[x]

i was thinking maybe..October 10:
I tried calling her today, but
the phone was left for seven
rings too long. She
doesn't like, she is afraid of

dialing numbers and jewellery and
the sound of bugs flying too
close to her ear.

She probably would have laughed
at the thought of dreaming the
day away. Because she can't stop.

She can't stop to meet me at
the rooftops. To meet me and
hold my hand. To meet me and
watch the sky move sideways.

October 16:
Today I called him, to say, to
say that I wanted to drown,
not in sorrows or swimming pools, but in
the ocean, because it's so peaceful

down there. Only I didn't. I
didn't breathe. Or speak. I
didn't

twelve hours green.he calls me and tells me
that his toothbrush
is an ocean green like
his fading bedroom
walls. and i call and
think that i dont have
a favourite number. but
i dont even know what
that means.

we should spend twelve
hours watching the
clouds fly past
and twelve staring at
the fragments of shining
rocks plastered across
the sky, until we leave
a dent in the grass
in the shape of
the different type of
world we live in.

i paint my hands in
speechless patterns because
colours always spoke better
than words.

the places we gohe wrote to me:

that he sits in the gutter and he
looks up at my window and he is
there and he is not and we're
okay and we are

not.

he wrote to me:

your silence is not enough. and i
think your feet caught the dust as
you walked away. and i think my
mouth was filled with dust
as you walked away. and i couldn't
say wait and i

let you down again and. you just
walked away.

he wrote to me:

learn the meaning of wait. and tell
it to me. sometimes the flies belong
in the kitchen and sometimes i forget to feed
the cats and sometimes i

forget to lock the
front door and close the windows

when it starts to rain.

he wrote to me:

w

secrets1.
dear mum,

you secretly want her faults so
you can have something to say
you were like her, you have

something of hers. only
you don't.

2.
dear mum,

i think her faults skipped you
and went straight to me. i
like to collect things i'll

never touch again, collect thoughts
and collect pasts only to
stash them in the cupboard

so i dont open the doors.

3.
dear mum,

its the silences in between
that makes me think of her. and
i think of her everyday

i do i do. i even started
wearing her pocket watch
again because it makes me

feel like im doing something
good.

4.
dear mum,

i know you deserved
the better

half of me

lon

look at the clouds todaywhen i met you, i stopped writing. i also stopped waking up to a face full of post it notes saying things like its bad luck to see the woman before the driving test, or my house smells like apple cider and bluebottles have eyes, or i've got static in my arms. i stopped feeling sorry and i stopped falling down the stairs. i noticed the stars at night could have a story and you could have taken the ocean and put it in your eyes. i also stopped writing.

when i met you, i stopped trying to be a nice person and just was. when i met you, i discovered post it notes and then i couldn't use them. i realised my house was not just a picture of a house

closer1.
she kept the christmas tree
up well past march and its a
strange thing,

your voice
broken and sad
and

the words, no one understood.
but the silence.

oh, the

silence.

2.
and i hum in this
empty house and

your call

echoes and
echoes. the phone
keeps ringing and i
say. i say:

sorry.

and you say:

don't. just --

don't.

3.
but here i am and
there. there you are.

your face as delicate
as your tears today. and
i touch you as if

you're a paper boat,
about to float away. and i

tiptoe

around your thoughts,
afraid i'll wake

you up.

