A Sugar-Filled Life

dmldr:

I will write about the following, leave one in my ask box.

Dear person I hate,

Dear person I like,

Dear ex boyfriend

Dear ex bestfriend,

Dear bestfriend,

Dear *anyone*,

Dear Santa,

Dear mom,

Dear dad,

Dear future me,

Dear past me,

Dear person I’m jealous of,

Dear person I had a crush on

Dear girlfriend

Dear boyfriend

do it

(Source: ballsintheairr, via juliaakinuu)

The caves were beneath mining holes 
and man, did we mine.

Mining for the energy sorcery stones that were all mine
I heard they called ‘em happiness- they were all mine.

Hands built by blacksmiths, indefinably intended to thieve  
you let your theft thrash and throw the thawing stones
Most importantly, you stole my important mine from me

From me the corpses that were meant to stain my hands
The flesh that was intended to feed my too-needy family
You murdered undefineds and in turn you left me without mine.  

Shattered window panes licked the air, disappointed by their harmless heads 
They twirled in fashions of 180 degrees just hoping to turn a pretty head
Your red-faced hands clawed at them, as if they were just meat
I could have sworn, besides your thieving ways, you would have known better  

We mined until the sun was choking on the morning dew, smiling like a raisin 
Your hands damaged all my tools and my heart fell through my ass and to the floor
Your chuckles were quiet but the smell of smugness stained you breath so in defense
I threw the pick I loved the most so I could wipe the world of your selfish-stained hands.  

I feel it curl in my throat because every last word folds into the form of a mail carrier. He holds a letter written in the cursive of my past: 

Dear You, 

The words will sit like blossomed trees against the stagnant wind while the after-math will eat through each corner of your cracked flesh like the venom of the snake you once misplaced within the shrubberies. 
Your eyes will open gates to let the salted seas of the gulf rush down the mountains of your once perfected face.
Your lungs will follow the tempo of your cauliflower tongue and flutter in the tides of your blood just to catch the air that seems to be running too fast to chase.

You- you will run with open arms, just trying to catch the bodies leaping from mountains down to the pavement. 
You- you will run to catch these bodies that have done nothing but pumped blood through every open vessel just in hopes of bringing vibrations to the pulse they once knew as living. 
Listen you, stop catching those who have stopped breathing.

Sincerely,
You.  

I don’t know you that well but your writing is really good. There is this kind of raw nature to your tone of writing. 
Maybe I liked it because it reminded me of my own.
No, your writing is different. And I like it. Your writing is just for you and not an attempt to have an ‘employable piece’ or something you want to show off to people. 
That’s refreshing and I fucking like it.

If you read this, yes, it is about you. Don’t second guess, because it is.
So as your reading please understand that you can never stop writing, no matter who makes you think otherwise. You’re too good to stop.  

Write about what has been on your mind and in fact that is all that matters. All that matters is I have been having dreams about my heart pumping endearment into the warmth of another. 

I don’t want this.

Never truly searching for the caress of a mans hands, the love came to me unexpectedly. Unaware of the costs and benefits of the situation I placed my face down first and my feet moving afterwards, having my heart collapse against the cement ground.  
I took the hand because I had never searched for it before and the way it waved was just so intriguing.
Intriguing enough to blind-sight me by the idea of love and this need to be devilishly adored by someone who knew so much more than me. I needed to be loved, otherwise my swollen heart would not fit inside of any open door.  

Before, it was something I just assumed would stumble out and pick me up and bring me about and, it did. 

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. 

I don’t know why I consider my dream world a future reality otherwise this entire poem would be so petty but my body is aching and I can’t help but have a feeling that my heart is weak, feeling just about ready to crumble. Crumbling enough that a man with surgical hands is going to come fast to patch me up. I can’t help but anxiously anticipate a lover along the horizon, someone who has the ability to mold me into someone I have never met before. I am already too many people, I don’t need to be another. I don’t need to stare into someone’s pupils and see their eyes dive into mine and realize that we have a connection that is binding us together, together enough that I can’t help but think about a life past all of my own personal achievements, my personal achievements as my writing begins to ferment and the words that I will write will make not a bit of sense and he will be the one to take and control and invade all of my thoughts and

I just won’t be alone anymore.

I don’t want this, deep inside world that embarks on vacations that draw the perimeters for the future, keep love away from me. Please.  

-Katelynn U 

With lips pressed together tightly, I think we could stop sound waves from vibrating. 
We could cause force of friction to retain its convictions and power of the mind could be molded into just another line read aloud in a story book.

Think of the things our lips could do, pressed tightly together, air locking each other as our lungs begin to spit and sputter for a bit of air to swim through their wings. 
Imagine what the writers and artists would begin to place forth if they walked past the vision of two inter-locking tragedies becoming one alike melody. We would be the causal effect for the paintings of future Picasso. We would be owed thank yous for just letting our lips suffocate the air.   

Envision what two sets of irrelevant apparatuses could create when they collide against the Memphis sun and the darkened winter sky. 

Think, imagine and envision how we would just be one example against many and the idea of love changing the world is too broad to bring any tangibility to these metaphors. 

I really need to get my bloggin’ self back together. The lack of updates and care for the blog is getting a little embarrassing. 

I’m sorry, I’m embarrassed. I’m sorry if I’ve offended anyone. This is shame right here. 

Thank you,

Katelynn U 

Sitting on a roof-top high seat, I’m just watching. 
I’m watching the birds sing and listening to violent alarms ring.
I’m just watching.

The throne where I sit is made of solid stone, perched high atop a vantage point that give me the opportunity to catch every woman that breaks her six inch heel while every broken heart has mended enough to heal. I let my eyes glide over to witness the lonely cries of silent girls with their headphones plugged in far enough that they never have to make room for the rough conversations between men who are taking a break from reality as their dreams drown in swimming pools of too many bloody mary’s. Because their stumbling feet are creating earthquakes, shock waving across the street where a poor boy carries glue sticks in hopes of piecing together every broken girl just to say he fixed it 

The broken into shattered pieces type of gal who is wearing herself out as she distinguishes fires with her already too-flammable hands hoping that if she stops that burning man, she won’t be covered in burn-marks, bottom down. 

I watch with a sealed mouth as the world shakes morally corrupted hands that moisturize with the political cries of shame after they spend a relaxing weekend, baking in the sand 
As pictures keep the dead living and villains march across lonely sidewalks reminding us how the once dance with some feeling in their steps because before their souls worked for the devil, they were hopeful souls being disappointed by lack of approval 
Watching trees bend away into the motionless air, trying to escape the chemicals that leave trails on their bark 
I watch woman leave marks as they devolve into serpents and men slowly become their servants, I watch panting bodies tumbling across roads, escaping something no one knows 
I watch musical notes float against the triumphant error of auto-tuned dashboard, remote controlled hash-tag, calling us the informational era  
I watch city squirells dance inside trash cans because when you’re from a rural area you never thought they’d be so willing to chat with man 
I watch smiles race across faces as quickly as people are willing to segregate different races.
I watch the world curve around no ends, I watch people as the bend, I watch and watch because without them I couldn’t find inspiration to twist my tongue into different numbing positions just to makes some rhymes about how the terrible things are the best things in life.