Persy's Promiscuity Pertaining to Poetry

8.5

you tore me like an old poem
and I laid on your floor,
strewn into wilting pieces
and waiting to see
if you would write me again.

9

an investigation into the science of suppression --
we learn how to quiet ourselves
and fold our hands
neatly as the morning newspaper.

we forget to love on another,
bodies too caught up in plain-ness
and formality,

our ferocity, the way that we hold each other
so tightly at night disappears
into lone, quietly held hours

in which we lie and wonder
what we've done with ourselves.

10

some kid
pulled my wings off yesterday
with a gleeful smile
and a practiced hand--

and I could not remember
if I'd been an angel
or an insect
and I cannot find my wings
to look.

11

some acts of faith
require more than religion:

fingertips invoking soft sounds, the break, like a wave
crashing its face against earth

and I swear, each time I think I'm long-gone broken
there is a piece of wholeness, rightness

in my life that brings me all back together again.
I found you like a quiet murmur

lying in your own light, resting
and growing in ways that I never thought I could --

not like a tree, or a song, or a wave,
like morning spreading over the sleeping bodies

of people who are now learning
what they could be.

Spoiler

the first line came from kylan's second thingymadoo just fyi

12

I wanted to write you a song and
found that my voice
was too small to record

too broken for showing
too honest for the baring
and I quieted myself down

until I was too silent
to hear myself too

13

i.
You could cut your fingers on a morning like this.
Today stands on the edge of a knife. I can feel its trepidation
like it were my own.

ii.
Parts of me are foreign:
things that I found in old roads
and lost rooms, like trinkets I took a liking to,
without having yet learned their names.
My hands are short stemmed odd things
which twist and fumble like doorknobs or clocks.
They move too much, erratic
and wanting.

iii.
The rhythms of morning
and bedsheets and breath
echo about my room,
my morning,
like it were a cathedral.

iv.
This is a song I know.
I do not cut my fingers on things such as this.

14

A woman took my heart today.
She stole it, really, not with romance or the press of her hips against mine --
it was like a gypsy witch casting a curse,
pressing her fingers against my breast and reaching into me;

it came out in strings,
an unwavering note, a trunk of a tree
uprooted.

She said she needed something
to fill the empty parts of her,
like there were dusty rooms
or old attics. Her rib chamber echoed;
she did not hear the rhythm of herself as she fell asleep
and the silence was overbearing, terrifying --

she took my heart and pressed it into her chest
and I thanked her
for a quiet moment.

15

I too have marveled at the complexity
of a jawbone.

In a surrealist world, we would
talk with our hearts and close up our heads;

our lungs would open up
like gusts of wind and the soft,
vulnerable parts of us would learn kindness.

I too have marveled
at the complexity of a jawbone --

how it gnashes on its own words,
how it decays in its own venom,

biting down
on its own vulnerability
in the hopes that no one else will first.

I am in love with these poems! They are amazing!

Thanks! <3

16


sometimes I wish that you could read the nuances
of me like an english professor
picking apart a book;

I don't know if I'm worth reading
or if there's much analyze,
but I think your hands
turning my pages, you,

reading me aloud
might be a story in itself.

17

the ferocity of our anger
and outrage, and love,
is dulled by too many knives taken to our hands,
too many scars
scratched into our backs
or old words that never quite left our heads.

we stopped learning how to love ourselves
when people told us
that we were selfish for trying.

You like the word some to start several of these.

Damn straight.

I swear we're the only ones who read each other's threads.

For what it's worth, I lurk in both of yours with heart a'fluttering. ^^