Why I Am Not A Painter

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            a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry

            on the internet
            in the hopes of creating something better

            This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
            Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.

            You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
            comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
            Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.

            Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
            I am aware that that can be unsettling
            but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
            maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
            there is never a clear picture of reality

untitled inspired by body spasms, thoughts, and taylor swift's "treacherous"

the best it has ever been is in

my mind, not just the thought

of your skin and impossible 

hair, your smile, and I can 

only imagine you taste 

different than everything -- 

this girl gasps at 

the idea of you having 

every piece of her. it's not

a problem of the body; my 

mind is stubborn and wants 

you to take these breaths

from my lungs to yours. i know

in this brain, i'm unlikely 

to sense you pick up these

things i'm putting down:  

clothes, cares, worries;

my trust, my love, my 

everything; you are forever

here and just far enough

away. these dreams put me 

in a place of prayer and 

in the morning, leave 

wanting like a blanket

of snow. i want to know

your marrow in my bones

and more; you say it's dark 

in your mind.

Labels: G

posted by Emilie  # 2:43 AM

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