They say the eyes are the gateways to the soul.
Look deeply into mine. Whatever you see, that is me.
Popularity ContestI thinkPopularity Contest by TheEmptyChest
fame is an unworthy dream
like a candle
it only lasts until the wind blows
and then it’s off
for quieter pastures
for younger and more desperate hearts
and you’re left in the cold
wondering what you did wrong
and if you should have
seen it coming
Thoughts while stopped at a traffic lightCoexistThoughts while stopped at a traffic light by TheEmptyChest
in front of me says.
I’ve been hearing that word a lot;
it seems to be on everyone’s lips,
echoing from the history books,
skeletons screaming it from our closets.
It’s been said different ways—
“peace on earth”
“live and let live”
—but it always means the same
and no matter how many times
we say it, write it,
or stick it to our cars
it never calms our storms
or breaks those walls that separate us.
The truth is
we don’t live in a world of equals
but of societies marred by discrepancy.
Two cannot reside in the same house
if one’s human right
is the other’s “sin”—
if one cannot let the other
do as he will
and keep his own conscience.
When they say something's wrong with youI’m going to be shamelessly honestWhen they say something's wrong with you by TheEmptyChest
and say the more I see of life
the less I think it’s worth living,
because let’s face it,
it doesn’t truly get better
it just changes;
suffering and loss
are hurdles on a never-ending
that you’re expected to run
for the rest of your life.
And God help you
if you don’t want to run it
because that means something's wrong with you.
That means you’re crazy.
I’m going to be fearless
and say something that no one wants
to hear, or is likely to believe:
the “right to life” is a myth,
because to have a right
is to have a choice
and life is an obligation.
To want to end it
means you need “help”—
either in the form of a crucified savior
or an expert with a Ph.D. and an eagerness
to label you.
All it really means is that you
don’t want to run that damn obstacle course,
and you shouldn’t have to
because you were never given a choice
from the beginning,
nightmaresbasically, he said i was
shattered glass that stuck in between
the kind of bittersweet ending that
left the loftiest of men
with pearly tears in their eyes,
and i said he was a twisted man with
leather studded skin.
i told him that he reminded me of nothing
more than the desert wind,
dry and impure,
leaving a pragmatic taste on
close your eyes,
and remind yourself that even the best
of men have
scratches on their skin from
Blue Moon.autumn yielded no forgiveness,
we killed our nodding gods with pitchfork prayers,
filled our mouths with pebbles- our hearts with promises
but all for nothing, we are mute in awkwardness.
tear-distilled and trembling.
we must exhume our secrets with gentle words,
and let the seasons change us.
a network of lines that enlaceHe looked on me
with such love
that I felt, often,
the sensation of my skin
attempting to escape the
centralized-gaze of his jade eyes,
like obsidian magnets
reaching for the
soul I kept tucked away
in a corner of my own pupil,
curled like the fishing-boy
on the moon,
reading some recent
Italo Calvino novel
with her feet up
and hair pulled back,
in the form of
ten-page love poems,
her left hand cramping
from so many long nights
sat in the shadows,
trying to capture the
silhouette of her own
soul seated in that same brown iris,
blonde hair loose down her back,
sipping a cup of Joe
and swinging one leg over the precipice.
I wonder if my soul’s soul
felt the burning of his smile
on her cheekbone,
the flicker of warmth in her belly
as our eyes meet from across either end of the room,
or if she, too, simply gazed inward at her own
dreaming dreams of
curled to her form
like a crescent moon,
PushYour methods are punishment
the way your words fooled
a snug chest cavity into
If I could mislead you, I would not
with a sharp-tongued allegory
but with the intimate force
of two small hands
Searing overburdened shoulders
fingernails against blades
reading ruined skin
one last time
Delicately severing our
infernoat five, you burn the house down.
your hands spread like wildfire and
into the woods you go, incrusted
orange and red
have always intrigued you.
molecules and houses and buildings
that are sick and fed up
intrigued you. it is your job.
it is a
but at twenty-five, you are ready
Wave-ridersScared of what we are, we allow ice chips to
rain down and drown our bones;
filled to brimming with half-cocked ideas and
ourselves. Bones turn to oceans and we flounder,
caught in a rip too wide, too deep - too blue and too vast to