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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."
ConstellationShe 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.
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."
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,

devoured blasphemy-

hallowed out, & spit back up,

( you are afraid. )

Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;

god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves

grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.

( spread your legs. )

Red-inked and trembling,

prosetry masked as screams

knots into her anatomy.

BloodI've got a filthy mouth,
& a house of stars
thriving in my throat.

21 years
silent

& I still have yet to tame
this grounded constellation
I call my temple. -Slithering
tongue hissing too many
"fuck you's" against my teeth.

I fear I will write myself hollow-
or until my bones are corroded away

& I am nothing-
an insignificant nebula
orbiting the wrong atmosphere.

But, my veins bleed sweet ichor,

& words are only words, Mother.
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?
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.
FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild.  Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.

When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?
Androphobiai was stitched lips and a flightless raven heart-
all sex and a contorting spine;
his own lips engraving 'kiss me's' on empty stars.

& between you and me: i feared his teeth,
& tongue, & honest organs-
with skin that begged, 'please, don't touch me.'

don't touch me.
don't fucking touch me.

i am not soft.

there is a war raging in my lungs,
screaming through the uncharted galaxies
of my wanderlust heartstrings.

i am not soft.

i am lust, & war, & envy—

i am sin,
        
         crooked, misshapen,
& the kind of prosetry yet to be proofrea
Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.

I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.

Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.

I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.

I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-

but death becomes me.
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.
Her eyes scream fill in the _____.They said
she has starving
little poet fingers,

& lungs-

filled with
the heroic hearts
of nameless protagonists.

But, she cries

tears of Saturn
on too-little-sleep nights,
& coffee ringed mornings.

They call her vanilla.

Innocence,
much too ripe to fall
with freckles on her
wander(lust)
shoulder-blades
singing connect-the-dot

blues.
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."
Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.i.
    these god-hands are barbwire's,
    snagging & scarring everything
    they touch.

ii.
    black tongue bleeding sweet ichor
    along the guarded walls
    of skeletal frames.

iii.
    'i want to taste heaven.
    it rests there,
    just beneath your bones.'

iv.
    he is a god dog
    made of scythes & scalpels,
    sewn together with weak thread.

v.
    and she is
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.
Browse More Like This

More from ~DearPoetry

RelapseIt’s like counting
Saturn’s rings,
hash marks
along your limbs -
remembering a time
when

‘just one more’

made you feel better.

- & you’re sitting there
wondering why
Draco, stuck in limbo
always looks like he’s

falling.
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
                    ?

Featured in Groups

:iconwriteaway: :iconthewritersmeow: :iconwriters--club: :iconsupportallart: :iconwriters-central: :iconpoetsandwriters: :iconlove-original-lit: :iconpoetryistheanswer:
×

Gravity

:icondearpoetry:

Autumn 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.

2,420

256 56 62
:icondearpoetry:

Gravityby ~DearPoetry

DescriptionDetailsShare
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Winter is oh so cold.

Featured: [link]
©2012-2013 ~DearPoetry
Category: Literature / Poetry / Nature / Free Verse

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Submitted on
November 9, 2012
File Size
523 bytes
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:iconwinterkate:
Critique by ~winterkate Nov 11, 2012, 2:20:22 PM
First of all, as always, love your work. Very nice, very elegant, very eloquent especially. And I love that you're delving into new realms of imagery. Autumn isn't something I've seen you explore before, and I think you do it extremely well, and in a very original manner.
I think my only real criticism here would be the line breaks. For example, when you say

Autumn
wanted to
learn how to

fall.

you've got really gorgeous content, but the breaks add in strange pauses. I'd much more suggest something like

Autumn wanted to learn
how to

fall.

It just creates less of a choppy rhythm. Other than that, I really, really enjoyed this piece. It's fabulous. Great job!
What do you think?
Fair Unfair
The Artist thought this was FAIR
9 out of 9 deviants thought this was fair.
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:iconsvalaw:
~SvalaW Jun 9, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
The title and first stanza are very captivating.
And "galaxy of dead trees" is a fascinating picture.

But somehow the last stanza touches me the most, it's very beautiful, but also makes me a bit sad.
Wonderful poem.
Reply
:iconangelichope:
~angelichope Dec 23, 2012
"Autumn wanted to learn
how to

fall.
Is my favorite line, but yet I love the whole thing; it's definitely a new take on an Autumn poem; I thought it was beautifully sad and dark!!! Seriously good!!!:D
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
~DearPoetry Dec 26, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much. I rarely write about the seasons so I figured I might as well try. :)
Reply
:iconangelichope:
~angelichope Dec 31, 2012
Well, I'm so glad you did try!!! It paid off!!!:):):):)
Reply
:iconbreezybrutality:
~breezybrutality Dec 13, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Oh, this aches. But in a good way. I have really missed seeing such good artistry not being on here so much :,(
Thank you♥
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
~DearPoetry Dec 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Where have you been? I've missed you! lol
Reply
:iconbreezybrutality:
~breezybrutality Dec 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Aw, it feels very good to find I was missed♥
I have been trying to juggle three jobs, a husband, and a social life. It wasn't working so my favorite place got pushed out D:
I'm sorry!
Reply
:iconthatfunnierpiece:
!ThatFunnierPiece Nov 16, 2012
It reminded me so much of this [link] piece. And your work grasps a similar topic, but from the other side. For me, it's beautifully complementary.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
~DearPoetry Nov 16, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
It is pretty similar, yeah.
Thanks for pointing it out to me, it's a wonderful piece!
Reply
:iconshehrozeameen:
*shehrozeameen Nov 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
:clap: I like the association of winter with the opposite of light... its subtle, albeit creepy.

Its a depth filled work, and certainly one of those few pieces with a levity of its own. Its... not exactly relate-able, but its introspective. Its something worth thinking about.
Reply
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