trypophobiaheartstringstrypophobia by Shoeborn
in a stiff grip
the hollow of her stomach
becomes a cavern
as the strings grow tighter.
her hunger is
her lover is
the design he wrote for her
tears out innards as easily
as the carrion birds.
love cannot exist
where there is nothing to love.
(she swore her holes were beautiful,
as the daisies sprouted from her feet
enshrining what petty romance
The Self-Made AbominationI came homeThe Self-Made Abomination by Shoeborn
plowing the land for answers.
I tried to tell them
iron cannot tame iron,
but they raised blades to the sky
and the moon shivered behind them.
What wonders are we to wreak
on foreign soils,
when my skin crawls
from the acidic burns
lungs full to the brim already.
My throat constricts
into this Frankenstein heart.
Pedestrianbetween the traffic lightsPedestrian by Shoeborn
people walk, shoulders tight
blaring boundaries almost as loudly
as the sprawling letters on the walls.
or, real flesh and bone,
if it's a Sunday.
she dangles cigarettes and legs
from window-frames scored with who screwed who
over. none of the names make sense to her.
who would name anyone anything
when they don't yet know what they are to become?
the pollution in her lungs tells her to forget it,
it's not her job to care.
later, her hair is snagging
on the stop signs, jagged breaths
gutting the pedestrians.
she runs away from pain, from irresponsibility,
from the knife carving a new name on the wall.
lines were crossed
but she doesn't know where the sidewalk begins
Baring More Than TeethIn the lost times, they taught meBaring More Than Teeth by Shoeborn
that my mouth was made for killing
that laughter would bury my enemies
that a smile would cut them down.
Now, when the grass shakes its heads of barley
I give them a full-toothed grin
and watch the day submit to night.
The moment you lose hope,
is the moment you predate history.
I mark my face with the howls of the pack,
a cannibal among wolves.
They turn me out into darkness
as I smile my apology, bloodied hands
and dirty knees that would make the conquerors cringe.
Still, under the arms of crucifixes,
I reach back behind my throat
where Hatred sits and stews.
She bites my fingers when I come too close
leaving me choking back apologies
close to dying of Fear.
My hands are full of corpses,
but few, if any, ever lived.
ii. two times in artists' eyesi.ii. two times in artists' eyes by Khaimin
words can't do everything. there
are certain things they
simply cannot describe, should not describe, and
i am one of them -
do not call me eloquent because it is
not meant to imagine the half-hearted, the poison-tongued. i am both; i am neither. i am a contradicting idea without a sense
of sense and it is destructive. some say that destruction can be
beautiful, but not in the in-between
stages of destroying and distraught, of forgetting
i terminate the words that tend
to die on tongues, tip-of-thought processes
that seem to go nowhere. i am a thought on canvas, written
in water and spattered across the board -
we all are. poets and non-poets alike, we are written as words without meaning.
i have learned that words should not describe words.
poets don't lie, except for the big things.
when they claim they
have ink in their veins, they are telling
truths for once in forever. poets are parts
of a canvas, of a whole, their bodies are meant
to be marred by pen-