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My side

@meganalyssandra

Instagram: meganalyssandraphoto
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Secondary to sadness Is a cross between fury and indignation Coursing through a crowd of ghosts Screaming everything I never did I spoke it like a promise to the world Broken vows turning inside me This wedding is over Let’s fucking drink Let’s get up in the morning and carve muscles into neglected bodies Let’s disappoint less Give our word to fewer Making paper shapes of old poems Littered with their names Let’s forgive old pain by tipping writing into flames ------------------------------------------------- Drum kicking underneath livid blood Blood boiling they said it does that If I do not spill a drop again Who dares measure degrees Cut me I dare you to cut skin To reach my arteries This is nice Fury so hot it burns white I will speak now or forever hold it I run from the burning altar Secondary to sadness is Smoking wood and a shrieking dress I constructed this fantasy myself Watch me pour gasoline on the rest

I Lick My Wounds with Flame.  @meganalyssandra

#Poetry#spilled ink#self love#creative writing#spilled thoughts#love#writing#original poetry#young poets#poetry riot#slam poetry#bay area poets
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She watches you exit the bus

It is 3:02 a.m. I told myself I would write. I told myself I had something coming, clawing its way out, I could feel the monster about to drown for lack of air. It had something to say, to share, it had to tell you it doesn’t have enough room any more. Down there in my stomach, it is crowded with so many faces, but I love them they can’t leave please don’t go. Can they we can they say they do they walk away get off the bus turn the corner leave the cafe they never knew we were waiting. My monster aches. More. We find without searching. There is more and that is what we are looking for, this creature and I, because I know this trance that strikes us. Our heart weaving silk, vibrating lines between each new person and thing, each smell, the birds, the sidewalk, the graffiti, the facial hair. We like dark features, on dark men and women, we like the promise of an ending. We like the cliff side, the inside waiting like a cat, tail twitching. We like those who know what to say but never need to say it. We see them all. My monster and I. Their eyes wash before me without touching, like waves pressed against glass, like a car wash dripping wax in pastel down my windshield. The colors fall, mixing, then gone. But we weave these lines, there could be more. We pull we pull do we does this connect to anything. Now our fingers are dripping. This is the trance, hypnotic like crispy air baptizing lungs and dewy skin. My monster rears her head, rubbing tired eyes, for a new day, new colors, new strangers. The monster waits. She watches from behind glass.

#writing#spilled words#spilled thoughts
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Business

Men thought they possessed me. For an hour, a night, a summer, a lifetime. But I never belonged, not to hands other than my own. I am not owned. How much would you pay for one night? One chance at the bliss between my legs, the romanticized, idealized fraction of my body. I won’t say it is overstated, I’ve seen what it can do to the weak. We’re all a little weak. So how much would you pay, how much would you give, if you had to give anything to receive what isn’t yours? Name your price. If it isn’t your life I won’t take it. I am not owned. Transactions, I conduct transactions of my time for your emotion, my affection for your sex, my presence for your ego. They walk away with an empty shell in their hands and hot air in their heads. It may be the only thing keeping you off the ground for all I know, that ego, That Ego. I will let you slip inside, I will let you enjoy the night thinking you could keep it if you so desired, but I. Am. Not. Owned. I will stay and I will go, I will hustle to survive on my own. If you happen to be victimized by my transactions, I wish you well. Behind my wall is no fear, only calculation. A button moves my arm to the right, fingers open, and my hand stretches into an empty palm for your fingers to slip cash into. Because this is a transaction. And I do what I have to.

#writing#spilled ink#spilled thoughts
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Trails-- Picking flowers she was always Picking flowers One by one no blood Ripping them out of the earth for fun As if she was giving something more than taking As if these gifts were hers to share As if her hair was the rightful home for these young lives They became housewives- one and another- Tied to each other each Bright in indirect sunlight How unfair They didn’t even bleed How rude not to let her know Death lingered in her fingers’ shadow

meganalyssandra

#poetry#creative writing#flowers#death#destruction#spilled ink#poems#young writers#environment#earth
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