[x]

Muse:She corrodes star shapes into
the hearts of sleeping poets,
slowly, methodically.

Sun Child,I am freezing
& I am hungry
for fever’s lips-
her inky fingers
purging
a dry stomach.

My body is an ocean,
my limbs, but oars.
My tongue & teeth,
a life raft
keeping this madness
from sinking into blue.

Offering up 102 degrees
of skin;
You would think
I had something to say.

Hear me howl.Tell me again, Father,
I’m the perfect daughter-

when all I want to be
is the crescent moons
resting like strong soldiers
in the grooves of my palms.

I am but
(outgrown)
lonely bones,
quaking with frostbite,
numbed with rage.

A wolf's jaw:
locked, teeth tearing
into the chilled flesh
of your neck.

A lion among sheep.There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.

( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )

I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
without gagging;
limb by steady limb.

Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;

I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.

lub-dubThere are lovers
I will never be able to
crawl out from underneath;

I’m caving in, lungs
no longer able
to exhale lovely things.

However hollow, I’ve got
these artist hands,

these god hands of mine
that can save lives.

What’s the point
when I’ve got little
writer veins

& no one can ever seem
to find my pulse?

Poets have the loneliest hearts.I drink morphine
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
filled up
with nothing.

& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
but-

I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.

I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
tiger-striped skin.

With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,

I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.

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.

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.

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?

Shy moon,i've got love carved into honeysuckle wrists,
a murder of crows in my throat,
& a pack of wolves at my back.

i want to know truths behind these myth eyes, &
the distant galaxies under your fingertips.

but, love me. love me, Love.
show me what's beyond Grimm fairy tales
& scars.

spare me your ribs;

this skyscraper heart
needs a place to go.

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?

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.

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.

Shooting the moonhe will have cause to regret
confession,
because
there will always be rivers,

the black sea
nebulous
with disease;

astronomer's insomnia
(a sea-fire
constellation)
and midnight
necromancy
(stargazing
the underside of bones...)

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So the answer to your question simply being,
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Tonight,
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And every night, again.

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How are you today?
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In a forest far away.

I know I'm just a lowly peasant,
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It's all about her,

by *DearPoetry, Mar 15, 2013, 11:09:30 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

-I had never wished to know the moon, or the burning gaze of her lover. I am merely a forest of silences, old dogwoods & untamed hair. -But, I made a promise to a bone collector once. He could have my spine, my kneecaps, & one flowered rib, wrapped & bowed-up like a present -if he could fall in love with things that slip through his fingers: Me, the sea, shooting stars. -“It would be a sin to love you, my dear sweet wolf; you will always cry for the moon.”

It's all about her,by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

it always has been.

Critique by ~MarcusSonn Mar 15, 2013, 2:16:39 PM

At first, I was pulled in, hooked, then lost in your words only to be yanked back into place by this wonderful poem. I brings up a great point, and I like how you incorporate the moon, and the wolf. That was greatly done, greatly done. Finally, the way it ended, I have to say was over all fantastic!

“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”

I love this last past. Wow is the first word that comes to mind, and that mind, was blown. Thank you for this great poem. I have to say, I enjoyed it.

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

The Artist thought this was FAIR

27 out of 27 deviants thought this was fair.

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Devious Rating

Vision

Originality

Technique

Impact

Critique by ~heart809 Mar 15, 2013, 2:12:07 PM

My, my, my, you've outdone yourself.

Vision: This one gets a 4, because it's a typical poem focus, but it's still a nice one to have. It's a sentiment many can understand.

Originality: A 5 for the wolf-moon connection. I can't say I've seen it used before to show unrequited love, so good job.

Technique: Your poem, though simple, deserves this 4.5 for giving a clear image. You did not bog it down with details, just gave a crisp, clear explanation, full of basic symbols. My only suggestion would be to add an "and" to the shooting stars line, because it otherwise implies they're more.

Impact: This also gets a 4 because it might be what some are looking to hear, and longing to know others understand. It could be just what someone needs to read, somewhere. Also, the last section (that's in quotes) is a powerful punchline.