. a prison; a haven.

the boy, gathering lightning into himself and sending it off again the boy, saving the ship.

a boy, a man, a ship.

and he is storming off (he is not his father) (but what if he was?)

tea is scorched and the fire burns low and it’s a healer pretending to sleep and a leader trying to lead for his men and not his heart

and the boy is gone and the man leads for his people, not the individual and the ship keeps rocking in the harbour.

the scene ends.

Afficher davantage

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

never saw it coming and maybe i should have, you know?

the way i loved you like a knife to my throat

you’d come home and there i’d be, ready to take your heavy emotions and pain like a winter coat soaked with snow

the way you’d let them hurt you and in turn i’d let you hurt me (none of it was intentional, but the wound’s just as deep)

but i let you, so it’s not your fault, is it? can i still blame myself for the things you’ve done? it always comes back to me, right? it doesn’t have to be your hand choking the life out of me

if i was the one that let you do it.

you always joke about how you’re the therapy friend (it’s true, darling. it’s true! please stop taking their pain as your own, shovel your own driveway free from snow before you shovel your neighbor’s)

and if that’s true (it is. it’s true) than i must be the therapy sibling 

(shovel in hand, wet coat on my back, i’ll clear the driveway then start on my grave)

i never saw it coming, but i should have.

heaven knows you can’t drive steady on every winter road 

(was it your turn to shovel or mine?)

~~

based in part on this lovely poem by @brilliantblindinglights

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

why is it, people always ask what you are afraid of

when getting to know each other?

Do you want to know? Do you want to know what keeps me up at night?

Do you want to know that sometimes I lay for hours thinking about how I have never been held, and I will never hold another

the smaller you go the farther apart you get

your atoms do not touch

God, i don’t even know that my father’s hands feel like

i don’t even know what it’s like to caress my mother’s face

i am so touch-starved and i’ve never felt another person and more importantly they’ve never felt me

how do they know who i am??

i am a ghost i am an empty night i am missing someone’s arms that have never held me

Ask me what my deepest fear is i dare you

because i’m so fucking afraid that if i’ve never held another person

i’ve never loved one either

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

you are lying in your bed, and it is dark

the lamp at the foot of your bed (tall. the shade is made of stained glass the colour of roses. it was your great-grandmother’s) is not on

the lamp on your bedside table (you have to click it twice to turn it on. dull yellow. looks like a dusty kindness) is not on

in all the house the lights are off, the lamps are not on

in some other time, perhaps, you would create a metaphor for this, how the lamps represent something in your life

some other time, because you are lying in your bed, and it is dark, so you do not think of the lamps and the light they do not give

you are lying in your bed, and it is dark, and you are tired.

the lamps are off, and beyond the cover of your window and curtains, the moon shines dimly. lethargically. you cannot see the stars, the sky is empty

your chest is empty too, and all the darkness that you do not think of, fills it up and overflows, like dreams and nightmares alike are a drink to be swallowed and gulped down without pause. like ink spilling around the corners of your lips. 

you are parched

you are near to drowning as you pour it thickly down your throat, it is dark. dark as the night that you refuse to think of

(the lamps have become a metaphor despite yourself)

the moon is dim but you couldn’t see it anyways, and you drink it down the rose covered lamp stands solemnly at the foot of your bed, you drink it down the yellow lamp, dusty with time, dusty with emptiness, is by your head, and you drink it down

the night becomes a lover, the way darkness is like the hand of your mother, do you have a glass of water for when you get thirsty at midnight, or do you desperately swallow the darkness every night like this?

you are parched

you are parched, and you are lying in your bed, and it is dark. the lights are off.

you roll over and close your eyes.

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

Hey, I hope your soul beems with happiness today. I hope you get everything you ever wished for and more. Much love

ahh, thank you :))

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

I am said mortal *curtsies*

Sorry I can’t help my self

Can I use your last poem for art?

I do edits sometimes and if I end up doing it (bc I can’t depend on myself to function even when I want to do things lmao) then I’ll send you a pic if you’d like and I won’t post your poetry without asking first and crediting you

oh i would love that!! as long as you tag me whenever/if ever you post it, i'd love to see what you do!!

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

i think i use the same words too much

echo and ache and gentle and pain

and i don’t miss you

sometimes

but sometimes i do and sometimes i miss myself (the one that didn’t exist) (the one that could have existed) (the one that deserved to exist, that deserved things to be better)

i don’t miss you

sometimes

but sometimes i want you to miss me i want you to think of when we were laying on the floor of your bedroom staring at the ceiling and the fan and pretending this wasn’t our last day together

i remember calling you at a thrift store the reception was terrible but your voice felt like home, y’know?

i remember making jokes (i say ‘i’ but. it wasn’t me. not the me that i am now. i was young, i was human. i loved you. i don’t miss you now. but sometimes i do)

and you understood every single one and you laughed with me

i don’t miss you

sometimes

but i miss that me i miss the smiles you gave me

when i didn’t have a grotesque face in my mirror just a face i think you loved

i use the same words too much

i miss who i was too much

and i miss you

too much

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

Hey, i really like your poetry and I hope you’re doing alright. If you ever need anyone to talk to my dms are open. I know you were probably using metaphors in your latest poem but you’re not going to off yourself tomorrow right?

thank you!! it means a lot :jj

and no i'm not, it was more of a vent piece and i'm actually doing really good right now <3

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

i’ve lived a full life

if only because now it is complete

but darling tonight i do not want to think of bones

i do not want to think about the dust or the million sunsets i will miss

can we just be human? for tonight?

