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OmegaThere is a wolf lurking in my doorway;
our eyes holding breathless conversations
as secrets whisper through the stroke of my pen
into the awaiting lungs of strangers.

…Soon young pup, you'll have nothing left to say.

My heart is woven together with tight-knit words,
blood red Poe, and thumping Hemingway-
Yet, no headstrong Omega sleeps
within this slightly cracked, ribcage embrace.

"I am unafraid of forests with teeth."
Lonely Gods"I wish my body to be a staircase

to heaven."  She said, "A conduit

of lonely Gods."—Swaying

pendulum hips, she, she

was made of stardust.- Scars sleeping

above a city of sweet bones, stirring

like sun-stricken scorpions during

hollow painkiller nights,

mistaking her redred burns

for Apollos kisses.

"Sadly, this body has whispered away
the last of my secrets."
N o v ai.
This distance between us
is devouring my lungs.
I'm left here gasping,
trying to suture back together
all the broken nights-
the cigarette burns in my bedsheets.

ii.
I'm tracing maps on my limbs,
and I'm painting black holes on my palms,
pressing them into letters
left on my nightstand
untouched and unread.

iii.
I keep telling myself
none of this is about you.
But I'm reaching for empty galaxies
as I try to remember what it felt like
to be one of a binary star.

iv.
Light-years away, and I'm here-
just another nova on your ceiling,
searching this vast universe for you.
It tastes like love.I could speak of her in riddles,
in aged, anatomy textbook terminology-
but, I wont.

You see, I cuffed this angel to my bedpost.
I sank my teeth into feathers she wore like a cage
and asked if I was dreaming, because Love,
you're not holding me. If you only knew the you in my head,
every night--tearing with these heavenly fingers
at the cracks in my sanity- you would allow me this!

Her tongue tastes my tears; nails clawing, clawing, clawing-
she takes away my pain,
but she doesn't belong to me either.

"We are but wolves.
Tell me, what does my blood taste like?"
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch

               of your tattered surface ).

you were the beatific grin

of a kindergartener high off oxygen,

mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,

black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.

(You taught me praying was for the weak

      as I fell for your gypsum nails,

               white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).
            
TroyYou have too much time on your hands, Love,

folding paper cranes with broken fingers,

wishing to see northern lights in the eyes of strangers.

There are no lions between your bed sheets

who understand your hunger better than I-

You are licking my wounds; one with the wild.

I swear it's you behind these eyelids- untamed

and desired by this lonely poetic canvas

stained with blood, ink, and words I can't fucking say.

You look like a Goddess standing there reading my skin

quiet and shameless, proud of the gaping hole in my chest.

I know it then, like I know my own counterclockwise heart;

I should never trust my own kind.

"I'll build
She has the moon in her eyes.But, this body is a black hole,
a hollowed out womb-
and these palms are sandpaper
thin and bleeding a silent stigmata.

"Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,
too young to understand her own limbs-"

She folds back July's origami skin,
wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.
She is a raven heart, thumping wildly
against the whispers of vintage lips.

Her bed is empty,
but the sheets are red.
Dragons BloodYou are an art journal,
all scraps of paper and profound quotes
of those you say "I'll fucking know one day",
because you love to shock me
with even more profound profanities
and those watercolor fingers
you use to shut me up.

Gently. Always gently.

You leave me moon-eyed;
Dragons Blood still lingering
in the wake of your
heartbeats against mine.
Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their way
to the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.

Until you.

You carried them away saying, "I'll use these
to fill the empty spaces of my universe."

You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,
wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs.

"I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."
Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.
RepossessionYour words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding on
the raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.

My ribs cracked from the blow.

But, I think sometimes
of how these were the ribs
that should have chased you away from me,
quietly wondering how you managed to
slither past this cage of bone and flesh
to engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.

You were sweat & spice & scars-

Your eyes,
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.

(I want my insides back.)
Mabonthere are dead leaves
sprouting from her amber spine,
reaching with child-fingers
to devour the sun.

her skin is freezing,
seeping winter through
november pores.

seeking warmth,
the whiskey tongues
of godless boys
wish to decipher
the atlas of her thighs.

counting the sleepy fireflies
alight in her lungs- there is
wanderlust churning & warming
her frostbitten heartstrings.

swinging pendulum hips,

"I am the tease of autumn flames.
I breathe in mint sunsets,
& gasoline dreams."
WillowYour confessional arms are Willow trees,

draping lonely limbs around an empty ink-jar heart.
 
Scars worn down like henna tattoos.

A night witch scrawling her incantations on blue moons,

rolling her letters into sentences like a curse.

But, it is in these coffee eyes you have found a home.
Her Musethese words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.

no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.

nothing moves her.

she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.  

"Write of me," he says, "right here."-

planting sun-stricken kisses  

along the hollow of her burning throat.

"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
Je t'aimeShe told me, "I love you this much!"
stretching her arms out
as far as they could go, fingers taught
and desperate.
I looked at her, eyes smiling
and asked, "Only that much?"
"That's all there is."  She replied.
And I agreed,

"Vast oceans can not compare our our love,
little bird."
I miss you, and i can't say i'm sorry
because these slender, spider fingers
ache to trace the curved letters of your name tag,
emily.  i notice you write everything in caps.

