no-nip-steve

[no-nip-steve]

I feel like such a dumb idiot piece of garbage and everyone I know is tired of talking to me, tired of being around me, cause I don't talk and I don't say anything meaningful, Im not enough of me for anyone. I'm not as friendly as people want, I'm not as energetic, I'm not good enough to be human anymore. I want to kill myself all the time and I don't want to talk to anyone about it, I want to stuff all my feelings down inside where no one will see. Even when I'm bursting at the seams I can't say it like I feel it. I can't say how tired I am and how stupid and shitty I feel all the time without making it sound like a joke, because we all feel tired and stupid and shitty, and my turning my own feelings into jokes is my own fault. Even when I try to act like an adult I fail, even when I try to talk and work things out with words I fail, even when I want to ask people how they are and make sure they're okay I fail.

#actuallife

[no-nip-steve]

wanting (what you can’t have) means wounding by Emily R.

A black flag in the wind, whipping under the force of             canonfire, thunderous, and the seas darkening with gasoline, with blood, with your sweat and saliva.

There’s a promise in the swell of her cracking hull,                                        that this could be the last, that you’ll never want for anything more.

                              But the black sails on the sunset will call, the creaking timber will call, the brackish water will call, the humming rope will                                                          call.

You’ve never wanted something so bad, so bad it tastes like                   salt like tears like the hurricane of your hatred pulsing in your veins. Sometimes you want to grab your own neck, shake yourself,            because how could you want something so ephemeral?

But you don’t grab your neck, you grab everyone else’s,                  with slender fingers, so dreadfully thin, you bend and you break and you break.

#my poetry #black sails #james flint #wrote this before finishing season 2 so it's not really true to flint's character

[no-nip-steve]

But Still We Make Rent by Emily R.

In bare dirt backyards, plastic neon seats on nylon cord swing sticky babies who scream their lungs out in fear, in delight. Doors stand open on trailers sinking into the dust— on stained carpet apartments— on rented houses across the tracks, to catch the edge of a southern breeze and take the heat off a rising power bill.

Aunts sweat over pots of mac and cheese and collard greens, or just a plate of fat red hot dogs, while Uncles sway over sweating bottles of beer among clay planters laid out on the porch in an offering to future dinners and a dollar saved. Tomato plants, peppers, and dying

daisies just past the treeline, where children slide into ditches searching for buried treasure in mud and nettles— bent traffic cone sentries guarding chipped frisbees, charred cigarette butts, cracked plastic cups— Cheaper than dollar store toys.

Mothers sell their mother’s jewelry in pawn shops with gun racks lining the walls, and walk out with enough to eat for another two weeks, if they don’t eat much or don’t mind the heat. Fathers die, they always die (but first they have to teach their sons that big boys never cry)

And the kids of fathers who always die become people in checkout lines, who lean on buggies near empty but for the rattle of soup cans, with feet that still feel the 12-hour shift running tables. Every moment wasted in line and every penny spent is a noose, and there’s nothing like the hangman’s knot resting in the hollow of a throat to turn a person white trash wrathful.

#my poetry #poverty

[no-nip-steve]

I Used to Count the Ways We Might Have Never Met by Emily R.

I dream of you in store-bought apologies, with confectioners sugar popping on my tongue from all the sweet little lies pouring through my teeth: “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” “I”m glad to see you.” And when I wake in a cold sweat it’s to the relief that you’re not here anymore.

My contacts list is a balancing act on the edge of a candy dish. Every time I see your name is a mis-step into open air, arms pin-wheeling in a struggle not to slide into the sticky, melted history of late-night texts and inside jokes. But I never delete it so that if you ever call, I’ll know not to answer.

The words you accented in my in-ven-tory and the gestures I stole in unconscious slips of the hand, I’ll leave in a pile of my limbs by the side of the street where you can pick them up as you like or let the trash collectors take them away, because I can’t stand the parts of myself that still can’t stop remembering you.

#my poetry #this poem is from a very hidden place #these feelings are hard for me to talk about

[no-nip-steve]

The Moment of Loss by Emily R.

