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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

Scorpion"Show me your bones."

the atlas of her thighs quaked
as she misplaced her skin
in the backseat of his car.

"I'm a scorpion, you know-"

a messy promise
folded napkin-neat.

"Prove it."

& she smirked,
sure of her limbs,
her scars, & her teeth.

"I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."

NaPoWriMo: Day 10   Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knees q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
that buckled just before your whole foundation

t
o
  p
  p
l
  e
   d
over?

I have.

& no matter
how many times
I've restarted your heart,

one would think
I'd grow tired,
eventually;

I'm still writing you in poetry

(in the most inappropriate of places.)
You forced yourself beneath my blades
& my fingertips,
Licking unsta

I could make a list,but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,

"What is it you're thankful for?"

How could I tell her
I was thankful for this heart
that beats a thousand times over
when I hear her speak?

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?

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."

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

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?

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?

I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,

"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn
thing.”

I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.

But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to f
a
l
l
?

NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect
for hungry lions,
than man's
greedy fingers,
she really,
really
doesn’t want to write this poem.

As she forgets how to use words
(on most days,)
relying on curses
like casting some witch's spell-
with only ten dollars to her name.

The oldest daughter:

she’s still somewhere in the middle,
filed under
miscellaneous

because they had no other way
to categorize her.

Getting her first gravestone at three-
she prayed
not to the gods,
but to the lily stargazers
in her palms.

One day
she would become

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.

NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was told
to slice through the thickest
of scar tissue this evening.

Let all my inner demons
fall to the floor
& write them out
in my own black blood.

It’s not red anymore,
even though needles
& the bruises
laid out like war-lands
on my arms
say otherwise.
I don’t think it ever was,
honestly.

Therapeutic,
they said.

My mind is a mess
of free versed insecurities,
cat’s eye marbles,
& untamed forest fires-

but,
I still don’t have the nerve
to slice open my skin
& bleed for her.

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.)

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.

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More from ~DearPoetry

Dear Poetry,I am trying to cover my sadness with words.
Tape them against my scars
& wear them like worthy paper cuts.
My tears are alcohol swabs, burning & cleansing
wounds of my own making. Sometimes,
I wish I could hide behind them forever.
But not even this journeyed flesh can stand
castle strong against speechless ink stains.
I know the code. This body does not deserve
a warriors death. & poetry, you're a monster—
a creative monster, but evil nonetheless.
I wish to string you into knots, force feed you
down the throats of others. De-format you
& leave you empty; freeversed-
to hang loosely along the heartstrings
of strangers

She Talks With MonstersThis girl never had a fear of monsters.

She allowed them to rest on the insides of her eyelids,

the crook of her neck, the empty spaces of her chest cavity.

She had no fear, there were much scarier things in this world

than darkness, clawing at her back. Living for the night

she etched her dreams upon the bars of her cage

whispering of centuries past because she truly missed the sun,

grass on her back. Frosty Decembers have her forgetting

what it feels like to love, but she knows who she is—

she doesn't need the taste of cigarette ash

suffocating her inside her own flesh.

November skies tore open this night,

ripping a hole i

SupernovaShe only ever wanted a real reason to scream, collecting her tears in jars and hiding them behind Poe and Hemingway; she secretly hoped for an ocean to call her own. She would name it after an aged bird spirit, pain manifested in many a Gods image—believing our vast universe formed by the callused hands of artists.

"They must have a sick, twisted sense of humor." she said, eyes on the moon.

And I asked her "Who?" curious, because I'd yet to figure her out.

"The Gods; they give dead stars the prettiest of names."

TigressShe is the kind of girl who smothers herself in astronomy,
New Age philosophies and coffee shop poetry.
All fire and dragon scaled-
She hides her tiger stripes behind bruises and ink stains,
living her life by way of verse-
throwing Hemingway around like insults.
Writing her letters to the moon,
she hides her heart underneath her own floorboards,
folding blank paper birds just to set them free at 3AM.

But, it's the lipstick stained collars,
the rose thorned fingers,
and the dead stars in her chest cavity
that tell her- even a tigress can bleed.

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Submitted: November 20, 2012
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Constellation

by ~DearPoetry, Nov 20, 2012, 7:48:25 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

She is dream dust, too bitter or wise for her own good. A timeless dragon's soul somewhere inside a scaled shell, burning the silence in her bones alive, honeysuckle sweet. She collects fireflies only to set them free at 3am, crying to an uncaring moon. & she's begging for the stars to take her away, make this house a home rigged in the sky. To me, She is already naked fever swimming through the cosmos _{& I orbit her.}

Constellationby ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2012-2013 ~DearPoetry

I didn't like this piece at first, and then I did.
Now I don't even know any more.

Thoughts?

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~xSAMiAM Apr 11, 2013 Student Traditional Artist

Wow.. you've painted with such beautiful words.
Don't ever stop writing!
(:

Reply

~DearPoetry May 31, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I don't plan to ever stop!

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*apple-fresh Feb 15, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

hi there, awesome person! :hi:

I used your artwork title as a line for my poem! : )

Hope you won't mind! ^^

Have a nice day!

Reply

~DearPoetry Feb 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, this is so cool!

Reply

*apple-fresh Feb 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Try it! It is unbelievably fun!

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~cyrus4erika Dec 18, 2012

It's cool, makes you think hard when your not sure though don't it. I like it. I guess I run into the same problem, sometimes she becomes star dust and she takes you away. Firefly or a car's tail light's the speed of sonic leaving everything behind makes you breath it all in more.

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~Sayuri14 Dec 13, 2012 Student Writer

You got me with "She is dream dust". Lovely poem, somehow, I relate to it

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~DearPoetry Dec 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

As her, or the narrator?

Reply

~Sayuri14 Dec 15, 2012 Student Writer

as her

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~AnnaCStansfield Dec 10, 2012 Professional General Artist

I have just discovered your poetry today. I have read three, and I Love them!
I will be looking through more tomorrow.

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