ANDY

here’s the thing: 

you are going to play the song of time on piano, we are going to loop it, do music over, 

and write a love song about how there’s not enough time. 

because reasons. 

so apparently playing this while fighting Barinade in Ocarina of Time makes wherever you are the best place in the whole entire world to be. 

d’you guys like my shorts- these are my long ones

iweardiamondsforbreakfast:

i miss flip phones because at the end of a conversation u could dramatically close them like what can i do with my iphone throw it against the wall/nearest Filipino

this is relevant because I have a flip phone and I do just that 

Anonymous asked: Why are your videos on your youtube private?

because reasons

I HAVE to find a way to tell you how important you are to me

but all that keeps coming out is shitty poetry

and I can’t take it anymore

In light of recent things:

it’s come to my attention that I am different. 

No shit, sherlock. 

“we’re all different.” 

blah blah blah. 

Well, there’s this: I do not know how to qualify my emotions. I can quantify the shit out of them in a myriad of ways but when it comes to actually expressing myself without poetry or pushups or pointing a river and saying “that’s what I feel like sometimes” or telling people about rainshadow mountain ranges in an attempt to explain how I feel about running, I can’t legitimately explain in a proper manner what I’m feeling, or what I’m feeling it about. 

Granted, this is probably what spurs a lot of people to write poetry, but here’s where I’m beginning to notice a difference between me and other people who write poetry that scares me. When other people read shit and hear shit, they can talk about it in such a way as to rationalize it and make sense of it all, all the feelings evoked, to put normal person words to feelings they said. Kind of like, getting to the definition in reverse: you have the feelings, you DO the feelings (poetry), then you recognize the feelings. 

That last part keeps getting at me. 

I have no idea what so many poems communicate that I feel inadequate speaking academically about the theory of poetry. I can give you small form tips and grammar shit all day, but when it comes down to 
“what does is all meannn, man”

I can write you a poem to reply to it, but I cannot fucking qualify it.  

I recently wrote this piece, and while it probably seems like a piece about being proud of being naked and also about being REALLY naked in the deep metaphorical sense (balls deep metaphors, right?) it came out of me as a result of so much more than that. 

I don’t even know or remotely understand how to express what I want to say with this piece, but I know exactly what that is and I can say with surety beyond a doubt that I feel more strongly about what I’m trying to get at in this poem than I do in every other piece I’ve ever written. Ever. 

That’s how important it is for me to say what I don’t know how to say, 

and I haven’t the foggiest fucking idea how, or how to communicate it, because clearly this poem is not about what I want it to be about to other people’s ears, 

and other people’s poems make me feel things 

and i’m pretty sure it’s the right things, but I can’t take it farther than that. 

it goes: they have feelings, DO feelings (poetry), I hear them doing feelings, I have those feelings, and can DO feelings back to talk about our feelings, but I can’t JUST talk about feelings unless I’m DOING them, 

so I’ll never be able to talk about poetry

not even my own

so why the fuck am I even here

songs about ex-girlfriends

this →

non-trivial:

calling suicide cowardly is not only wrong but also harmful.

life is probably harder than death. you can’t really measure, nor does it matter. but if you happen to believe that life is harder, and that you are being brave by living, and that others who don’t follow suit are cowardly

then go cut…

FUCKIN RIGHT I EAT BREAD

I am so stoked about the piece I just wrote because it requires me taking my clothes off

and that is a thing I like to do

You always said

alexhatterpoetry:

“I love you”

Like you were trying
To convince yourself
Of something

The Naked Poem

I can’t do poetry with my clothes on. 

There are words along my ribs that are invisible unless the skin is naked
and I’ve got memories burned
along the insides of my thighs that people need to know about
from nights worth tattoos
and long runs 
where the chafing isn’t so much a metaphor for life as life is a metaphor for the
chafing

PEOPLE TELL ME
“I don’t care”
“I don’t want to hear about it” 
“put some clothes on!” 
“you’ll be fine” 
BUT 
I CAN NO LONGER EDIT MYSELF

I do not want to edit the poetry in my body for content
there is no story I have to tell that is not necessary
these stories (all of them) are important

A friend once told me that “your life is poetry, man”