I’ll never be ready, not today, tomorrow, ten years ago at the phone, crossing railroad tracks from one moment to the next, because the voice in my ear told me to come home. Tripping up stone steps of an empty house, hearing the phantom toll of bells, a chill I could no longer feel settling in my animal hindbrain, telling me I had arrived but a mother had been taken, and I am no Liam Neeson at the phone, knowing that I will get her back with gritted teeth and a hail mary bullet. I am Orpheus at the gates, knowing I shouldn’t look back, but turning just the same, because the only getting nearer I’ll do to her is the passing of weeks, the scourge of years— until another set of tracks coming nearer, where on the other side I’ll see them that hearty cheers forgot, and she will be among them. Even at the intersection of rail and tie, I’ll never be ready.

#my poetry #death #loss #grief

[no-nip-steve]

Fury Road by Emily R.

There is a memory of green, sinking into sands soaked red from the blood between our thighs, evaporating into the dust clouds we throw up as Mother Mary falls, taking the baby with Her.

We scream and turn with the pull of remembered chains, but turn again and continue on. All that’s behind is a red and white half-life where water falls from the hands of an angry god into the slaving mouths of His toys. Our flesh will forever carry the brand of man— the bruises of hands on arm and hips, grapes shriveled and rotting under the sun; our throats left bare by His hand in our hair; scabby knees that never leave the ground— But we will not always carry this flesh.

We are not things! Who killed the world?

Our raw hands will work themselves clean catching bullets, shearing our scalps until there's nothing to grip, tearing the mask from his truth so he can fully W i t n e s s

Mary died for love of life, and lacking a savior we made our own salvation, splitting our knuckles against the wreckage of a war fought on the battlefield of our bodies, spitting blood and, shoulder to shoulder, rising like the plume of an explosion

#my poetry #mad max fury road #fury road #mad max

[no-nip-steve]

A submission for my poetry class this semester

“Ground Control to Major Tom”

Your circuit's dead, but nothing's wrong. Who will know the hand that flicked a switch, sent comm links dead, was yours? Pinpricks of light, the maps of our forefathers, guide you with promises of something better

Your spaceship knows which way to go; Trembling fingers find the switches, misting breath as darkness fills your lungs. Such a delicate task, leaving behind the ones you love, but the pull of— distant planets spinning in their skirts of ice, twin suns expanding until they consume each other, a terrain never to be touched— is greater than the gravity of earth

You're coming home To a deeper place that's somehow more forgiving than the people who flung you away as hard and as fast as they could.

#my poetry #david bowie

[no-nip-steve]

Had to visit the church street cemetery for class yesterday, and it was pretty cool. It has the oldest Jewish graves in Alabama and the grave of Joe Cain. It was in incredible disrepair–lots of headstones broken, trash hidden around, etc.

We had to write something, so I ended up writing a poem!

These markers of our place on earth Don’t mean anything to those who didn’t sweat and sob their fears into the dirt as the stone was erected, The sun redening their bent necks, The murmer of condolences sliding past their ears

“Here lies a brother, a sister, a lover, a friend,” but not to me.

Here lies someone who’s secret wish was to own a beautiful dress

There lies Ms. Mary Ann, who was married and buried loving another woman

Here lies a soldier, died in a war, 22, couldn’t read, didn’t know what he was fighting for

In memory of Henry, 2 months old, too young for dreams, too young for nightmares

Here lies a person, eaten by time The words worn away Their secrets enshrined by death And decay and the creeping of vines And no one left to beg That they’d still be alive

#my poetry

[no-nip-steve]

Captain’s log, Stardate 2105.8

I was born on a planet called Earth with stars in my heart and a void calling me home At age 5 I begin school, stomach a black hole By 11 the captain’s chair spins empty I thought only red shirts died on away missions. My mother’s tears drip silver stardust Each point tearing her ragged, leaking light like a sieve She has the conn We take our ship out to unfamiliar places The hull is rumbling apart at the seams as we fly through the darkest parts of space looking for any other planet than the one we are stuck on I travel to universe cities, but always come home Until another away mission and I have to tell my little brother the captain’s chair spins empty again The ship is in for repairs now But soon, my five-year mission will begin My science officer and CMO have my back The stars in my heart know the way and this faded gold shirt will keep me warm It’s time to boldly go I have the conn

I wrote this poem for a class assignment, to make a “quilt,” so if my teacher happens to google this or something, yes this is an original poem I submitted for your class, Dr. Martin. -Emily R.

