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Deviant for 3 Years
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I take the time
you said I never had.
I set the printer paper
in the typewriter and
spend twenty precious minutes
making sure the margins are straight.
All this time,
and I could have held you just
like that.

I take the time.
I hit all the wrong keys
right off the bat,
15 minutes
of dam dam dam,
spelled that way.
I want my final draft
now, first, impeccable.
I could have kissed you that many
times, wrong, getting closer
to the wrinkle at the corner of your lip,
touching you over and over like
damn damn damn, like
it’s the perfect place to rest
for a while.

I hit enter forty-seven times,
cannot remember how to backspace.
I realize that I take up too much
space and reset the paper,
12 times.
They say you can iron paper.
I write about the day
you ironed your shirt while
wearing it, how the burns
looked like someone else’s
hands making love to your skin.
I borrowed my best friend’s lips,
my neighbor's teeth, my father's breath,
to suck the marks from your neck, but
it didn’t make them any

I know you love blue:
the color of the kindest birds,
the jays that drop walnuts
into heavy traffic and wait for
the lonely trucks dragging themselves
home to
split them open for you.
You dive into chaos
for small reward, get your
hands dirty.
I spend an hour at the store,
buying blue ink.

I take the time.
I press each key harder
harder like the old writers
used to make love to their
printing presses. I set
each letter by hand,
one after another after another.
It feels like kissing,
if kissing you
could realign all my
crooked teeth.

My teacher told me
Garamond is the most beautiful
font, because all the words hold onto
each other like they're in love,
and not like Romans
serving a sentence.
The typewriter Sans-Serif
forces each letter to stand alone,
comically, as if the T could topple
at any moment and slide
straight off the page onto your
pale palm.
I wish I were built of stronger stuff
so I could lift you in my arms
and swing you in a helicopter formation.
Y, never asks why.
It takes you onto its shoulders,
gives you a warm bath,
lets you sleep.
All the things I couldn’t provide.

We speak in dialects now,
strict portions of language,
"hello" and "hold the door please"
shortened by how much
we break up our day.
7am drifts into 9,
5 minutes left
on the snooze cycle,
10 brews more coffee,
12 eats itself alive until
only the 1 remains,
5 o’clock comes before we can
accomplish anything,
and by 11 at night
"I love you"
no longer fits between
our bodies in bed.
I lose entire days
waiting for you to
roll over, to
look up from the weather, to
turn down the volume, to
answer the phone, to
at least mention me
in your busy signal.

I wait for you to notice
the notes I’ve stuck to
your shoulder:
wait for me,
I’m sorry,
kiss me,
type-writer ribbon,
blue like a blue-jay,
throw walnuts into the street
I will waste the time for you,
say anything.

I take the time.
Seventeen minutes
to say the words.
Each letter a scream.
It feels like arm-wrestling,
I take the minute hand by the wrist
and twist its arm,
trying to pry seconds back,
wasted hours of our lives
spent walking in circles, our
movements only minutes apart.

My fingers begin to bleed
but I can’t stop typing.
I’m losing you in fragments,
as if we ourselves have become
the anguished sun, running away
from its light, gripping the sky and
pleading and ripping great lines of
S.T.A.Y. into the shadow of the moon.
Even this will not remain.

Our obituaries will read that
we wrote elegies and belated
birthday cards
instead of love notes.
That our mouths
never held each other because
we were too busy writing,
asking each other to stay.
Say you didn’t want these
days to gorge on our sorries,
for the hours to grow plump
as ticks,
that you didn’t want all my letters
to come out
right the first time,
that you didn’t want whole portions
of our lives to pass in just a moment.
This moment,
in which I take the time.

I write and ask you to
Big, block, black letters.
I don’t have any fine-print left
in me.
I just want you,
T. on your palm,
words hanging from your mouth,
"I love you"
like it’s a question
I’ve never found worth

I take the time.
I write
"I love you"
on that fine white piece of paper
and stick it to your back.

