[x]

Ignore AdviceWrite ten bad poems.

Write one hundred
bad poems.

Write profoundly.

Write and drink.

Keep a notebook with you,
write in public
and make sure that others
know that you are, in fact,
writing.

Write a love poem,
then throw it away
because all the good ones
have already been read.

Ignore advice,
write about the decision
instead of the feeling.

Write one sentence
-make indents,
say to yourself that
this is it, THIS is IT.

Then delete,
and tell yourself that again.

A Full LifeA man, who has
never tried to harm
another man,
lies awake
and wonders.

GaspThere was no
life in
danger, but
she pressed her
lips to his

and breathed
into him
all the
same.

Are You Missing"Are you missing
anything?",
she sighed

-as she watched
the snow-ghosts
at night
with her hands
on the frozen
glass, leaving
fog prints
that pressed
and reached.

-as he sat quietly,
breathing in
that summer
rain.

CourageA young woman
wakes up
in the morning
with the light
from her blinds
making stripes
on her skin.

She throws
the heavy covers
off herself
and leaves them
on the floor,
before scrambling
to fix her mistake.

She closes
her eyes.

ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refus

Skeleton/Vapor"Whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life?
It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away" (James 4:14)

You could trace each of your veins with permanent marker, a crossed out road map,
a black web missing its spider. You could trace your fingers on the wet ink and follow your blood
as it leaves your heart
and slides down your arm then through your fingertips
before it reaches the pointed edge of a yellowed finger, taking a second to appreciate the
scenery.
Make sure to color in the vena cava, the jugular, the knife
that bit into your finger one summer chopping
tomatoes (It's

InsectThat man
at the
corner

does not
watch the
light-

instead,
he smashes
a bug

who had
somewhere
to go.

Eye ContactHold these thoughts
closely.

You are a
frienzed,
sex-depraved madman.

You are waiting
for the flowers
to murder you.

You are drugged up
on mental chemicals.

You are lonely.

You are every dark secret
and
every act of kindness.

You are nothing
(important).

But do not believe for a second
that you are a ghost,
drunk on freedom.

The woman with the stroller
sees you.

The man rubbing his glasses
with his mouth half open
sees you.

The child
and the white-knuckled toy
see you,
and watch as if
the whole world were new
and a man who could pass through
walls and skin
was something special
and worth attention.

PeakShirtless in bed,
on a lonely
saturday night.

An impatient man
writes impatient
poetry.

How To Create A Bomb Using Household ItemsFirst you must find
a handful of Chinese gunpowder
that shimmers with little bits of copper
and black pepper. It must smolder
when you clench your fist
and make your eyes red with water.

Then empty an aluminum can
of cheap beer;
tear off the label, make the rip
clean.
Have a stranger hold you steady
when you pour the powder
in a parking lot filled with cars
and no people.

Thread in some string
from the edge of your shirt.

Pull a piece of bubble gum
from your back pocket and chomp down,
show no mercy. Once it is sticky
and has given up completely,
you can stick the tab back in place
by pressing the gum down with your thumb

Ghost StoryWhat is this
on the next horizon
holding strong against the wind,
it is a figment,
it is an oil stain,
it is something
less than a blur
and more than a photograph.

UndercurrentPeople hang lightbulbs,
made from wire
and amber bottles,
out their windows
and beneath flowerpots.

You can almost see
the animals
swimming just below
the streets.

We are watching
for shipwrecks.

We are watching
for tattoos
on the heart and lungs;
for ink that drifts
through your veins.

We are watching
young men build rafts
from fliers
and telephone poles.

Waiting for a
blue-gray wave
of asphalt
to carry them
out to sea.

OhFingers in front of
your eyes,
laced in light.

The arid, shifting
desert of your palms.

Sand in the beachgrass,
dancing.

Listen to the shell:
it will teach
what is alive.

Tell your children it was the ocean.

The whole world
can hear you breathe.

Are you innocent yet?

Fishnet stockings
and long, dark hair.

That empty
moment.

May she never hear the name
that you whisper through the dark.

Scene 5They are both lying face-up
on a wet picnic bench.
Laughing at the trees
and their ruined clothes.

Mud clings to their shoes
like cool, gray sunshine.

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FlitA bee landed on my shoulder
right next to my ear.

While he searched for nectar,
I was slapping
at a bug.

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

XXXXXEven now,
part of me
(my hands)
want to
pull out
that glass
she lodged
in her neck.

Pull it out
and drop it
into pieces,
or keep it
in the back seat
of my car.

Where it can
lay a while
and stare at me.
Part of me
(my chest)
is not afraid
of demons.

It is far less
dangerous
than girls with
haphazard knives
and other
monsters.

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

DryingThere is a book of matches
on my floor here,
somewhere behind the
shelves of paper and wires
coiled in the corners.

And it always smells a little bit
like smoke and ink in here
especially when I open the window;
put myself on display
for a street where
only strangers walk by.

I am an old, tired zoo animal
and the kids don't even tap
on my glass anymore.

The Bottom of the BoxThere is nothing to decipher
in the cracking of leaves
on the sidewalk.
Or the way her hair draws lines
in front of her blue coronas,
in the smell of black coffee
and warm tea.
You see these people
looking up at the clouds,
looking at their reflections
bent and stretched against
the hood of a car.
In fur and luxury,
in large collections of art.

(The best of which are only
crude depictions of the magic
they are looking for.)

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Submitted: August 16, 2012
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Cloudy

by *FallingAsleepTonight, Aug 16, 2012, 11:23:16 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

There is something worse
than writer's block;
it's when the words come in
through the heat,
through the loneliness,
or the sheets with
writhing contentment.
It's when the words are right
in your head
for paper or someone else,
and all I can mutter is that
my head hurts-
and I need to go to sleep.

Cloudyby *FallingAsleepTonight

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Been just sort of pumping things out lately, thinking a bunch about writing in itself

~~love 0 0~~

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~noblevoyager Dec 7, 2012 Student Writer

Nice one! I can relate so much.

~brightandwild Nov 2, 2012 Student General Artist

Man, I know just how this feels.
Oh, the frustration. ^^

=EveFromLove Aug 24, 2012 Professional Writer

Sensational...made me laugh!
Well...a writer always get mad with that.

~PowerlessFlames Aug 24, 2012

so many can relate to this... and the way its portrayed is so simple, but its meaning is so strong!

*FallingAsleepTonight Aug 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

~Abraxas-within Aug 19, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Hey guess what? I decided to take your advice and just let my thoughts out and onto the paper. The result was this super-quick poem that i wrote after my first comment. [link]

~Abraxas-within Aug 19, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

I can totally relate to this, my head is constantly buzzing with ideas and i hardly ever take the time to capture them on a paper. How do you write so much stuff so quickly? You're way more dedicated to the craft than me.

*FallingAsleepTonight Aug 19, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I just open notepad on my laptop and bumble around. The quality has been slipping a little (in my opinion), but the vast increase in quantity is great for practice and experimentation,

~CherrySmoothie Aug 19, 2012 Student Traditional Artist

Glorious. I feel this way about school, sometimes.

*inktailswallow Aug 18, 2012

i can completely associate with this. Often I'll have a poem or a story running smoothly through my head, but I'll have no energy to get it down on paper.

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