See this wishbone-like scar on my knuckle, darling?
This is where you bit me until I bled.
Be my joy ride until I collapse but please
envelope me so then I don’t start to fray.
Tell me how good I feel in your hands
please make me shudder in delight.
Dive recklessly into my violent sea
and thrive on the salt you taste on me.
Make me come, my darling,
make me come like a 10 point earthquake and I’ll
make lamingtons for you in the morning.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Find the loneliest star in the sky
One that for no matter how you try
You will be unable to find it again
Admire that star and give it a name
Call it whatever you like but think of me
Name a forgotten star and think of me
Throw your arms around a tree
One bent and rotting and ugly
Run your reverant palms along the peeling bark
Let the deepest root hear your beating heart
Love that tree the most but think of me
Hug a dying tree and think of me
Plant a tomato vine in the summer dirt
Dig and dig til your fingers hurt
Til your skin is pink and your nails are black
Til the stinking sweat streams down your back
Curse the blessed sun but think of me
Watch as a living thing grows and think of me
Empty your words
into the margins of
from what can no
longer be held,
a poem is born.
my heart would do anything to make him happy
but my head constantly throws a wrench in those plans.
i’m tentative towards love,
still scared to dip my toes in the shallow end,
let alone dive in
as he wants me too.
but he says he doesn’t mind
waiting for my sideways, lazy heart
and my jumpy, anxious mind.
he makes me think about sunflowers,
and pale veins
and the rich moss of a forest floor.
he’s inviting and engulfing
and impossible to shake off.
he’s the quiet intensity in a room
when he’s pensive,
and the glue holding everyone together when he’s friendly.
i kissed him in the deep end of the ocean,
under the pier.
there’s still salt on my lips,
from all that time
and i hope it stays that way.
when he kisses me
he pushes the grains a little further in every time,
marking his existence on my being.
Spelling and grammar tips from John Green.
Because John Green is great and so are grammatically correct blog posts.
That’s it! I didn’t count the submissions but there seemed to be about fifty or so. All were good, some were outstanding. I followed back everyone who submitted and I’m so excited to read more of your work.
Thank you all soooo much for participating. That was really a joy to be a part of.
Love, peace, respect in all things,
The most common way to vent out tears is. You were in the shower, or probably in the rain—it helps you to conceal how immense your teardrops would be. You cried, following the rhythm of the rivulets of water. Your muffled sob reverberated through the ceilings. You accidentally tasted your tears as it falls on the edge of your lips. You winced. You wondered why tears are salty. “Why tears are salty?” You were having your own kind of soliloquy, asking yourself while looking on the window pane.
Before being prominent for being salty, tears conquered a lot more. Tears tried mingling with a pint of acid, but it dissatisfied the purpose of crying. Tears cannot be acidic, because how will you be able to cry again if your visage starts to corrode as when your first teardrop lands on you. Tears went on with its second choice: to mingle with sugar. It was good, but not great. Tears cannot be overly too sweet, because cicadas might start to look for you as they track your face soaked in the flavors of caramel, chocolate, vanilla, and licorice. Tears have no choice but to try its last choice: to lace with salt. It is salty because it is a challenge for us not to taste this pool of saline all of the time. It is a challenge for us not to rely with tears in times of hardship. Because it drown us in our own kinds of seawater.
I know it was inappropriate, and I couldn’t bring myself to apologize then.
So I’ll say I’m sorry now for the time you were crying, and I licked the tears from your face.
I couldn’t focus
On what you were saying
Something about your dad
Or something else maybe
I wasn’t listening
I was too busy staring
At the droplets on your cheeks.
I couldn’t help but think about tears and why they exist, what they’re made of.
Salt and water.
Where does the salt come from?
And I wanted so badly to ask you that
But somehow I realized that it wasn’t the time
And so I didn’t.
I instead imagined a tiny cave behind your iris
Where tiny men
Mine tiny salt crystals
And sometimes the dynamite blows too quickly
And they lose
Into the river of your tear duct.
I didn’t want their work to go to waste
And so while a fresh surge of wetness
Merged from your brackish eyes
I leaned forward
I gripped your chin
And I licked you
From the corner of your mouth
To your cheekbone.
I felt so self satisfied
And you just looked at me
And I don’t blame you
Because that was
You spoke to me.
He’s got salt in his eyes,
Stone hands won’t rub it away
Because he can’t lift them;
They’re too heavy and so he let’s
The crystals bash around his mind
At night leaving skid marks on his brain.
Behind his eyelids and sometimes it burns
Too much to close his eyes, but they’re like bricks
So all at once his body turns into a battle field
And he loses every time, no matter what.
And he remembers when the monsters were only under his bed.
But Daddy can’t make these monsters go away;
Mommy can’t kiss the salt goodbye.
And it burns his dreams like a
Fireball that’s right by his face-
He can smell his hair singe.
So despite the cup of water beside his bed,
And despite the pills and the doctors
He can’t get rid of the salt because
And it makes him worry that it’s all he’ll
Because nothing is working
To cure his stone limbs,
And his body isn’t an ocean whose waves will erode
The pain away so he can sleep at night without salt
Encrusted eyes and a bitter taste in his mouth.
He can’t even be bothered to move himself.
It’s too hard to walk with rocks in his pockets.
And that’s why Johnny left him, but before he did
He said that you can catch more flies with honey,
But vinegar is all he’s got,
Along with salt and stones that burn and sink him.
Now, he’s just hoping he’ll sink so low that he comes
Out the other side and things will be different.
The taste of salt doesn’t always have to burn your tongue,
it also doesn’t mean they have won.
Busy work doesn’t mean being productive,
and doing nothing isn’t always obstructive.
Some of the best ideas come late at night,
and the things you hear are nearly never right.
Love isn’t easy, but that doesn’t mean it’s tough,
and people are going to tell you you’ll never be good enough.
In the end the winners are
the ones that let the salt burn their tongue,
and didn’t let it leave a scar.
I ran the tip of my tongue
along the path
so many tears had taken,
imagining salt laden rivers
for which I could not take credit.
but still tasting the remains
as they pooled around your tender heart.
Disregarding my delirium, I dance
with the elephant from India
She smells of sweet heat
that rises from beats
of butterfly wings
The women are so friendly here
in the Palace of Psychedelic Daisies
I must confess my impure thoughts
to the Giant Centipede who guards
the gates of the Great Honeycomb Pyramid
The queen of Wasps invites me to kiss
her hard-candied hips
Just as my lips reach lavender bliss,
a crystal god smashes the moment
Sending me crawling back to the village of Fire Ants
where I am elected President
because my skin sweats marmalade
But I’m soon unseated by a toad on a stump
who promises a decade of dead worms
Now I sail the sea of Buttered Popcorn,
salting the stars with paper cut fingertips
I long for one more chance
with the Elephant from India