Liljoja

Fae-child with her wrists full of grave dirt, eyes full of ghostlight they sing - when you call her name; Princess of the fog rings she dances on splinters and bleeds petals from her heels but, remember be careful of the moonless roses, the rain stones carved into ovals, the old belltower when it closes, they say; -remember- Her kisses hide teeth and her tongue drinks deep and her name rings old but death she comes for all.

i pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache. regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines, you will not ask God to pardon your sins. you will forgive yourself. i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding. your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows and you will finally know what freedom feels like. one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced. your lungs will become blooming forests with snippets of poetry carved into

When evening descends like silence, The red butterflies come. Fading into the fire of sunset, Unseen. Spreading stars with their wings. The way to follow them: Quietly. Catch a glimmer of red, A pulsing heartbeat, a wingbeat, Alive. They're alive; seek them out. It's as if secrets come alive When the world shuts its eyes. A butterfly lands on my arm. Gentle. Fire and starlight, on my skin. An ethereal dimension, the night Sweetens my senses. So I barely feel it when the butterfly Burns. I won't feel it until morning, awake. It made a conscious choice, to Leave a mark on my soul, my body. But it never had malicious Intentions. From my pers

"You wanna see something cool, Peter?" Marnie's hair was long, shaggy. She peered at me through it. Shy. Brown eyes behind black curtains.   Every time she said that, it was an adventure. Danny'd snicker at me. "Where'd she drag you off to this time, Pete? Catch a chicken and kill it? Pull the wings off butterflies?"   The whole town thought Marnie and her family were strange. Marnie was bullied at school. One time Danny shoved a cup of worms into her locker. Everybody thought that was real funny.   I didn’t. It was stupid. Marnie was just quiet. Her mom drank a lot, didn’t leave the house much. Her dad, well. He wasn't around.  

My sister wishes for a little girl to stand next to her son, to have my eyes & her curiosity. Sometimes I want to see how far my car can go before turning around all because I miss someone or some thing. She says I have hips meant for birthing, which I could take offense to if she were anyone else. If I were anyone else, the idea of being someone’s every morning might be everything. Nothing might be what I’ll grow used to. My sister holds her belly, her son inside, waiting for his life to begin; I look at maps, wondering where I’d feel at home & if I’ll ever learn my way around regrets. She worries about shelter &

When I open my eyes it's to see the flaws in the world. A crack in the sidewalk. A break in the glass. Anything. Something. Give my heart a flaw to chew on, so it stops devouring itself. With every withered flower in the park, I stand out a little less. The blades inside my chest dull against brown petals and dead grass. I ache for the imperfect. Because if the world were perfect    I'd have no excuse.

So I ground the grief back into my mouth, back into my spine, back into whatever small space I can and I open my eyes and I do not cry I do not cry

I can't think! My poems stink! My rhymes just stare blankly and seldomly blink. My writing is crabby, my citing is flabby My verses were cursed by my three year old tabby. "Not feeling inspired?" my doctor inquired, "Maybe your muse feels abused and retired?" "Here are some pills, they're crunchy and pink. Take two at bedtime with plenty of drink! By morning your musings will bandage their bruising. Your rhymes will be chiming and bouncing and cruising!" "He's a real pro." I thoughtfully thinked. Munching on meds I then said, "All right pink, let's cure my write crisis and restock my ink!" As late evening crept, I slept and I dreamed. I s

Mozart was crazy. Flat fucking crazy. Batshit, I hear. But his music’s not crazy; it’s balanced, it’s nimble, it’s crystalline clear. There’s harmony, logic. You listen to these, you don’t hear his doubts or his debts or disease. You scan through the score and put fingers on keys and you play. And everything else goes away. Everything else goes away… — “Everything Else”, Next to Normal My favorite confessional poet is Anne Sexton, who committed suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning at age 45. A book of her poetry, published posthumously, featured her therapist: I have words for you