Read every line and get a sense of something more.
My name is Christopher Richter. I'm 24 year old, poetry, and writing books is a hobby I have.
Things I have done:
News Reporter, Banquet Chef, Private Writer, Mechanic, Plumer, Electrician, Security, Commercial fishing, Ballet
Snowboarding, Photography, Long boarding, Skiing, Roller blading, Hard core
Ask me anything, to find out about anything
The world I live and the world I make
I once took the world as set
Now I know its not
So i mold it with my
Losing my self in another
Never wanting to return to myself
The lust of more
And, and places to visit
Wondering what could be next
Wondering what person could be added
Both these i seek so now i return to myself
A boring desk in a boring world to what i made
Though the curiosity is that much more
For i never know what might happen
For i never know who i might meet
This is why i have returned
Till the next time i dream a world again
From scratch on a fresh canvas
the sun will set slower
and the tides will break
uneven, the moon will be a wild
animal and my heart will probably go
to the wolves—
but if I can
wake up, storm after storm after
then I will live
these slow dying days
A Crossing, Alone
on the gray gales
of May; he walked
the tear-touched street.
The light of the lamps
shone rays of defeat
The headlights shone
in the same way,
over the road
beaming with water.
A crossing, alone
in the same way,
a fast car drove,
speeding ever surer.
In Heaven the headlights
are the warmth of an
Laying in a sun-touched river,
no longer to cry, never to shiver.
here we go.
the hills of my vertebrae are lonely,
but tell me something new.
my skin is meant for this lighting,
the pale of my thighs cracking open salt mines,
you would paint me if you knew how.
if you see me differently than others do,
there is no need to apologize.
art isn’t about pretty all the time.
we stroll down
get blisters on
our skin— raw,
by lovers’ lips.
our lungs cower—
“My heart is always trying to be true
to things that aren’t true, loving you
as if you are a monster under my bed
& you are hidden & you are terrifying
& only come out when my room
goes dark, when my soul turns off
all the lights inside of it, when
the moon disappears again, when
somebody has flipped the switch,
& you whisper songs & promise
that your hateful nature can be
fought by gentleness & so
in return I call you baby & I
give you a love to torment,
forgiving you when sharp edges
tear into the thin parts of my skin.
Your face might be trapped
behind a screen & your voice
only imagined, but I swear
that last night I could feel you
crawling up my sheets, your hands
wrapping around my throat
& choking me into infinity.”
Moriah Pearson, loving you might kill me (via mooneyedandglowing)
And to love myself
Is a hopeless feat
A fruitless attempt
To make ends meet
I don’t know how
I cannot fathom why
My life is one sad
So don’t bother trying
You deserve more
you’ll never be able
To grasp what’s inside
My closed doors
(I won’t) melt without you
burn the world,
I’m the kindling,
for your match..
we’ll leap, from
touch the sky,
I want to surf
while cities fry..
..just don’t let go
beneath stones unturned
sometimes it’s easier to see the bad
forgetting there is beauty to be found
behind closed doors, and closed hearts—
beneath stones unturned.
it’s simple, to forget the good
when it is so obscured by the bad
turning ugly any ounce of beauty
whatever value to be had
so unpalatable, that eventually
becomes literally invisible
to the naked eye.
magnets draw you near
[I taste the metal
on your lips]
I think perhaps
the magnets live in me.
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