Poetry Pimping
Stolen from apiphile. Everyone's doing fanfic pimping, but I haven't written fanfic in absolute ages. Notably, everything in my poetry journal is categorized by what 'era' it's written in, which really depends on which city I feel drawn to at the time. Reykjavik and Quebec were healing - Boston is where I am now.
Some of these are f-locked to that journal, but if you friend the LJ or ask to see them, I'll unlock them or have it friend you.
Poem for the Other Writer
Sonnet structure, first poem of the year. I swear I wrote this whole thing, then rewrote individual lines until the original no longer existed. The person this is about I love very much, and it would probably solve the most problems if this was read while listening to "Two-Headed Boy".
Dear Gay Rockstar
Dear Gay Rockstar #2
This is becoming a series, it seems. I heal myself through music, and these are little notes (haha, pun) of appreciation. #3 and #4 are written but not revised yet. Notably, I don't often rhyme, so these are difficult.
In Faceless Country
My grandparents recently moved in with us. Because of my grandmother's Japanese heritage, it's awoken a certain sense of ethnicity in me. Mostly it's just been the quiet rage that comes with knowing her culture was stripped, and as such I was robbed of a chunk of my ancestry.
We Two Revolutionaries
Kita defies structure. This poem was a return to free-verse.
Wired
A five-line bullet of thought hit me square between the eyes while shopping for energy drinks. I'm not sure if I've condensed my generation in it or just me. "Love in a Can of Hand Grenades" will be the title of any personal collection this ends up in, if any.
We need more hand grenades.
I am growing up in a time of war. Political, social, personal, sexual. Violence, euphemism, allusion and shutting the fuck up is all I can do some days. Hand grenades are becoming a motif by now - the explosive power of God in your hand, but Christ if you can't just get it over with without 1, 2... and everything else.
This was written when Mindless Self Indulgence's "Golden I" was on repeat. I can write better to them than to deep lyricists, who steal my thoughts like motherfucking vampires. Better a slew of brightly-coloured profanity than a soul-thief.
Delicacies.
Bye-bye punctuation!
I am both constantly at odds with my size and constantly at odds with the world for being so big. Either I should be so small as to never take up space, or so big as to never feel threatened, but that isn't my fate.
Age Difference
Playing with structure and numbers. More love poems to our generation. I love my generation. So much.
Lesbian Suicides
Emo, I know. But cathartic. This was written in January, but that I only posted it in May speaks volumes for how raw it still feels. I like the train-of-thought chaotic structure and punctuation. Fits the mood well.
Some of these are f-locked to that journal, but if you friend the LJ or ask to see them, I'll unlock them or have it friend you.
Poem for the Other Writer
Sonnet structure, first poem of the year. I swear I wrote this whole thing, then rewrote individual lines until the original no longer existed. The person this is about I love very much, and it would probably solve the most problems if this was read while listening to "Two-Headed Boy".
Dear Gay Rockstar
Dear Gay Rockstar #2
This is becoming a series, it seems. I heal myself through music, and these are little notes (haha, pun) of appreciation. #3 and #4 are written but not revised yet. Notably, I don't often rhyme, so these are difficult.
In Faceless Country
My grandparents recently moved in with us. Because of my grandmother's Japanese heritage, it's awoken a certain sense of ethnicity in me. Mostly it's just been the quiet rage that comes with knowing her culture was stripped, and as such I was robbed of a chunk of my ancestry.
We Two Revolutionaries
Kita defies structure. This poem was a return to free-verse.
Wired
A five-line bullet of thought hit me square between the eyes while shopping for energy drinks. I'm not sure if I've condensed my generation in it or just me. "Love in a Can of Hand Grenades" will be the title of any personal collection this ends up in, if any.
We need more hand grenades.
I am growing up in a time of war. Political, social, personal, sexual. Violence, euphemism, allusion and shutting the fuck up is all I can do some days. Hand grenades are becoming a motif by now - the explosive power of God in your hand, but Christ if you can't just get it over with without 1, 2... and everything else.
This was written when Mindless Self Indulgence's "Golden I" was on repeat. I can write better to them than to deep lyricists, who steal my thoughts like motherfucking vampires. Better a slew of brightly-coloured profanity than a soul-thief.
Delicacies.
Bye-bye punctuation!
I am both constantly at odds with my size and constantly at odds with the world for being so big. Either I should be so small as to never take up space, or so big as to never feel threatened, but that isn't my fate.
Age Difference
Playing with structure and numbers. More love poems to our generation. I love my generation. So much.
Lesbian Suicides
Emo, I know. But cathartic. This was written in January, but that I only posted it in May speaks volumes for how raw it still feels. I like the train-of-thought chaotic structure and punctuation. Fits the mood well.