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Daily Deviation
Literature Text
the first time I caught sight of your
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
glistening, marble eyes,
I decided you disgust me.
I hate you the way I hate perfection:
merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.
every fact of you is pretentious,
held high like you raise a middle finger.
You, the artist, always sculpting things,
tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clay
and stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.
paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:
this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipation
to build and destroy, build and destroy.
you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,
love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.
you're a statue, a prison,
a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heaven
but you are no museum.
you may hang yourself in gilded frames,
forcing masses to silence with obscurity,
but that does not make you a hallowed hall.
no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.
you look at me, daring to think you understand.
your words trickle from my lips like a waterfall
as you tell me what a strange and marvelous Chimera I am.
your voice scratches at my spine, persistent, but
I've long since lost feeling in these flimsy balsa bones.
you think I'm your tangled marionette, a plaything
you awkwardly stitched long ago,
but I'm here to prove you wrong:
I tied myself up and hung from the rafters
a hundred times before I felt your touch.
today, I write you my goodbye letter.
you never suspected that your Pinocchio girl
could pick up scissors and cut herself free.
you were too busy playing god to notice.
the farther I run from your twisted lunatic asylum,
the more I realize that you're no Louvre.
you sad boy, you're no museum.
Literature
Sundiver
i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.
Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.
I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.
He was death,
I was the bird.
ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.
If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.
iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had
Literature
defeathered
and this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)
and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago
as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--
all I ever wanted to do was belong.
dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len
Literature
how you can manage to know so much
she's barely an inch taller - but still taller -
squinting at the horizon line and heaving tobacco smoke
through resin coated lungs that should belong to a
fourty three year old smoker, not an eighteen year old
graduate
she laughs the loudest when others cast glances
and hushed whispers
and never misses the chance to tell you
she couldn't possibly give less
of a shit
she likes convenience store mints;
the round white ones you'd find
at the bottom of grandma's purse that tasted like
dust and chemically sweetened perfume,
and home
she went to a school where "dyke"
was spat like poison at her feet
but knew exactly what to say when three
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A practice invective poem that I wrote in my slam poetry club. I haven't performed it yet, but I plan to...if I can work up the nerve! I'm actually fairly proud of this poem, which is weird for me. I won't say who this is about, but interestingly enough, when I read it to my mother she guessed it on her first try. She knows me so well. 
If you liked this, let me know! I love your feedback! 
EDIT: DEAR SWEET BABY JESUS. A DAILY DEVIATION? Now I'm really feeling confident enough to read it to the club...I'm dumbfounded. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH.
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A beautiful poem full of raw emotion and bittersweet words...