4.
my clothes smell like
you. my skin

smells like you. and
there is a dead tiger

not what you wantedi wanted to tell you about
yesterday. and how i saw
a shooting star and a face
on the moon that reminds
me of my grandfather.

i wanted to tell you how
i fell on the grass at
sunset and it was poetically
beautiful. but you'd
only tell me that i was
beautiful and then let the wind
blow away what my eyes see.

i wish you loved looking
up at the fragments of
rocks scattered across
the sky. or loved to watch the
clouds go past for twelve hours
straight, but you'd get
bored after two.

i wish i had asked you
what your favourite number
is and what colour your
toothbrush was. my number
is 52. and now you can think
of me every ti

no reply.6:33pm:

i deleted you from my
phone. so goodbye.
[i wont miss you]

7:00pm:

no reply. because my
silence speaks more than
words ever could.
[even though you never
thought so]

1:02am:

remember that time we
were tangled and drowning
so far in our own
thoughts and love?
[i cried]

2:15am:

no reply. because i
know you remember.
[but you're not smiling
anymore]

4:20am:

i left something outside
your door.
[its your heart in
the shape of a book]

4:22am:

no reply. i ran outside
in shorts and socks
to grab it before
it froze.
[at least you took care of it]

5:30am:

no reply. you always thought
i looked beautiful.
[but i

cupboardand last night i felt like the weight of paper and
then i felt like i would sink into everything i touch.
and yesterday i thought that maybe a bottle of
red wine and 3am and then too many post it notes
and staring at the ceiling from the tiles in the

kitchen would make the tiger hiding in the cupboard
go away. and if you could line up miles of mountains,
that's how far away i felt from myself. even though,
i could see me in the mirror and i could hear me
saying stop it stop it stop it. you are not here any
more. you are not there any more, and suddenly

i was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living
room. watching the telev

5 postcards from nowhere:postcard 1:

somewhere between here and
there i realised: good things don't
happen because of 52. they happen
because we let them.

postcard 2:

and baby i'm afraid of a lot of things.

like the way your fingers read my skin like
braille in the dark. and i may not have any more
secrets left that way.

postcard 3:

but you still like to explore every corner of
my spine.

postcard 4:

i have a drawer full of foxgloves and a
sandpit of forget-me-nots. i

love your stretching tree-branch arms.

postcard 5:

you are magic, you are magic, i say. and i am
lost in the ocean of your eyes.

reminders i carry in my hand:dear me,

you do not have a terrible heart. you do not
have sad eyes and love is not a war you need
to win. sometimes i feel like disappearing, but
remember:

we are never really alone.

dear me,

every now and then, you can close your eyes
and still find your way. remember to breathe
because you did not sink a paper boat and you
are not floating underwater. you already know
the answer to the question you are looking for.

dear me,

remember the small things, like the writing in
the borders of pages. see the things that
everyone else misses. listen to your thoughts
and then lose yourself.

dear me,

laugh until it makes you cry. see

make me stopsomething about nothing:

one.

you know, the real tree branches just
don't strectch as far as your arms.

two.

you know, one day i'll be able to get
that cow into my bedroom, up the stairs
with a trail of grass and cupcakes, and he'll
eat grass off my pink bedsheets and i'll
take some awesome photos.

three.

i like to write footones because nobody reads them:

i love you. i love you like nothing i've ever loved before.
i love you forever and i won't be able to tell
you that anytime soon.

four.

dear dan,

i love you i lvoe you i love you.

five.

my cats are sleepiong on thecouch. and i am
writing away words fro my heart. and no

Lovely knees, scraped elbowsshe wishes she has lovely knees, instead she has a lovely
way to see the world. she doesn't believe in umbrellas, only
the stars in the midnight sky and the raindrops running down
her neck, arms, legs, spine.

she knows things that most will find useless: there are more
stars in outer space than there are grains of sand on earth. dogs
have over three hundred facial expressions, mostly made with
their ears. the average person will spend two weeks waiting
for the traffic lights to change in their lifetime.

she wonders: what if stars are just dead pixels in the sky? what
if they are specks with worlds living in them? that would mean
t

wishes on stars.i. sometimes, i wish i could forget you.

sometimes, i wish i could forget the smell of your skin and the shade of your eyes and the sound of your breathing and the sound of your voice, whispering in the dark.

sometimes, i wish the guy in my memories - counting the clouds with me, climbing out my window under the stars, trying to throw rocks past the horizon, holding me, saying iloveyou- was just a faceless black shadow.

because maybe then remembering wouldn't hurt so much.

ii. i watched a t.v. show today.

in it, this beautiful girl won the lead part in some ballet performance. the dance hall was full of mirrors. she was dancing and laugh

circles in the sand.you will be drawing circles in the sand when he finds you.

