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Literature Text
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.
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.
Literature
Before I Can Become a Writer
Develop insomnia. Develop
problems with substance abuse,
nothing serious, but enough
that I can say “write drunk,
edit sober” and mean it.
Drink tea. Write about drinking
tea. Take up smoking, ignore
the thoughts about it being
a slower suicide. Write about
suicide. Don’t mean it.
Write about sunsets and
ink veins. Mean it.
Fall in love with someone
who will never love me back.
Lament. Write a million
crappy poems and two good
ones. Never show him.
Move on. Write a few more
bad poems. Fall in love with
someone perfect. Screw it up.
Fall in love with someone awful.
Call him perfect. Screw it up.
Cry. Cry for the inevitab
Literature
Missing Pieces.
I am a missing piece. Something that someone needs.
But at the same time, I feel so incomplete.
I’ve wandered way too far, wondered for far too long
Am I a missing piece? Or a piece that won’t belong?
Is it possible I’m damaged and not missing at all?
That I’m just as dysfunctional as everybody else?
Pretending to be perfect never softened a single fall.
But neither did admitting that you’re broken and flawed.
A broken missing piece. Is that all I’m meant to be?
There is no master plan that includes the likes of me.
Being all alone, it’s a hurt that will not cease.
A hundred thousand years from now
Literature
These Words Aren't Pretty
These Words Aren't Pretty:
My verses are ugly and I admit to the fact
I can't use pretty language when I'm working with rap
Because the things that I write, are just the things that I feel
I ain't an Edgar Allan Poe or a Danielle Steel
And I'll be honest with you, I've got an envy inside
Because some poets got a flow that's as smooth as the tide
I read some stuff that they write, it's just so dope I ignite
Burning shame and my anger at the beautiful sight
And like birds of a feather, they're flocking together
These poets are the Gods and I'm nailed by the weather
But as the rain pours down, lightning resound;
I try to write pretty
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Sometimes, I wonder if I should have been someone else,
anyone other than....me.
"...Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!" -Porphyria's Lover, Robert Browning
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More letters to poetry:
anyone other than....me.
"...Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!" -Porphyria's Lover, Robert Browning
Featured: [link]
More letters to poetry:
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
Dear Poetry,She writes love in blood
between used bookstore classics
and a bare ribcage.
© 2012 - 2024 DearPoetry
Comments53
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Overall
Vision
Originality Technique ImpactYou have some fantastic imagery in this (for the entire poem I thought you were writing to yourself, until I read the author's comments and noticed the other two letters) and it holds together very well.
"I am too many breaks between pauses"
- I think I get what you are trying to say here, but in my mind a break is a pause so you are repeating yourself. I would phrase it more like "I am too many breaks/pauses between <something>"
I like the continued metaphor about the girl not being healthy physically (non homeostatic, she is porphyria) as well as mentally (carved into wrists).
I think that non homeostatic should be non-homeostatic, a compound word.
"There were once fireflies in her smile,
alight between the gaps in her teeth."
Those have to be my two most favourite lines.
"A rebel,
love letters carved into wrists
she never sent."
Again I know what you mean, but the phrasing of this makes me think that the wrists were never sent, not the letters.
The font for the last line is tiny...maybe one size bigger? even with my glasses on I had to squint to see.
Otherwise I find this highly original (even though you have done other letters) and full of fantastic imagery. Well written.
Jo