for the whole world to see

theVault DIY society wild places artist creative poetry snippets contacts
mirror mirror who needs love romantic path of selfdestruction the universe the universe

this is to the thing I was looking for

November 7, 2015 - romanticpathofselfdestruction -

3 poems by 3 people in 3 countries about 1 thing

The greatest person you meet for the first time tomorrow could very well be you. It could also be someone else, someone that will change your world and flip it sideways. This idea of not having met the majority of people you eventually will come to know in life has always excited me. Dakota Stutz, Emma Halenko and I took this idea and wrote some words about it. The result is some sort of digital broken telephone. Why does the unknown have to be so fearful?

Like We

I need you like the air I’ll breathe tomorrow
filling in the sentences I always thought were pointless
to a point of a return
of that return
where memories are history
that even textbooks fail to experience
you are
with a bucket and plaster,
my holes still empty
and a sign in my hand that reads
‘I’m stuck’

my mind sings in screams
this is to the thing I was looking for when
I thought you weren’t there
this you
that I
is not gone
and not here
those damn bronchi,
and holy hell,
that brain

rejection isn’t only for the lonely
I wish
if only
could conflate
in a way like the milky way
with all those
desolate stars

and maybe
could be
like we
already are

~Janel Halenko


I haven’t known you for the longest time because I left my dreams and starting walking on my own again.
I used to think that you’d be waiting for me at my favourite bookstore.
The lips, your wind and my eyes meeting first.
I spoke about you in writing and on my walls.
I made friends just so I could introduce them to you.
I bought you a toothbrush, left clothes; ironed.
I saved a chair empty and made you coffee every morning.
But you never surfaced.
Unpronounced and unpretending.
Now I’m spent over false pretences and camouflage beauty,
window wrapped music and brokeback stereotypes that don’t let you feel; touch, stroke, caress.
You’re trapped somewhere between space and tangibility and your body is something I won’t ever touch. You hair, I will never smell
and you’ll never leave your sweet sweat on my body in the morning.
I want to write to you knowing that we’ll never meet.
I want to write to you so that
you can hear my voice on paper,
feel my body in words, taste my breath in the negative space between them.
one day you will be waiting for me at my favourite bookstore,
drinking my coffee.
I want to write to you knowing that I’ll never meet you but hoping you’re there so I can find my dreams again and know, finally.
That you were worth the wait.

~ Emma Halenko


Come, child.
Sit by the warmth
of the fires we keep
lit for the sojourn
and hot for escape.
tend to it while I speak
and wipe the ashes
from my weathered mouth.
You knew her, once.
don’t look at me that way
you did
We exchanged our pieces,
weighted them and measured
displaced our fears
with mutual losses
dropped in our ocea
running over the brim
like Archimedean baths.
baptized anew she
said it was familiar
like we’ve been here
we have, I see it.
But you don’t remember,
do you?
The edges of her eyes when
she laughs
or grips sheets
the silence ensues
and then she’s gone.
was she here?
no, you can’t
because she
she has not happened

~ Dakota Stutz

View other posts by

Leave a Reply