By Herr Bohn

I’m currently rereading Life On Mars by T.K Smith & I swear my feet might be grounded in this old city but my head is somewhere in between a burning star & the edge of a distant galaxy. 

lets do an honesty hour ask me anything

Her fingers moving fast & brutal as if mapping blue edges of the unseen sky.

This is what it means to really want something. Her open mouth an iris ringed

with desperation deeper than shame. You’ll forsake everything if only to be real—

— Natalie Wee, from “Mirror,” Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines

Sober like a face slap, obvious as the morning after, I saw you for what you are: a woman, cruel and imperfect, a fighter who tried everything to protect her one and only heart, how it didn’t matter, it was torn fresh from its root anyway

Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, excerpt from Lilith (via theoryoflostthings)

I’m trying to dig myself out of this hole I’ve found myself in But the dirt just keeps falling through my fingertips

@existential-words (via existential-words)

I washed my broken heart with beach waves and sunsets. I stitched my battle scars with threads of leftover love. I stood in a sea of strangers, without hangover, whatsoever. I am every invisible painting on your skin. You wish they were from my lips and my fingertips. I am the silence in your living room You wish we could dance together on thirty-second floor without music on. I am those deep conversations you wish you could have from a stormy evening until sunny morning. But you didn’t get it, did you? Women like me don’t take weak men Men who couldn’t handle their chaos wouldn’t be able to handle ours. Men who come back would always be unwelcome. I was the decision you didn’t make. I was the war you didn’t fight for. I am a place you can’t come home to. There’s no point crawling back to me. I’m over you.

Shaine Salcedo, The City Doesn’t Hum Your Name Anymore (via wnq-writers)

Eighty-nine (source)

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