My heart is divided
No longer can I hide it,
My love is a puzzle piece, and I can’t find peace.
Too scared to let my love lines decease.
So I equally give my time
Getting drunk off my quality wine.
Each one holds a special part
If one goes I will break apart.
What is a person to do
When more than one holds the glue
I could tell you that I have not the slightest clue.
The caress of one
The other is fun
Another is aggressive
And another feels as if they’ve already won
I cry at night from my confusion
A heart wrenching, sordid, ploy of revolutions
As I laugh through my delusions
And I come to the conclusion.
That in spite of my affliction
All of them are a depiction
Of something my heart transpires
Something my soul desires
But I know the consequences are dire
Because you always get burned when you play with fire
But like a moth to a flame.
I am entranced all the same.
A wild heart that can never be tamed.
A free soul that refuses to be chained.
I know I will never win in this game.
When you play with matters of the heart
Wounds will be inflicted
Hurt feelings will not be restricted
Words full of bitterness and malice will not be constricted.
My heart is divided,
Only one can make me and it whole
Only one can win me over and mend my beautifully, dark, twisted, and delicious soul.
My heart is divided,
Someone stop me, and pull on my brakes
Because my heart is divided
Only one can win
The other hearts must break.
Tag Archives: essay
Dancing by The Moon – Serene Jansen
As expected, you died.
No mysterious tragedy.
I promised I wouldn’t cry.
Vivaciously intertwined with
the untamed, the souls who are alive;
body carried out
with the songs of your life, leaving doubt.
They expected you would die
But you showed me the Moon when I was three.
And you told me to dance for her
because she often felt lonely.
You revealed other things—
how to make mud pies
and why some creatures have wings.
You own some too, they tell me.
They kept saying it was expected.
Even if I can’t accept it,
you died.
Ending – Haley Ingram
December 23 1888:
Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.
On May 8 1889,
He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.
It is here,
In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart
Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.
My darling, you are not the dried up paint
Cracked off to flake into the air
Particle by particle
Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.
Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-
The left over, missed nibbles of creation.
He ate yellow Paint
We eat yellow Paint
You are my yellow Paint.
The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream
As he did
Is because
You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness
The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair
Organs made canvas
Premature shapes
Colors splattered
Product is you.
You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty
You are the irises
You are MY irises
My darling,
I can see the starry view from my asylum window.
I am having my first out of body experience
That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window
Just to try and touch the fire of night.
I look so,
Desperate.
Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion
Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.
I carved it into my skin
Melted my flesh and bone
Molding myself into what beauty could be
But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.
I notice the fluorescent lights
pulsating
I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to
Discussing the way the flowers in your brain
Tickle the inside of your ears.
May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin
Rot in Hell.
Even I in all my idiocy know how
It feels to get lost in the
Tranquil trance of fragrance.
To be completely fine with disarray.
My darling,
You are my music.
I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.
Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence
Will not infest my brain
Not while you remain a pesticide.
Not while you’re here.
Whispering. Humming. Kissing.
Breathing
The oxygen from your own plants
Giving me CPR
trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop
But my hands stop you.
You’d make it too easy.
I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body
Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.
Insanity for a being.
Insanity for being.
I’ll admit myself.
The view is so nice here.
The view is so pretty here.
Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.
The view is so beautiful here.
July 29, 1890:
Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.
The package, has been opened.
we are not your maids anymore – Alex Esterline
We are not your maids anymore
we are not why you lock up your store
Not your gardeners
not your mechanics
Not your border-hopping, job-stealing fanatics,
Not your microagressions
or your racist misconceptions,
your oppressive lies
or your stereotypes
We are not
The color of our skin
or our “inherited sin”
Your compliance with violence
Will not lead us to silence
For this will be the last time you can take what’s mine
For this will be the last time you can tell me “I’m fine”
“Post-racial America” yet there goes another
Matando Armando, your sister, your brother
Shot dead to the ground, Locked up in the pound
You look all around yet only our love is to be found
Never Be Completed – Brooke Safferman
Somewhere between
The spaces of my fingers
And the regions of my heart that
You and I like to pretend do not exist
Are filled up by the emotions that
I never knew a person could possibly
Feel.
Give me a smile,
A nod of approval,
And I will give you
Anything you want.
A touch, a glance, a sign of encouragement
You are the unattainable dieting goal;
So insatiable, yet I know I must cut back.
Back away,
Somewhere off into the distant land of
Pretend
We used to know the things about each other
That most people would deny but
Let’s be honest – cutting the crap was always your style.
Without you,
I am a piece to a puzzle that will
Never be completed.
And without you,
I am always left
wanting more.
Overdose – Alexandra Mayer
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
Overdose – Alexandra Mayer
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
Overdose – Alexandra Mayer
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
Heavy Breathing – Iman Messado
My siblings and I have the habit of breathing heavily.
We inhale the dirt, the foliage, the pebbles in the moor with a single exhale,
(never mind the pesky case of asthma that we all seem to share)
and exhale the North wind, the starry night and the cloudless summer sky.
Our lungs must take up at least 83% of our bodies,
stratocumulus clouds and bunches of hydrangeas were pressed up against
our tracheas and primary bronchi.
When my sister speaks,
it’s with rays of sunshine peeking between her teeth.
She tends to talk rather loudly,
but I attribute that to her trying to be heard over the chirping of North African black birds.
Her knees are as knobby as a giraffe’s and her eyes are as clear as a doe’s.
However, she walks with the gait of a lioness,
and would rather inhale your fear then exhale defeat.
I have two brothers,
both are thin and gangly with limbs like birch wood branches or
a new born gazelle with awkward limbs and an ambition that could rival
that of a bird learning to master the air underneath its wings.
The older one breathes slowly and deeply.
He would inhale a scarab beetle as carefully as he would a baleen whale.
His exhales would spread across West African deserts and European tundras,
kissing nightingales and billy goats to sleep.
He doesn’t know of frantic cries nor hyperventilating,
his lungs are made of the same stuff as the mountains in South America.
The younger one is reminiscent of a rabbit,
young and small and rapid.
He breathes in lilypads and peonies and sparks of ember.
He breathes in harried words and furrowed brows and nervous feet.
He breathes in flicking tails and hurricanes and lightning bolts.
He exhales the rushing waves of the Pacific ocean.
My lungs are weak and I can only breathe in as much as I can imagine.
Sometimes, my mind is too large for my lungs.
I’ve got daisies and marshes and valleys and wombats and thunderstorms in mind.
I’m ready to exhale Atlantis, Paradise lost and the Second Coming.
Let me a breathe a little heavier.
Our Own Fairy Tale – Brooke Safferman
snowflakes
or something like
i
c
i
c
l
e
s
Drip down my arms, clinging to my veins,
Like it’s only a matter of time before they melt away.
In a place where time doesn’t exist,
In a world where reality doesn’t conform,
We can be whomever we want.
Once upon a time,
I was the ice queen, but you were the fire-breathing dragon
Frozen walls melted, its blocks floating into
happy little puddles of Sunlight
before my very eyes.
You can be the Unicorn; I’ll be the Fairy.
Let the Wicked Witch say what She wants,
But we will always write
Our own fairy tale.
Inkling 