One Does Not Find Solitude, One Creates It. Solitude Is Created Alone. I Have Created It. Because I Decided

Which would you choose? Olympic National Park, Washington

skin the poet

skin open the poet to find out how books have been deceiving you: not all hearts pump blood; some, expand in rhymes & contract in line breaks.

skin open the poet to confirm the rumor that between the liver & the spleen lives a tiny being; an imp, absent in daydreams -a social drinker- & a lover of the sax.

1.- take the poet's arm, & rip off a tear of skin. behold a waterfall of metaphors soak your shoes in summer's breeze.

2.- on a surgical table, lay your poet down in such way that his pointy nose threats to drill into the ground.   & with the help of a sharp knife, split the meadow on his back into two nations that might have lost it all in war. proceed then to spread open these lands, & discover that a poet's spine abides as marble columns once did in falling rome: oh the burn or the glory? 3.- light a match & heat the poet's earlobes to 95 °. careful, the smoky smell of blue winter shades might stupefy your brains   whilst the poet's head gets caught in flames. if so: no stress, your poet's mouth muscles might stretch into a smile, but do keep in mind it's just an involuntary contraction. or not.

4.- once the fire's out & the buzzcut's ready, grab your baseball bat & crack the poet's tibia by the half. hollow bones & secret chambers. see that rolled up paper hidden in there? take it out & read it to the skies; correct, it is nothing but the transcripts of the poet's conversations with the moon. tally marks for bleeding hearts.  

5.- as a final act of this medical extravaganza, severe the poet's head & hold it between your hands. do you feel it slowly floating, as if being drawn toward the clouds?   stitch the head back in place using a silver needle & a thread of slurred speech. remember poets heal on empty illusions & broken things.

that is all for poetic anatomy 101...   ...now wake up the poet.

- @skinthepoet 

i’ve been spending a lot of time on trains, lately. always between places. always spending more time looking out the window while all this blue blurs into one big blue and i’m somewhere so close to home. this is my entire being wrapped together neatly. there is something inside of me that always wants to be somewhere else. i’ve been writing about this ever since poetry found me, at sixteen, at seventeen, in the dark & buried under a lifetime of existing. // i’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about people who don’t love me, or didn’t know how to love me. all this leaving leaves this feeling inside of me that is unlike loneliness, it’s more than loneliness. and when i’m screaming into the night, i have to remember that the night is only a time of day. that the moon is only a result of collision. that there are people who have stayed. and loved. for years. // and maybe poetry is my way of trying to get to the other side; of saying, i love you but it’s okay if you don’t love me. i know how the universe works. all this love is so beautiful, it’s cruel. 

Dear god: I just want to be believed in. Dear god: I had a syrup dream – the sky was grey and sinking, clouds of sugar and milk. Dear god: We don’t have churches anymore, just the blood that we kept in them. Dear god: I named the animals and now they’ve named me back – deathgirl, gentle hand, silver teeth. Dear god: In the end, water is thicker than blood. Water is heavier than anything else. Dear god: Laila killed those cats with her bare hands. Dear god: I have difficulty with faith. Dear god: I have difficulty with apologies. Dear: god. Deer god. Dear, god. Dear god.

Olive Prays, Yasmin Belkhyr (via wildflowerveins)

Eighty-nine (source)

by HelenaLlum

anthem - leonard cohen