[x]

No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,
the embodiment of poetry.

& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.

wishes are for the weak-
stand up,
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.

Anything.

I think I found God then,
lurking behind wanderlust eyes.

Dear Poetry,I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-

Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.
I am too many breaks between pulses,
& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.

I'm telling stories about a girl.

A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,
too much for a non-homeostatic body.

There were once fireflies in her smile,
alight between the gaps in her teeth.

A rebel,
love letters carved into wrists
she never sent.

Poetry,

She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.

I want to forget names,& faces,
& people.

I want to forget their veins,
fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;
wrists I can't look at
without longing to tear apart.

Spine full, and spiteful:

I want to cry
roses in my midnight tea
for these star collapsed lungs.

I want to cry for her
& for me.

But Shame,
she wont allow me the courtesy.

Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,
mosaic butterflies
tattooed into the
rose garden curve
of my vertebrae,

gliding me through this wild youth.

But, like Icarus—
I was a sky conqueror
& these silk wings

touched the sun.

-

My inhalations are heavy,
like the earth he bruises
beneath his fingertips
as I chase silence.

"You've got a tongue
made for words." He says
against the arrogant thorns
of my briar spine.

"Learn to love yourself."

-

How do I say I love you
without saying I love you?

"I want to replace my heart with you."

-

You are spider silk woven
into my harvest moon
heartstrings, spider
limbs traveling this road map
of s

respiration.i am shipwrecked fever;
kerosene sleep,
& she is denied oxygen.

i taste sirens on the shore
of her collarbones,
& salt-licked sea limbs.

but, it's the natural disaster
wrapped around her coral spine
that really has my lungs
   s
p
i
  n
  n
i
n
g.

astrology.i lost my cigarettes today while
sparing kisses to too many witches
with apastron blackberry tongues.

& like the scattered stars of scars,
saturn's rings whispered secrets
to the telescope eyes of these strangers
cradling galaxies between lovely bones-

( their fingertip heat
knowing nothing of intermissions. )

fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:
these wildfires raging in our retinas
& the sins we wear like demonic similes
on our tongues- they are not enough.

& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.

but, tell me,
what is a young poet(ess) to do
with veins made of kite strings?

wet scribbles, tattooed tragedyI am shedding my skin
like the poetry that bleeds
from your ink-cracked lips
onto the bare bones of my
anatomy.

Unfold these moon-shy limbs
that chase silence
& beg stay-with-me.

For you are the only verse
hidden within this labyrinth
of scar-damaged flesh.

Heart:a rebellion
tucked away
in her chest.

they say
she's got skin
unworthy to write
poetry on,
but
she tapes those
lovelies
to her limbs
anyway.

astrological.i. On some nights,
street lights guide
this lonely heart
to her lonely bed.

ii. In this universe of twilight skin
& mismatched bones,
I wonder just how many poems sleep
beneath the inkwell of her eyes.

iii. My body is a house of stars,
and her palms are black holes
sucking ( me ) into their vortex of

nothing.

iv. She says, "Please—my moon,
please—give these bones a reason
to stay."

& I am whispering lovelies
into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.

v. "Goddess temple,
sunset eyes, &
my windowpane love-

Let us eat the stars
t

I am trying to be honest,but I write so fucking flowery
it makes me sick,
rose scented stars & love.

No.

Her: helpless as a lamb,

I want raw, aching
bone against bone
exploring the exposed, naked
poetry of her universe-

( warm, celestial hands
forging sandcastle ribs. )

Southern earth beneath her feet,
wanderlust burned like Apollo's touch
into her spinal cord, please awaken
the empty space between her skin

& mine.

I think you left a piece of you in me.This tangled mess you call a heart,
daisy veins & sin;
She's bringing me down.
& you were merely shivering
kite-string clavicles.

Nothing,

pressing winter bones
against my sun-stricken mouth,
darkness searching for a home
buried in my lungs.

You whispered breathe me
lovely in the inhale/exhale
of carbon dioxide suicide.

She speaks only of you now,
lonely & mourning beats-

Crack open this damn ribcage;
set me
free.

