The Wild Hunt

howitzerliterarysociety:

Found a trick to forget your touch
Found a whiskey bard who knew you
Found the seventh street promenade
Forgot it was there—forgot the vigor of red and white
There they dance and whip up petals
Shower the streets—shower the willful sections
Will you ever understand my metaphor?
Must I speak in…

(Source: swurdin, via a-part-time-believer)

For my father, new poem

The Voicemail.

When I was younger, I made a mantle of my father

There sitting proudly on his shoulders was every accomplishment

Ever picture perfect moment I ever cherished.

I looked up to him for recognition
I looked into him for warmth

Watched him beat down his pride with that

John Henry heart of his to love a woman who gave
him three daughters and a divorce.

Lately, I’ve tried to find the fire in his eyes but

Found nothing but embers, alive without soul

When is the moment we learn we’ve grown old?

Where the gold turns to grey

Where a “dad, how’s your day” turns into phone tag
of a voicemail saying

“I’m sorry, I missed you again dad I’ve just been busy
making martyrs of every man I’ve singlehandedly
dismantled since you last called.
I can be like mom in that way, you see
I don’t have much to say because I have
nothing worthy enough to place upon your mantle as of late
and since I can’t trust women, it seems I’ve been trusting men too much
trusting touch
trusting they’ll pull out before I pull away
trusting to be alone again before the sunrise crawls
sleepy eyed into another day

before good morning and I love you becomes something

that gets said regularly
I’ve grown a garden of mistakes

laid fourteen men to rest in plots of land
some don’t even deserve to title their family name with
I’ve become sexton to the cemetery they have made of me

Keeper of this ashen heart.

If you knew this, would you still be proud of me
still claim me your baby
still look in the eyes of the next man I invite into my life
with respect, shake his hand and say ‘son
she’s my world, you better take care of her
and if you want my blessing you better make her your universe.’

Dad, I’ve been thinning the weeds lately

Cleaning the clutter

I’ve even cleared a path to my core for a young man
who kisses my forehead, want to pray with me, and stays long enough to say good morning.
I may just found something you’d be proud of
So save a spot on your mantle would you?
I’m coming home.”

hooligansurvival:

I fell in love in a January.
It would be five months
and nine days
until you kissed my leopard print skin.

I was porcelain and only kissed people I loved.
You were my first.
In dark we were light.
We slid between holes in jean pockets
and held our hearts beneath…

FAM poem

The Blessing.

I’ve been taught to count my blessings
so I look at my fingers as if
ten wooden desks to inspirit
ten lampposts lighting the path as I swing dance through the fog

ten teachable moments counted on fingers

Fingers counting on memory, short and long

To lay the foundation of who I am so it can

Be built into who I will become

I can already think of a least four that come to mind

When I look at my palms; my father, my mother, poetry, and God.

But when it comes to FAM

Well, it seems I’m going to need a few more hands
See, I could never limit the amount of memories
I’ve been able to make

Or the friendships I’ve had the pleasure to create.

I can’t think of anything more intimate than

interlocking palms, gift wrapped by

My peers fingers as we sat in a web of yarn

Sharing the stories that have shaped us.

Or anything more infinite that the moment

The levee of my mentees responsibilities burst

Rushing rivers down her cheeks because stress, death, and uncertainty
made her vulnerable enough to plant her trust in me.

This program has taught me how to appreciate being needed
how to reconcile my heart and mind
how to set an example that a parent would be proud of
how to handle criticism as well as a compliment

How to be on time

How to let tears tell people how I feel

And laughter break down walls
how to embrace flaws and faults
how to resurrect ambition through every start and stop
how to lead

How to learn

How to breathe

How to be:

Anything I want

Like strong, simple, inviting, forgiving, level three

And even how to be wrong.

I’ve learned how to make a hand no matter the cards I’ve been dealt.

This program is a blessing and

If there’s anything I can tell you

Future mentors, mentees, parents

Its invest yourself, here, in this family

And let every lesson you’ll learn,

Person you meet, and life you listen to
change you. 

eatcleanmakechanges:

incredible.

(Source: volcanize, via alivewiththegloryoflove)

howitzerliterarysociety:

You always had the stare
always you looking through the world
always a game to you and one you play by angles
never could keep up—you always ahead
and they beat you for it early
to drive it out of you
beat you like a dog
beat you outside/inside your head

(Source: lostinurbanism)

itslatingirl:

✖   INSTAGRAM  ✖

(Source: ashletsparty)

1:27 am

I’m a selfish soul sometimes
there’s a traffic jam on my tongue
a snake taking its midnight stroll through
my racetrack fingertips 
as they touch your hairline
Lucifers giggles tickle my back dimples
while 
red tired eyes,
kiss my forehead innocent, 
and rest their hands between my thighs

its like we created the meaning of what it is to lie..

“She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn’t boring.” ― Zelda Fitzgerald

(Source: mermaidslovecake)