My Y never asks why,
just holds you
like the night.
But you never look back.
You never glance back
for me.
So I write and I write
and I write.
Something I wrote last night.
It started out as a silly poem about writing,
and then it turned into a bittersweet relationship poem.
A glimpse of god
swallowing the sun
just found this in my stash.
i feel like it was supposed to be something, but i don't remember.
I touched the edges of all the knives
you thought you’d hidden for good.
From their points dangled all the pieces of you,
chips stuck flush up against the handle.
And I saw the parts that you
had once hoped
would be gone for good,
and I understand why you wanted them gone,
why all of us want them gone.
Our bodies are pools of
soft grunge
slowly digesting us whole, the way roads
eat our tires in the snow.

All these poems are skid marks on the
trek to you.
All these photographs are attempts to mathematize
the size of your steps and
the bone structure hidden beneath your ghost and
your ghost itself, caught
in negative in its white dressing gown
lit up by the moon of
the open dryer door.
All these songs are the voiceless
partitions of my heart reaching out and recoiling from
you splendid splendid upended
overcompensated summer-suspended haunt.

I would haunt you as
a sliver of spring’s sun danging by a cord,
tethered to the circuit of the moon and
Sagittarius and Scorpio by what’s left of my
I split it in two for a wish
for you to haunt me
when you go too.
Nature and landscapes have
nothing on you,
you yellow and green and blue,
tree and sky and swimming pool.

You fence gate, you twist of barb,
you furnace grate holding in the ash,
you bevel, you spoon,
you exit sign, you 'open 24/7,'
you doormat that says "I couldn’t say no to you,"
you fiddle string, you bow,
you bow, you hip bend,
soft soft moan in the night.

All my time winds and
unwinds from you,
you pulley,
you gear,
you smile.

You smile.
All these pieces of you,
Trying something different where I wrote something, and tried to find a photograph by CherishKay that fit my poem.
I'm stuck between four, give me some help, Cherisha. :D
Sort of a disappearanceStop and continuesBreaking through a distorted mind., or The light will touch your boundaries.
there is no divinity in me.

i am wedge-wood and

hands with eyes closed in their palms.


the ocean flows through every inch of my flesh.

the creeks are visible in my forearms,

split teeth of rivers

flowered with algal blooms.

i raise my arms up over my head.

my breath

washes me the shade of used water-colors:

sky-blue, grey, slathered with dark black.

i bounce to the beat of the new year

like a child on her father's knee,

facing the crowd.

my hips are hands that grip the space

around me, hold tight,

and screw their nails in.

i would give the world

a soft gunshot to the ear

if i thought it could change


about the way

i have lived my

life thus far.

the sun is a halo

around us.

the piano kicks itself

in the shin to continue


i hold my hands

palms open

to the shore.

i douse my love in

firewood and red-salt.

i lift my arms,


touch my hair.

i can't breathe.

i can't breathe.

i can't breathe.
After living this long, I no longer expect hearts
to reside on the left side of the body.
We lay, side by side, on the twin bed in my sister’s old room.
Our flaws are like dragonfly wings taped
to the misty morning window.
I see through everything.
We cast shadows and glittering orbs on the
walls of my parent’s home.
The cats chase the suicide years and
heroine addictions across the carpet with
their tails between their legs. You know
how animals can sense the haunted.
How cats stare at walls where nothing has ever
been hung;
how dogs bark into empty backyards,
race after shapes in the darkness,
dig beneath a willow-tree and bring back
a baby vole; how fish,
how my fish on the bathroom counter stare into the mirror,
fish cannot blink.
Blinking helps us remember where we are.

I take your heart in my mouth in the night.
You taste like
mimosas and salted firewood,
your body is drunk and slouching right. We kiss the fire,
suck the ashes into ourselves until we become
Polished the color of drowning.
I do not know how to tell you
that I can no longer hear your heart beating in your chest.
We stick together like sides of a violin case,
thread-bare, duct-tape, old music.
I hallucinate that I can hear my pulse twice,
once for me and
once for you.
I wish I could give the two to you;
I wish I could give these two hands to you;
I wish I could kiss
like there were
two of me and
two of you and
we loved each other like pop-tarts leaping from toasters,
like pace-makers.
One shock
and I’m back on track with you.