William,If I am nothing but an actor
on a stage in this dust town
of rose torn bones and washed up
stars, why is it that the galaxy sculpted
crescent moons in my palms
ache?

GravityAutumn wanted to learn
how to

fall.

So, the galaxy of dead trees
coiling in your lungs
devoured her spine.

Your gifts,
a lifeline wrapped around
her neck like a noose;

an orange and red
assisted suicide.

& you said "God bless your
heart." like some divine
higher power could forgive
her for loving you.

Depression like lipstick stainsOn some days,

you are the angel dust
settled in my bones
keeping these December limbs
& Sunday-morning-coffee eyes
warm.

But, other days-
other days, I don't know
what to do
with your tornado kisses,
rage teeth that bite
& tear at my poetic insanity.

With these miles and miles
of bodies & hollow space
between our magnetic hearts-

How is it that these light-year pulses
still beat in sync?

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Lucid LoverHer eyes are made of roses,
and sharp as thorns.
Her kisses leave scars
that burn way past dreams
as the feeling of tiny,
powerful fingertips
linger against
heated cheeks.

He's the kind of boyWith calloused fingers
this boy trails poetry
down the length of spines.

[His whispers
smell like lemon drops,
and taste of sweet poison.]

He carries a tattered
notebook in one hand,
and an ink pen
in the pocket
closest to his heart.

[The paper romantic
who warms lonely
December nights.]

His dreams are bigger
than skylines.
Too much for just one.

The thought of needles make her itch.But, sometimes she likes to
skim sharp objects along
pretty porcelain skin.
Not enough to stain,
but with half a heart
to prove them wrong.

"Don't try to stop me."

These Tangled Webstiny spiders
hang from my hair,
And you say,
baby—
what's been going on?
you don't smile
like you use to.
I miss that
sparkle in your eyes
that made my heart
thump thump thump.
I miss that well,
the one we use to
kiss behind before you
tossing in flowers
instead of coins
because you never
had those
shinny pennies
anyway.
But,
your every wish
was always granted.
I've picked your favorite
flowers every day
since you forgot me,
and I've tossed them all
inside.
But the magic
it doesn't work
for me.
So here I

There is love beneath my skin.I am made of love and bones,
and all those little things
in-between.
Floating on cloud nine,
I've got life handcuffed
to my bedpost.
Ocean waves crash
against me as I carve
love into letters,
into pillows.
Signing each one in blood,
'xoxo'.

-Confessions of a Poet- i.  I hide behind
                  pretty words
                  and metaphors,
                  because, to be honest
                  I have a hard time

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by *DearPoetry, Jan 11, 2013, 9:47:50 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

_{this windowpane loneliness has devoured too many stars making love to ocean beds.}

-by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

.

I started an ask forum, if you have any questions for me, feel free to ask! ---> [link]

love 4 4

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

!travelgirlxx Jan 16, 2013

~skirringsilver Jan 13, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Seamless, flawless, and beautiful. Great work!
The way I read it, that windowpane loneliness is a longing--looking out to the world in admiration, in want--something very bittersweet. That longing has reached to the stars; hopes, dreams, wishes, everything bright and lively, but instead of catching them, has doused their light, crushed them. It looks down, ardently, to darker depths, places without light, without hopes or dreams or life--the ocean beds. Or alternatively, creates tears. A friend told me they're reminded of a lighthouse, reading this. I wonder, what is your interpretation?
Again, this is simply gorgeous

*DearPoetry Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I love your interpretation!

As for a lighthouse, I could see where she is coming from--and it's beautiful!

~chancerox Jan 12, 2013 Hobbyist Digital Artist

simplicity is it's own kind of beauty. this is beautiful, dear.

*DearPoetry Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~Kittyfriend80 Jan 11, 2013 Student General Artist

I love how short and just perfect this is.
Great job

*DearPoetry Jan 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you. C:

~PowderedAnthrax Jan 11, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I love it when work can be interpereted many different ways. This is true poetry, in my humble opinion, because one must delve beneath the surface to reveal the many hidden layers.
It really made me think, and I thank you for that.

*DearPoetry Jan 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

You get it!

=wdnest Jan 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Lovely poem.

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