the story of the girl who doesn't recognize herself in the mirror is a story with which i am all too familiar. it's a story i've read many times, and lived more than once. i know the girl who won’t let anyone too close. who, right before she gets everything she wants, throws it all away. simply out of fear.

i am her.

- the story of the girl <excerpt> (writingmadly)

The constellation of stars above depicts a woman made of bones. And I imagine she was ferried there by some dark horse death had a habit of riding. Death, with his swarthy bag chock-full of snow white bones. How radiant the sky must have been when her bones first spilled out upon a clear and moonless night. t. hall

Catalyst

With every touch

With every kiss

You've kindled

You've stoked

You've fed

You've fueled....

This fire.

stairs muddy with rain

flowers attempting to rise

deep breath, spring will come

- e.

haiku VI // 4.27.23

The Outcast // #mondaymood #goyourownway • • #MBS #poem #poetry #poetsofinstagram #poet #poetsofig #poetrycommunity #outcast #goyourownway #writer #writing #writingcommunity #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #writtenword #spilledink #spilledthoughts #instapoet #instapoetry https://www.instagram.com/p/CoCwpasuYlM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Puppy love

I loved you like the stars love the moon.

But you never quite loved me back.

Im your lost puppy yearning for love.

Kick me and punch me,

steal the soul from my eyes.

As long as you replace it with your false love,

and lies.

Somehow I found home in your cruel words,

and steel fists.

What could possibly be cooler than having a #poet, @drew_j_allen, write me a #poem, based on the energy between us after knowing each other for one minute? So incredibly talented and cool. There are some moments in time, some really extraordinary interactions, that I want to remember forever. This one’s a keeper. The precious #writtenword. #prose #poetry #denver #denvercolorado #santafeartsdistrict #firstfriday #firstfridayartwalk #cosmicconnection (at Santa Fe Art District) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cg7BOOxLGxf/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

boo

Distance

Our special

moments

are still

frozen in time.

I do my best

to keep them

that way.

we're all human after all

the sins platter from heavenly decorated party in hell

stuffed with infinite sugar coated burst of fire and sticky lies

the most bitter confectioneries with galling relish a mortal could offer

—B, Jun 2022

The Tangled Twist

someday i’ll leave this small town dust behind

not a single resident will know my name

much less the sound of my voice

but the cracked concrete will remember my rage

every shard of broken glass

and shattered dish

that lies on the surface will be sure of it

- small town tattoo <excerpt> (writingmadly)

Night Song

Still my mother combs her long black hair, but there is no water, no consolation of salt. By coal glow and cricket song, the wolf steps, obscures the moon. My mother's face appears a mask of anger where the birds sleep. Over the violin night she scrapes her hair, a white belly stretched over sand. Over the coals, the black bony plates. A lizard's shell erupts, white flesh into flame. The heat on my belly is good. I lie on my side near the fire's burning, near each cinder's glow. More cracks in the rock, and the desert forgets the sea voices, the creatures drowned in stone-- a black extinction, a faint remembrance of tides. My mother's eyes, once young, have turned to sand, brushed by wind where the moon begins to hum a song of blood, the night's cold and shadowed rest. Her breasts hang heavy as stone. I pray waters, but nothing disturbs this slumber nor parts the white hairs of night. Each rail is buried, each train has gone. Only maps attest to elsewhere-- a grove of live birds ever away. Here, a chair, a country where nothing grows and death lasts for days. Here, a residue of sky and sand, a flame's mirage. My mother's hands begin their slow hush. Still she sings her hair to sleep over my crib, still the birds in the belly swell violins at dawn. I close my eyes and dream a sea of voices, dream mirrors turned upward from the root. It is here I begin to drown-- a ripple of sky where I enter, a small patch of night where the rains descend.

--t. hall

The Scribe

I will touch you with every word I write

And feel you swell with anticipation beneath my hand

I will place my lips upon your ear

And whisper

For every syllable will be our secret

Between us

And every line, a part of our story