After living this long,
I need you
to bend my legs back.
I undo the backwards buttons for you,
fold back your collar,
pour the coffee and
sip it to make sure it’s cool.
We touch, and it feels like novocain.
I cannot feel my head anymore,
not my tongue.
I stand in the shower and press my hands to my breasts.
They do not recognize this kind of self-love anymore.

I get dressed. The shampoo dries in my hair, I comb with
your brush instead of mine, my parting is on the right not
the left, and
your hand appears on the door.
I feel you breathing through it in an hourglass shape.
You say my name.
You say my name,
and the doorknob rattles like something living
is trying to get out of here, but the cats know.
The cats know
that nothing is living in here.
My heart is on the wrong side of my chest,
and I don’t know what to do
except to bang my fists.
I bang my fists
until an ocean pours
out of you,
until the ocean pouring
out of me doesn’t seem so

I tell you
I love you.

You go out through the kitchen
with the yellow cabinets,
my mother painted them as a plea
to my father to stay.
He hated the way her mouth
moved like sunlight dripping
into a bottle of honey.
You touch the backs of the chairs
and the coffee cups, which sing
when you are
You leave the back door
Yellow Cabinets
Title needs work, any ideas? 

I've been exploring some new, self-published authors.
This is inspired by reading Megan Falley last night.
I had an idea today.

I find myself writing short, tiny little poems - one liners, haiku-sized, unfinished fragments - so frequently. I have thousands of these minuscule masterpieces. Poems and thoughts that suit, that fit, that explain, that examine, that scream and whisper, that state exactly what I have wanted to say. Perfect little nuggets of writing that I want to expand and finish, but never seem to. I have all of these, but I can't seem to do anything with them.

Do any of you ever write these things? Do you collect them like panic buttons? (I know I do. They pick up the frenzy in my heart and hold it for a while.)

I had an idea that we could maybe collaborate. You send me some of your unfinished fragments, 1-2 lines or sections if you want, and I will try and fit them together.?? maybe. I'm just procrastinating. If it sounds good, feel free to note me some stuff. If anything, I'd love to read more of your stuff and possibly help you finish them. :)

Stay safe.
  • Mood: Frustrated
  • Listening to: "Today Means Amen" - Sierra DeMulder
  • Reading: Ovid's Metamorphoses
  • Watching: jacksepticeye
  • Drinking: bad bad bad coffee



Artist | Student | Literature
United States
My book:…

"I want the count down inside of me to stop being so precise; I want to jump to zero and back to infinity. I believe in infinity. It's my fatal flaw."

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Add a Comment:
funnywolf2001 Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the fav!  
PsychoBeast Featured By Owner Oct 20, 2014
You inspire me so much, your works make me write, write write. If you ever need anyone to talk to, you can always msg me. (even though you dont know me :P)
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you so much for this. I've kept from replying just so I can keep it in my inbox and look at it when I log on. One of my greatest wishes in life is to inspire other people, in whatever way. :) I'm glad you are writing and writing and writing; it's the only way to live, in my opinion. Have a splendid day, friend.
Choque-Plumbeo Featured By Owner Sep 10, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
hey wanna read a play with me?
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2014  Student Writer
Yes. Which and how and when?
Choque-Plumbeo Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Its the King in yellow, part of it which i wrote, read it it's in my page, if you like it we'll talk about how. I'd like to record the voices to put the play together and i heard your voice and i really liked it, also i need a Cassilda and i hope you'll like it. As to when, im moving, so i can not until sunday.
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Aug 12, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the fave! :tighthug:
jimfleming Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2014
Thank you :)
SoraIsMyHomeboy Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
hey, I haven't chatted with you in forever! how are you doing? :)
sense-and-stupidity Featured By Owner Jun 23, 2014  Student Writer
I'm not so well right now, but I'm hanging in there. 

How are you, love? It's been too long.
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