  ( have i ever told you
how much i enjoy saying your name, -EMILY. )

you are screaming to the world, quietly.
but we, we are mid-morning whispers
over stale, back room coffee,
silent eyes, and window pane love.
these hearts were runaways once;
hitchhikers on a trail to nowhere.
you shared pieces of yourself with me then,
emily, between beats and bathroom stalls.
you were a gargoyle under the heat
of july summer.  evenings were our playg
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More from *DearPoetry

Tiger EyesHidden between a ribcage
not fit for company, or
mid-winter loving,
I grasped your heart, tightly.

We were a mess of ugly
metaphors, and tongues
gone limp-from far to many
late night, gunpowder kisses.

The kind that left nostalgic
paper cut hearts that burned
and ached, lonesome for you
after months of itching.

Tired, but deadly, I once found
you resting at my feet, peering
up with hungry tiger eyes and
claws unsheathed.

[ I never wanted you more. ]
What is loveShe has these long, storm fingers.
The kind that leave me wide-eyed and angry.
This gargoyle heart that beats 6 times slower than it should—
As she loves to leave me with half finished sentences
and a  p o e t i c  tongue covered in ink.
She spreads jealous heat along my cheeks,
as my nights are filled with stardust dreams.
Her words fight off hurricane nightmares.
She is a ribcage embrace,
warming these thin origami bones and
tattooing monochromatic love stories along my curves.
Night DanceWe danced like monsters:
lurking shadows atop gravestones,
long-limbed, and hungry.

We were hips and stitched lips.
Clinging widows to a dying mate.
You held my hand, whispering,

"Scream, Baby—
S c r e a m
lets wake the dead."

And in the end,
we collapsed
like fallen soldiers.
Stitched LipsHer lips, soft like old paper
tastes of stardust and ink.
I'd kiss her a thousand times over,
just to savour the poetry resting
on her wasp tongue—
but, I'm kissing ghosts
with empty eyes, void, naked,
and vulnerable like sleeping
gargoyles in the mid-day sun.

[ I'll love her quietly, close-mouthed
              and tongueless,
        in the arms of stone angels. ]
Love slipped through my handsWhen the stars collapsed--

                 You
                     followed  
                them
             to  
                my  
                   doorstep.

          Chilled, your smile
           w  a  r  m  e d                                      
                 my
              iceberg

                  h
              e
                  a
              r
                  t.--As you loved the word 'super-
                 nova' even if by definition it was
                 the death of something beautiful.
                   We held conversations between
                  grains of
Lurking between the foldsDear _______,

Words don't mean
as much as they use to.
These letters are pointless.

[ I tried to write
today—about anything
that wasn't centered
around —>you

Featured in Groups:

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When inspiration strikes...

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July 22, 2012
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[x]

Battle Cry

:icondearpoetry:

I write poetry to ghosts in my dreams
awakening with ink stained sheets
from nights I can't remember,
meaningless phantom words upon my flesh.
And this cigarette between my fingertips
taunts me,"Hey baby, hey—catch me on fire
and I'll burn you away." I laugh, hollow—
unafraid of flames & smoke & shadows.
I've felt it all before.
I'm washing away the ink with homemade
remedies. Like it never was;
Like I never was.
But there is love on my arms now
smirking and itching away at me.
I'll claw it out a hundred times over
because remembering you—
that is worse than self-inflicted injury.
:icondearpoetry:
A taunt is a battle cry, a method in hand-to-hand combat, sarcastic remark, gesture, or insult intended to demoralize the recipient, or to anger them and encourage reactionary behaviors without thinking.
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:iconhockaloo:
Mood: Love ~Hockaloo Nov 30, 2012
This just might be my favorite so far! <3
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Dec 3, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Really? Thank you!
Reply
:icondeadwood202:
Mood: Love ~deadwood202 Jul 31, 2012
Simply superb!
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Aug 21, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you! :D
Reply
:iconmelalina:
*Melalina Jul 24, 2012  Professional General Artist
Moving as usual.


Last Line Correction: ...that is worse (than) self-inflicted injury.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Jul 24, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I noticed that when it was on tumblr, not sure why I didn't fix it here.
Thanks for pointing that out to me.
It's what I get for writing so late, really.
Reply
:iconcallerofcrows:
*callerofcrows Jul 24, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Absolutely gorgeous. This pulled at my heart so completely, I had to read it ten times over. Wow.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Jul 24, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I love hearing about someone reading it more then once, and not because they are confused! Thank you. :3
Reply
:iconcallerofcrows:
*callerofcrows Jul 25, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
You're very welcome! Thank you for sharing such beautiful work. :heart:
Reply
:iconheart809:
~heart809 Jul 23, 2012
I enjoy the raw emotion in this. I really do. The imagery - especially the ink parts - is a great way to get the feeling across and it makes me go back to a time when I felt like this and really gives me sympathy to the one feeling like this. It's equally disturbing and intriguing. I'm still somehow impressed. Keep up the amazing work! :D
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