#my poetry #poem #star trek #accidentally posted this to the wrong blog first whoops

[no-nip-steve]

A box of memories spread out on the floor middle school craft projects curling and yellow fading birthday cards from unfamiliar family pictures where i'm small and soft with no idea one day i'll be reading handwritten letters from a ghost “i'm so proud, you're so strong, we love you” if only you could see me now

-Handwritten Letters from a Ghost

#my poetry #trying to write a poem for my class about me #instead all i can come up with is sad and weird junk

[no-nip-steve]

There's a garden where green grass grows Where fruit runs like water down your arms from the first aching bite after a long drought The sun freckles your skin and dapples beneath the shade of leaves Streams flowing clear and cold to the edge of that world Where the taste of berries on your tongue turns sour and old I'll stand where the green grows gray knowing there's a place for me Outside there are wolves in wool prowling through the mists Inside there are wooly lambs shedding coats and savaging growth With wolves outside behaving all polite At least a rabbit knows where it stands

#my poetry

[no-nip-steve]

You rise around me like ribs protecting a heart hands grab stomach and arms and chest ribs hide the best Flexing fingers find my lips prying push the poison down but teeth will clench on wicked wrists only blood will fill the mouth Open ears catch silver whispers sliding slick into the grey close enough for skulls to meet close enough Peel the peach and leave it bare lick away the meat but choke on the pit -Love Poem for a Skeleton

#my poetry #poem #i don't know if anyone could parse what i wrote this about #even i have trouble believing it

[no-nip-steve]

Beneath my bed your bones will lie And when I feel your absence Out you'll slink on bended knee To climb upon the mattress I'll swallow fears and stopper tears While you inspect the bruises Yellow edges fade in light But purple hides in ruses

The shadows of your ribs will lie In bars across my being But you have left the cage door locked, And gone with church bells ringing I'll thrust my grin between the bars Hang up some pastel ribbons Pretend as if I've rebuilt home Where you've left behind a prison

The wingbeats of my sparrow heart May one day flutter quiet But cages rust and bruises heal So how can bones dare fight it? One day I won't see your face In the maybes enshrined by destruction I'll think of you in better days and not the interruption

#my poetry #weh

[no-nip-steve]

My friend had to write a poem for class containing his 50 favorite words, and that sounded fun, so I decided to do that too.

  Hey Fucktruck! your False Quest                                 is in another Castle this Helpless Vagrant Seeps Iron                                 and Steam

    Dragons need no Knights to Bruise                                 and Chain a Monster Gallows herself with                                 Thunderous Scale Soars through the Iris of your                                 Nightmare Storms Gutting the Guillotine                                 in your Phantom Gaze

    this Haunted Chameleon has                                 Unwound the Stars and Unseamed the Galaxy’s                                 Apocryphal Abattoir

    Pixel Swords Trip and Shore                                 a Twilight Equilibrium but we Murderous Stags,                                 we Prophet Wendigos Frost our Nebula on the Rim                                 of a Galley Raven Makers of our own Constellations

#my poetry #feminist poem

[no-nip-steve]

i can’t sleep for the words mocking in my ear the hole in the front of my head swallows cars and dead cats pit and pendulum swinging to incise me from my body’s home a tumor shorn from someone who will smoke their life away regardless i will twist into the gutter, one more leaf to be burnt. they feed me butane and shower me in matches, a feast held in my honor even as wax melts from my eyes and my eardrums pop and crackle so i will lay down in my bed and let their scalpels carve me out thrust my chest at the swinging blade— the hole in my head spreading its jaws for me— and extinguish into ash for lack of air. but i will shake that flakey dust from my hair stuff my throbbing heart between my ribs and find a jar to lay my head where sleep will come with silence.

#my poetry #weh