Rudy Francisco - My Honest Poem
I have this odd fascination with things like sandcastles and ice sculptures, I assume it’s because I usually find myself dedication time to things that will only last a few moments. That’s also why I tend to fall in love with women who will never love me back. I know, it sounds crazy, but it’s actually much easier than it seems, and to be honest, I think it’s safer that way.
“She Says She Loves Me” - Lamont Carey
For those days that you just want to end and those days that you simply can’t believe that you can drag yourself through.
Instructions for a Bad Day - Shane Koyczan
This is amazing.
You pull me under.
You pull me under like no other, and I don’t even know where to begin because I’m drowning. Empty promises take up a lot more space in my lungs than you could ever imagine. And I’m just saying but you could do better than me and you should know better than this. Why can’t…
Five letters, one syllable
Enough to bring a grown man to grovel
Cause giants to hobble
Like an upbeat tempo of a battle drum off cadence
It molds, shakes dust off of old memories
It tastes like a delicacy, filled with slow killing poison
Like one bite of an apple, Snow White, dead on…
for those who like poetry and spoken word.
and for those who long for love.
“when love arrives”
a poem by sarah kay and phil kaye
also check out their poem “an origin story”
For Young Women Who Don’t Consider Themselves Feminists by Mindy Nettifee.
“It’s terrifying to be this soft, to be an object. Who had to learn first not who I was but how I was seen.”
Watch to the end.
This is dedicated to taking the long way home, and to getting lost on purpose. This is dedicated to the lover I found in the secret camp a mile past the Taft point observation deck when I skipped work in the Summer of 2012. You never know what you won’t find if you’re still looking for something specific.
Drink another cup of coffee. It’s only midnight. All the best decisions are made in moonlight. Dedicate your next day to anything at all that helps you smile. Like sudden thunderstorms that cut through hundred degree Nevada hot spells, The kind you don’t even run from because it’s just what you needed. I never post about the weather on Facebook. My hands are busy rubbing it in to my best suits. The clouds are my father.
This is for the little things that remind you the world is a beautiful place, This is for forgetting all the things that make you angry.
This is not for every Palestinian who looks at the deed to their house every morning and wonders if they will ever get to go home again. This is not for the Dove soap commercial in which a black woman washes herself white. This is not for Guantamo Bay prison, which is still open despite president Obama’s promise to me that it would be closed. This is not for white men on the internet who post about how the U.S. is not a Patriarchy.
Don’t let me stop you from being angry. I still believe in a better tomorrow. Fight the good fight.There IS a way to be good again. We can still make a difference. But!
This is for the things that get us out of bed in the morning. I understand what you’re against. I’m probably with you. But tonight, poets, (and we’re all poets… each and every one of us that ever got out of bed, and you all did, to get here, has met the dictionary definition of poet; You’ve imagined something greater than complacency, thank you, so much, for being here, right here, now, right now… I love you. Tonight, poets, let’s put away our swords. Tell me what you’re for.
I’m for new friends, old friends, and lovers, mornings we stayed too long under the covers, For fathers that made it to every parent teacher conference, and also for mothers that made it to every one twice, once for fathers that weren’t there. For the helping hand that’s there when you want it. For the helping hand that’s there when you don’t want it. For the owner of that hand, who new you needed it even though your hands were pushing them away.
I’m for solving problems without any sort of liquid. I can’t be the only one who thought the answer was in a scotch bottle. Stop numbing life away. Step in to this. It hurts sometimes, but that’s part of the process.
I’m for coffee stains on term papers. I’m for writing love letters to strangers, infinite possibilities, free hugs, and sex before marriage. I’m for Virtue, and for Charity, and for Mercy, but not towards rapists. I’m for kissing couples, nudists, the crazy, the deformed, and the ugly, always, ALWAYS in public places. I’m for locally brewed beer, sexually liberated women, and the beauty of pregnancy, but never all three together. I’m for inspiration, and motivation, and teachers that give their students both. I’m for Guy Montag, Edmund Dantes, Jean Val Jean, and John the Savage. I’m for ME. I’m for YOU! I’m for brilliant Reno lights when there’s not a star in the sky. I’m for awkward introductions, and horrible break ups, and being better for both. I’m for runaways and rejects, sinners and symphonies, and the rare situations that bring them all together. I’m for feeding the homeless, and eating the rich, and I’m for LIVING LIFE.
Please! Put your hatred away for awhile. Indulge in a smile. I know the world can be an ugly place… But tonight will be anything or everything you make it. Make it bright.
When you say that you’re a poet
people look at you a certain way
they want you to prove yourself,
they look for signs of a tortured artist,
they want every word you’ve ever uttered
to flow from your mouth like a song.
They don’t realise that poets fuck,
and stutter, cry and mutter.
Everyday, I am not a poet.
Some days I am a lover.
Some days I do not long for the familiarity of speech,
I want the new, the disposable and the fleeting.
I want to catch every breath of yours in my mouth,
i want to swallow you down.
I want to be selfish and keep you within me,
for the days when I am not a poet, or a lover.
For the days when I am no more than condensation
quickly disappearing on a pane of glass,
as nameless faces rush past, and all I can do
is think about the lives of the unknown.
When I am simply a voyeur, I want to exhale you, in a plume of smoke
push you into the breeze, and watch you twirl and dance.
I yearn to put you onto paper,
so I can keep you for years,
But at first you will live in the pocket of my shirt,
by the chest which you once traced,
and as you forget, you will lay on the table,
covered in creases,
and I will remember, when I see you.
I yearn to put you onto paper, but I am scared.
I am scared because then you become finite.
I could trap you in the confines of each letter,
shove your soul in the curve of a C,
stack your memories into an I,
and put the taste of your lips into an O.
The shape of your mouth when we first touch.
Some things belong fleetingly.
Some things cannot be owned.
to call you mine
is to pull the wings off of a butterfly,
and still expect it to move with the wind.
I’m not always a poet, some days I do not want
to keep everything I see.
The thought of trapping you upon the page
so that when years have passed eyes, can devour you hungrily
You are your own cocoon,
I watch you and I see that my eyes do not belong to me
you can hold my gaze
but I will never try to catch yours.
I bought a pack of smokes
Funny, because I don’t do the whole inhale, cough- puff scene
And I’m a good girl
But my judgment is polluted
With resentment and anger
I’m becoming one with the
Take out the cannons
I’m about to blow
one after the other
Love is not just a verb it’s you looking in the mirror
Love is not just a verb it’s you looking for a maybe
Call me crazy we can both be insane
A fatal attraction is common
And what we have common is pain
someone in class asked me for my tumblr & i took her phone & told her i followed myself on her account but i actually followed gaysexistheanswer
I wish that there was a socially acceptable way to say, “I’m having a bad mental health day and need you to pay attention to me,” without alienating everyone.