Sunday, April 5, 2009

Because I am a shitty writer

everything I write gets deleted
(I don't know why this is written in a passive tense
as though the words disappear randomly
like I am not the god of my paper kindgdom)
this line has been written a multitude of times.

I own these words, I own nothing. Here, take them.
Take love, take salty skin, take fairy tale.

Take all the concepts I can't convey without wanting to mildly vomit.
things like the warmth of your body against mine,
things like how you actually get excited about ugly christmas sweaters and petting kittens
but still wouldn't mind being tied up and face fucked by my strap on.

I wish I could make the description of this bruise,
this blossom colored in by the purple hue of my burst veins,
something magical and original
like every one of your moans.

there is nothing to say about me,
I am just the tongue, the fingers, the thrusting

this is life and I am fucking it

life is a body and I am a lover and you are the smell of ocean
or feeling of sand in between toes

who are you? am I thinking of someone specific or
all lovers or
just anyone who reads these words?

I want to have tea with you, if you like tea.
with honey.

and try to remember what reality becomes when you are no good at creating
just consuming
and destorying
and complimenting.

Sometimes when I think I am a bad writer
I say a sweet thing to the closest person

and I say: look, look what words can do.

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