And I was never good at editing my poetry 
and I don’t want to edit my life
so 

I can’t do poetry with clothes on

The air in my chest is restricted by the thinnest of veils
when you are this small 
there is no weight you do not notice 

I do not want to edit the scars on my legs
or the lumps in my back 
nor the holes in my reasoning 
if I am poetry 
I want to be pure
like the way things happen

between our legs are some stories that must be told
when my friend Jessica was raped 
twice
she was not allowed to edit for content

there is a story under my left pectoral muscle

it goes: 
when my mother’s left breast was removed 
edited not for content but to stop a life from being whited out
we were not allowed to skip over the red and sodden vomitous
details fluid pouring through veins scar tissue and elastic bandages 


there are songs in my collar bones

that say “I thought about killing myself again last night but I didn’t tell you because I knew you would just hit me again if you found out”

arias about eating oranges in between kisses

I woke up to her standing over me with her hair close to my face telling me to stop being a dramatic bitch and get out of her room

dirges for every beautiful thing I will never know

she snapped in my face and told me I had to find somewhere to stay or go home

and at my navel
there is a waltz
where in between steps 
I fly 

so I went home

How much of our tragedy and joy is edited for content?
How much of ourselves do we deem unnecessary? 

my body is a much a part of me 
as the poems I hope to bleed from it
I cannot attend a free speech event 
without a free body 
because

I cannot edit my body when I do poetry,

because I was born a poem,
naked like a heart attack
bloody /words and stories/
still on my skin 
for all to see
wailing for all hell

and somewhere,

somebody heard a poem because of itThere are words along my ribs that are invisible unless the skin is naked

and I’ve got memories burned
along the insides of my thighs that people need to know about
from nights worth tattoos
and long runs 
where the chafing isn’t so much a metaphor for life as life is a metaphor for the
chafing

/I do not want to edit the poetry in my body for content
there is no story here that is not necessary/ 
Pieces of me have been deferred beneath rags
and courtesies for too long

“I don’t care”

“I don’t want to hear about it” 

“put some clothes on!” 

“you’ll be fine” 

I fucking care
and I’M on stage so you’ll hear what I want you to hear 
clothes cover more than just skin and I’d rather not cover
the bruises on my brain
I WILL NOT BE FINE UNTIL I GET THIS OFF OF MY CHEST 

BECAUSE I CAN NO LONGER EDIT MYSELF 

My feet burn bashful in shoes and socks
the laces are knots about my concsious
I’ve had to hide the fact that I jerk off with fleece blankets my entire life
and when I dream there is a cum-soaked fleece about my throat
knotting at the junction of larynx and lyrics frrom lips
looping knots about my heart
like those about my feet

A friend once told me that “your life is poetry, man”

And I was never good at editing my poetry
and I don’t want to edit my life
so 

I can’t do poetry with clothes on

The air in my chest is restricted by the thinnest of veils
when you are this small
there is no weight you do not notice 

I do not want to edit the scars on my legs
or the lumps in my back
nor the holes in my reasoning
if I am poetry
I want to be pure
like the way things happen

between our legs are some stories that must be told
when my friend Jessica was raped  
twice
she was not allowed to edit for content

there is a story under my left pectoral muscle

it goes: 
when my mother’s left breast was removed 
edited not for content but to stop a life from being whited out
we were not allowed to skip over the red and sodden vomitous
details fluid pouring through veins scar tissue and elastic bandages 
like red marks and blackout over the peace that could have been 2009 

there are songs in my collar bones
arias about eating oranges in between kisses
dirges for every beautiful thing I will never know
drip down my sternum
and at my navel
there is a waltz
where in between steps
I fly  

I revel in the saline squelch
squelch of skin
on skin
kissing like it’s a sin
I want to confess with my whole body
not just my words 

How much of our tragedy and joy is edited for content?
How much of ourselves do we deem unnecessary?  

I cannot attend a free speech event
without a free body
because

I cannot edit my body when I do poetry,

because I was born a poem,
naked like a heart attack
 bloody /words and stories/
still on my skin  
for all to see
wailing for all hell

and somewhere,
somebody heard a poem because of it 

THIS WAS NOT HERE LAST TIME I SEARCHED FOR IT

“when you burn in hell, they remind you 

all the things you screwed up in your life

I’ll be one of them, if you’re inclined to, 

turn away from the ever-glowing light…”