'why are you bothering to draw in the sand?' he'll ask. 'the waves will only wash your circles away.'

you'll finish the circle by writing love in the center, then you'll stand up to answer him, hair in your eyes from the wind and sand on your face.

'because maybe it won't get washed away,' you'll say. 'isn't it a chance worth taking?'

and instead of laughing at you like you expected, he'll smile. 'yes,' he'll say. 'oh, yes.'

--

you will be weak with lack of sleep, drowsy and stumbling, and he'll catch you before you run into the wall.

'go away,' you'll tell him. 'just go away.'

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lemon cake

by ~vampire-zombie, Nov 12, 2008, 11:32:34 PM
Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

this house isn't made out of
a mess. this house is
made out of:

a sinking bathroom floor
because she sighs and i

lose count. shower curtains
you need to water and rust
that doesn't wash out

of the tiles.

it is made out of:

a telephone made for hanging
up because she doesn't
want to talk to her sister.

and mirrors to remind you
that

you are a beautiful

broken

thing.

it is made out of:

sorry notes and scribbles and
a windy day. it sits next to
the other houses made of

secrets and sorrow and stories
and rooftops and bathroom
tiles.

it is made out of:

kitchen tiles, too. they are
black and white and white and
black.

an under the bed, where we used
to kiss and dust and more dust
that keeps coming back

when you clean it.

it is made out of:

coffee stains and peeling wallpaper
and a cracking ceiling where i
hang my stars.

it is made out of:

why did you forget to call your
mother? and

why did you forget to hang the
washing out?

yet again.

it is made out of:

a lemon cake all gone wrong because
you forgot to read the recipe or
maybe you forgot how to read

all together.

it is made out of:

you and me and him and her and
materials i don't know the name
of. and its got an orange

rooftop and a white ceiling and
there's a crack right above my bed
that i look at before i fall

asleep and you tell me you're
going to fix it, but its been
there since we've moved. and you

say we're going to fix this but
its been like this since we've
moved. its been like this

since

five years ago, two minutes ago. its
been like this ever

since.

lemon cakeby ~vampire-zombie

Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

my mum told me this house is made out of a mess and i wrote this poem in my head as i was drying the dishes.

love 1 1

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~akky3210 Sep 18, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Seriously amazing. I'm absolutely floored. The rhythm here flows really well.

~kit-catt Jul 28, 2009

I don't know why I didn't fave this the first time I read it. Lovely.

The title makes me hungry. :S

~soundlessw May 29, 2009 Student Writer

If more people wrote down the poems that they thought up in their heads as they were washing dishes, there would be more great poetry, just like this.

I'm inspired.

~Violent-Passion May 18, 2009

kinda love this

~spockle May 17, 2009

you have a gift, and it's so an honor that you chose to share it with us peasants.
i am purple and green and bruised with envy,
i love your work always. (:

~ChrisDWalker Mar 21, 2009

After reading some of your stuff i like your cadence, your rhythm draws out emotions and thoughts. Very nice, unique.

~LoisLane03 Feb 17, 2009

wow this is so great, i love how everything u describe are such little things we never notice until they add up...until we are paying attention...great poem!

~savored-experience Feb 1, 2009

I think I have at least 80 notes saved in my phone because I'm always somewhere without a pen. I hate forgetting, but I always do. I'm glad you didn't. All your compositions are so good.

~TheBloodWriter Jan 15, 2009

Awesome poem, your mum must have a literary mind.

~RedRoseRomance Nov 24, 2008 Hobbyist General Artist

All your works are a pleasure to read

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