just for tonight i want to pretend that love is all there was

that my joints are not aching that my mind is clear

that this sunset is the most beautiful one i have ever seen

and that my bones will not be dust

by tomorrow

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

i have only seen myself in pictures

i have only seen myself in pictures and i am selfish and i am kind

i am quiet and i am loud

and i am forgettable but when you hear that song you will think of me and that hallway will always have our echoing footsteps 

i am not an angry person but i hold within me a swelling tide of rage

you can ask me who i am but i only know myself in still-shots and a false reflection of who i think i am

my answer will be passionately half-hearted and i smile when i frown

and all my freckles are on the wrong sides of me  and my right arm holds my left hand up

because i have only seen myself in pictures

i have only seen myself in pictures and i am numb and i am overwhelmed

i am broken and i am whole

and when i look in the mirror i am trying to ignore

the falseness of my reflection

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

these men with their strange ways and striking eyes they are like the moon

they are like the moon and pull at the tides of his heart

his trust, his affection like an ocean lapping at the shore

he didn't plan to love them but when has the moon ever cared about the wants of the sea?

they are like the moon and where he has only known harsh sun they come with gentle light and promises to be soft with him

promises not to burn his back with blazing glare promises to guide him home with pleasant light

and his heart of oceans is pulled towards these men

they are like the moon

and he, child of the sun learns to reflect their light instead

~

they are like the moon and they are gone

and then he is child of the sun, all alone

and he is cold and he is empty and he is so so tired

there is no light there is no home

there is hunger and there is burning and there is a small boy by his side

and he will take it all for that small boy

he is child of the sun kid on his hip prisoner on the run

and he is out he is free he is-

closing his eyes against the light

he is finally out, this child of the sun

and the moon is too bright

the moon is too bright

~~

*sighs* yeah it’s based on The Art of Burning by @hella1975 again. >:I anyways, inspiration in the tags if you want to know

[felonys-amazing-poetry-tm]

set a scene. what are you imagining? here, have this one.

1.

a boy. a boy with jet black hair and golden eyes (they are honey now) (but that comes later) a boy.

a man. a man with blazing eyes and burning hands (they burn so so much) (they keep burning) a man. a father.

a boy and a man.

a room. a room and so many people and so many eyes and they are cheering and laughing and- (an old man turns away) (he turns away often, but that’s all he can do) a room.

a boy with golden eyes and a man with burning hands. the room full of cheering.

~

the boy.

there are things the boy does not know. he does not know how to make his father love him he does not know how to be good enough he doesn’t know why his mother left  and why his sister doesn’t love him anymore (he does not know what a father should be) (that comes later too)

there are things the boy does know.

things like “bait” and “slaughter” things like people having lives that matter things like speaking out because there’s nothing else he can do (things like the pain of burns) (things like dishonour)

the boy, and he will learn (just not yet)

~

the man.

he is bitter, and the part of him that is not hate is apathy. he’s empty. he’s full of pride.

and maybe he just wants to see the world burn

(he starts with his son) (golden eyes pleading)

~

the room.

it’s more of an arena and nobles gather round to watch the two characters of this ill-begotten play

a boy

a man

the room

who knew golden eyes could weep tears so blue? the boy on his knees, and he doesn’t know how to make his father love him but he knows how to beg he knows how to plead

callous hands and maybe his father will love him maybe it’s a caress and maybe the fire in the man’s eyes will not reach the flame in his hand

who knew love could burn so hot?

a cowering boy, golden eyes squeezed shut a towering man, hands ablaze-

no, a new scene then.

~

2.

a leader. a leader with armour meant to be decorative and a stare begging the enemy to back down (he doesn’t want to fight) (not his father and not them) a leader. a boy.

a second leader. a man with tired eyes and weary soul a heart not willing to let his men die while he watches on (a man who does not know he will love this boy) (a man who will watch these eyes turn from fire to honey) a leader. a father.

a boy and a man.

a ship. a ship and swaying deck and a boy not made for the sea, and strangers who were born from the ocean itself. and one sees the individual and imagines his own hands bloody and the other sees his people and is relieved they are safe (they are both wrong) (there was nothing the boy could have done) (the man didn’t foresee the danger of loving a boy like this) a ship.

a leader with a desperate stare and a leader with tired soul and a ship. a ship with rocking deck.

~

the boy leader.

what is there to say? he is a little too broken a little too full of pain a little too ready to take the guilt and blame himself (he cares a little too much about the individual) (he does not stop caring)

there are things he still doesn’t know

like how to smile big and free like the boys on the ship like how to take a break without feeling weak like how to understand that letting yourself be hurt is not the only way to show respect (like what a father should act like) (that comes later)

the boy, the prisoner, the leader of nothing, really, anymore.

~

the tired man.

it’s straightforward really, the years have bruised him but his eyes are sharp and mostly? he just wants to be kind he just wants to be the one to raise his children he wants his home to be there when he gets back he wants the world to have more peace than it holds now (he wants the boy to have peace too) (he knows neither of them will get it) (he wishes anyway)

but there are things he can’t have

things like watching his son become a man like watching his daughter pull the tides with a wave of her hand like his wife kissing him, one last time (like the peace of a son not his own) (he keeps trying anyway)

the man, the leader, the father.

~

the second scene is this, then.

the ship.

a home and yet, merely a transitional place. a prison; a haven.

the boy, gathering lightning into himself and sending it off again the boy, saving the ship.

a boy, a man, a ship.

and he is storming off (he is not his father) (but what if he was?)

tea is scorched and the fire burns low and it’s a healer pretending to sleep and a leader trying to lead for his men and not his heart

and the boy is gone and the man leads for his people, not the individual and the ship keeps rocking in the harbour.

the scene ends.

~~

this is under a keep reading because i want to keep the poem,,,, clean? i guess?? this. took a lot out of me. and took a whole nine-hour shift to write.

anyway,,, this is once again based on The Art of Burning by @hella1975, i hope you enjoyed it <3