smkoehl

Broken boy, Broken boy when do you sleep? Sad eyes, bright smile what secrets do they keep? Broken boy, Broken boy why do you not weep? Your lungs are filled with heavy heart, your scars just run to deep. He's fallen low and lonely his soul it cries out-loud The problem is, He's lost all for which he's proud. He has nowhere to look too, No one to call his name, He has fallen, And his own self is where he places blame. He wanders memorizing road signs Watching out for an ethereal sign but he keeps missing them and god he keeps on sending them but he refuses to look up so I decide to intervene and sing a song so lou

I offered you broken glances and tattered bones swollen hearts and too prominent veins that trace my skin like ink stains from a pen. I left my hand-prints on car windows like breadcrumbs; so if I die tomorrow, you can still find me. I traced your eye-sockets with calloused thumbs, and memorized your cheekbones,jawline; by touch. I left a map of sensation for you to follow; so if I die tomorrow, you can still find me. I separated your collarbones with brittle fingertips and cradled your heart between my palms until the memory of their heat was forever branded in your subconscious and the contours of my hands

Sometimes I'd like to see the ink melting from the page and staining my skin like tears. I've ripped poems to unintelligible pieces for fear of being found,for fear of being; I've chewed my lip 'till it bled to stifle the urge to see the beauty of breaking [glass,hearts,bones] I hate my words, yes, I want them written, and god,I want them read, but, I don't want them to be associated with me, I hate to stand out, I hate to be seen, I hate attention, It's always been safer to blend in with the walls [and to have a good poker face;or a place to hide] and I'm soo,god,am I, a sad person; that I feel this way?    [I thin

They were always moving too fast, but not in the way of typical children (because that's what they are;children) No;she is sprinting through the storm until the water consumes her vision and she can feel herself turning into tears.Her skin is too slick for the-boy-who-wants-to-be to grab hold; and she slides from his grip that just doesn't understand into a spin that's beauty rivals the lightening and makes childhood jealous. He is the the violent melding together of optimism and despair;the one that never makes sense to the-girl-who-wants-to-be because he sneaks out to watch the dark parts of sky, waiting for the secret of

We told our best stories during born-again summers when the cicadas were painful and the fireflies survived our mason jars (You claimed they lived off the sweet tea that lived there before them) We spent whole days in the presence of the sun and eachother with an understanding that these days wouldn't last forever; We spent whole nights in the presence of the moon or not sitting in the middle of the street, a staggering almost-circle of six or nine kids. We talked about everything and nothing, let our minds play 'What if?' and giggling rounds of Truth-or-Dare. We played games we were to old for, like Duck-Duck-Goos

He can't see her; even when she jumps in front of him and screams, not when she's laughing and he's next to her and not when they're talking, because when he looks into her brown eyes he gets caught at the lashes and runs a fingertip along his own cheek because he can feel it, the kisses of a girl who doesn't have mascara stiffening her blow away wishes and suddenly he's disgusted with the eyeshadow dusting her lids and leaves her there, standing frozen in the middle of her first I-love-you and she doesn't understand that she's lost him to a girl he's yet to meet, because he'll know the color of her w

write me something happy. Tell me that you dream in clouds, and pitch your voice to color the sky. Grab my hand and drag me anywhere, tell me 'to paint the town red' when I ask. We'll sneak on to the lowest rooftops and try our luck at flying, we'll line dance in the grocery store and play tag  in the parking lot. You'll fall asleep watching the stars on whatever path we chose that day. write me something happy.

His letters come with warning stamps, reminding me where they're coming from; where he is. (caution:your father says he misses you.) His voice plays in my head as a soundtrack to the words, his early morning voice that laughed so easily. (be careful:he destroyed you.) I look around expecting to see him whenever I smell the exhaust of a tractor trailer, he'd smile with open arms. (attention:his mood is like a light-switch.) We went to the park as Father-and-Daughters flew kites, played hide & seek, and pirates. (warning:the good times are precarious.) He taught me to ride a bike, to read, to catch a ball, to write my

Why don't we reveal our lamentable 'if only's, let's whisper the truths and you-weren't-my-first-choice's Tell me about her cinnamon and sugar eye's detail me the feel of her curved cheek bones demonstrate the way she used to hold just one of your fingers; the way she hated the rain. Show me where the curve of her calve could fit the life-line of your palm; tell me that the lines of her collarbone cradled your heart and that she once loved your widows peak. And I'll tell you about the boy I could never bring myself to call a man; I'll tell you about his teeth clicking, green eyes,and ballroom dancing that he'd deny if y

There was a boy with two middle names and he lived almost-alone. He had scars that weren't accidents and not his fault. On his seventeenth birthday a girl moved in next door and he found out that cheap bottles shatter and embed into your skin, then his almost-father fell asleep and he left so he could be really-alone. There was a boy with eyes as pale as the sun and he was almost-beautiful. He knew all the constellations by heart and loved to be outside when the leaves fell. Once the girl-next-door found him sleeping under the trees and when he woke up she was gone; later he realized she'd stolen his heart in the form of s

There are no roads only memories that lead back to paths now overgrown.

you once asked me if when we turn 30 i’d still be writing about you and as time passes i’m more pressed for an answer because while we tried so fervently to make ourselves more than we knew possible we held in our heads our youth and ambition that kept mirrors in our hands and subtle lust on our unused lips we threatened the sky turning our fists towards the sun full of faith that no dying star could burn the sheets we use to protect ourselves sheets we’d hide from the moon’s gaze under knowing that if she saw us things would change it remains to be seen whether either of us will make it to 30 so if i’m

why did you stop writing, they ask, as though it was a choice as though stopping did not feel like ripping out a piece of my soul, as if it did not mean suffocating a piece of myself until it lay silent, a bare skeleton in the closet, a ghost, a shadow of who i once was - why did you stop writing, they ask, and i remember what writing felt like - every word, a drop in an ocean of emotions too vast to swim and all i knew how to do was drown in myself why did you stop writing, they ask, as though i had a choice

I've written six and a half stanzas of pure drivel. They don't bushel in quivering golden heads like corn in spring or a hundred tiny swimmers with shivering legs. They're meant to tell you you've done okay well, in truth they're to tell you happy birthday but moreover I wrote them to say that actually you're pretty swell. I didn't use similes to show your effect, I could have said you were like a travelling quartet who visit once a month and make the air thinner and knit up our insides ready for winter I did attempt to show what you had taught that I could be more than others said I ought to be, that by your own aspirations I su

let's make breakfast at 2:30 and tell ourselves that this moment will last longer than these bagels once they're out of the toaster. let's forget about breakfast and forget that i still have to leave in the morning we can spend tonight tracing circles on each other let's sit on the floor humming along to brand new "nobody plans to be half a world away at times like these so i sat alone and waited out the night" let's pretend the sun won't come up anytime soon we can try to stay awake and maybe we'll see the morning come before someone's eyes close i am falling asleep in my queen size bed wishing it were half the size and twice as ful

i'll spend time wondering where you are i'll spend time without you. i'm spending time wondering contemplating everything that holds us together and the threads that you're no longer handling delicately as if you'd forgotten how fragile they are. we could shatter the sky and use the pieces to build bridges to each other, but this bridge is glass and my boots are too heavy for me to tread lightly.