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Sunday, April 27, 2014

The Drowning

You hugged Her
                          And Her
              And Her
But when it was my turn
You took another swig of your beer
And walked  a   w   a  y
Trying to    d
                     r
                      o
                        w
                           n the boy
Who held my hand for no reason
Played me original songs on an abandoned piano
Showed up at last minute for my poetry slams
And left a smile waiting for me in acrowdedroom
I just wonder
Did He fight?
            float
Try to          in the polluted waters
Flail his arms through the endless waves
Or was it all too easy to slaughter
The boy who had the capacity to hug me?

About My X


You were never my boyfriend
But I still call you my ex
I watched you cross me out 
On a page of your story
Edit me like a misspelling
Extract my presence like a typo
I stood in shock as you made a mess of us
You had no white out
And I had penned myself in with ink 
Too thick for you to erase
So I saw you scribble the two jagged lines in a reckless crimson 
Bury the memories in your tangled hand
Instead of creating a new Eve
You grew a few more ribs to cage your heart
I wonder though if you ever turn back
Peer through the scarlet scratchings
And try to read between the lines
You've ripped your hands trying vaporize me
Layer the affection in destructive decisions
Rather than simply rip me out altogether
Means I'm the most interesting page in your book. 

Monday, April 21, 2014

I Want To Date A Hipster Boy


I want to date a hipster boy
Who takes me to underground cafes  
Educates me on music I’ve never heard of
Who plays at least three instruments
One of them made out of repurposed oak
I want to share kale salads and art cinema
With a guy
Who whispers secrets through his kisses
Measures love in instagrams
Takes me sailing past the mainstream
A sweater collared shirt combo
Who likes his glasses and polaroids in thick frame
I’m looking for someone who listens to the same spoken word as me
Who can write ballads on his harmonica
And love me
Because it will never be cool
I want to date leftover scruff
And irony under eyelids
The only thing skinnier than his lattes are his jeans
You see I’m trying to typecast my lovelife
Make a role for someone to fill
When really I’m just trying to replace you
Stuff the void with a similar vibe
But the truth is you weren’t really a hipster
You were not an archetype
A cliche or fantasy
You were a person
My person
But ever since we connected every call I’ve received sounds foggy
The words slurred
As if every conversation is a drunken mistake
I wonder if you are searching for me
Trying to find a poet girl
Who wears flowers in her hair
And her heart on her sleeve?
Does she sell her life story
trade her flesh for lines?
Maybe you’re looking for someone different
Prescribing yourself a new chaos
Because you’d rather drink wine than arsenic
I know that I shouldn’t be chasing your eyes on different faces
But you are the blueprint for my love, my dear
The only foundation I have to construct a relationship
So I’m going to keep using it
Even though it only let ours fall down.

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Definitions

Soul 
is the poem engraved on your bones
inked by blood rushing
through an unsteady pulse and wounded lungs
Fear 
is the sound your feet make as you jump to a new rooftop
Promises 
are confessions,
where you admit that you need extra incentive to be honest
Apologies 
are the eraser sheddings in the book of life
Courage 
is removing armor during the battle
acknowledging even though it looks strong
it’s about to rust from the blood plummeting from the sky
Bubbles 
are fancy names for shells
Accidents
are God’s typos
mispellings in the book of life
Hate
is when we notice in others the weakest part of ourselves]Modesty 
is not needing a stool on the mountain’s peak
Home
is a custom made sweatshirt
The fancy is in the fit
Tension 
is unstrummed guitar strings
the beats before the songs
Honesty
is the gulp of shame you swallow so you can not just talk
but speak
Romance 
is a song with no words or music

I spent all my money on papers and pens
Plucked my plumpest chickens for quills
I didn’t have dictionaries
Only life to define things for me
But you are the enigma
The misplaced definition in my book
You are
the soul I’ve been trying to decipher
the fear worth giving in to
the dead sea of emotions that will never me let drown
the promises that refuse to transform into apologies
the truth that doesn’t to be gospel or holy
I will never call you angel
because you are why it took 85 million years to make us human
the courage that annihilated my bubble
made me understand that slugs are braver than snails
the accident I could never grow to hate
the modest eight wonder
the hoodie for those rainy days when I can’t find shelter in my own skin
a home knitted with silver linings
you put the ten into tension
the backwards lover in revolution
the nest in honesty
you are more than a basket
so I will place all my eggs in you
because you won’t pick at my scabs
you will kiss them better
for you are the romance I don't need to define.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

My Poems Spoke To Me

You can’t return us
Blow us off
because we are not a gust of wind
We are the rain that never quite evaporated
The kind that fills rivers and oceans and the spirits of creatures too pure to carry blood
You can’t return us
because your diary is not a library book
We are not borrowed words
sentences who rent out rooms in your eyes
Do not replace us with a more readable edition
Because you’re far too complex
To reduce your reading
To tales with happy endings and princes and promises
You started reading 500 shades of grey when you were five
Because you never had an appetite for black and white
You cannot donate your life story to fiction
Claim that we are adopted creations
For we are your most essential organs
The fallen cells of your ventricles
The sweat of your soul from all its growth
You gave us life
Breathed soul into our letters
Stop trying to abort something
That has already been born
You might be our mother
But we are your savior
Just let us nail your hands and heart
On the crucifix instead.

Tangled In Your Arms


I'm still hungry for you
At least that's what I call the emptiness past midnight
When I'm alone in bed gripping my core tight
Desperate to fill my cavities
With a spill of gravity
To hold me down
Because we fly before we fall
And if I don't stall
I'm sure to plummet to an abandoned summit
And I can't stand up from you again
But times I dine
On the moments when I felt your breath on mine
Tangled in your arms
Swarms of butterflies refusing to rest
Let your whispers permeate through my chest
Shaping my fantasies
Cutting reality down to its bowlegged knees
It gives me stress
Sometimes I carve you out of darkness
And it's a curse to possess this imagination
The kind that brings you outside my mind
Before I know it I'm cuddling with my creations
Handing out invitations
To the private chambers of my heart
I get these cravings and I start
Clenching you under the covers
Wrenching us back together like a broken screw
Fantasizing about you out of the thick blue
I dive into a world
Where we weren't the mistake
Not just a boy who met the wrong girl
I try not to feel guilty when I stir up
Things that aren't the case
In an attempt to sate the void within me
I speculate
That you've been struggling to escape
The same loneliness I can't address
That longing for me pressed against your chest
The wisps of my hair
The threads of my hands
And damn I can't understand why I'm falling after one-night stands
On the ground when I'm not grounded
Lost when I'm dumbfounded
Hungry when all you ever were was full of it
But the feeling of imaginary arms are recurring
A mental zit
That I can't escape or sedate through being proactive
I bombed so much romantically that it's no surprise I'm radioactive
Listening to my deformed heart
I guess that's why my brain is trying to claim
Create translucent hands doing CPR
Hoping that fantasy can make my broken atria restart.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

When He Found Me

When cupid found me
He was out of arrows
So he took a spare knife from the cupboard
And shoved it through my chest
Maybe that’s why you hurt more
Bled through the bandages
Still won't heal
The wound was deeper in the first place.

Contact

Ariel is available and interested in anything creative!
For spoken word performances & workshops, web & graphic design, or other writing/film projects please contact via email at arielsob@usc.edu.
New York & Los Angeles work preferred!