[x]

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.

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."

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).

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."

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?"

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."

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.

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.

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.

FeverI like pretending I mean something to the ghosts
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
immortalized.

I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.

& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.

Battle CryI 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.

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

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

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.)

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.

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More from ~DearPoetry

Ask Me To Write a PoemAsk me to write a poem
about kissing witches in my sleep.

Ask me to write a poem
about the bump on my middle finger
from forcing pen to paper.

Ask me to write a poem
about the discolored bruises on my knees
the poetry written in ink upon my flesh—
the love in a foreign tongue on my wrist.

Ask me to write a poem
about Boyfriend,
my possessive Siamese,
about my rose thorn teeth,
and the battle scars I wear like trophies.

Ask me to write a poem
about how my own words make me sick,
about how I swear I'll die by the pen.

Ask me to write a poem
about boys and peaches
and how I wish they tasted just as sweet,
about how I san

He thinks her a Goddess,and he whispers, "Little bird—
Your stardust arms are quaking,
allow me to hold up your universe."

Closed mouthed,I tried to devour myself in my sleep,
all tight lipped and tongueless—
hours after you left me
with only an unbeating heart
keeping me company.

Callused fingers made me shiver,
but never managed to make me burn.

Instead, they left me feeling cold—
a frostbitten liar with a snake for a tongue.

An unnamed poetic.

I'm dreaming of red skies
and dragons of old—
I'm begging, and I'm begging,
and I'm begging—Please—warm me up.

Set fire to these bones—
Give me a real reason to scream.

Because, there rests an old poet
in the farthest reaches of my soul
and she longs to fight this fire with flames.

[

AryaShe is a wolf in her dreams.
Sitting upon an iron throne-
Woman of an old Greek myth,
A woodland Goddess
with a fire spirit sleeping
in her veins, a hyena heart
thrives within a ribcage embrace.
This lovely girl steals the hearts of kings,
assassins, and lowly blacksmiths.

Lacking honor, brave little shoulders shrug-
She whisperes, "My heart beats for no one."

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Submitted: August 28, 2012
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by ~DearPoetry, Aug 28, 2012, 12:01:52 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

i. 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.

N o v aby ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I swear I wasn't going to write anything about space. But then I started thinking about Neil Armstrong, and feelings happened.

Oh well, enjoy.

Critique by ~Xymphonie Aug 28, 2012, 1:42:13 PM

wow, you impressed me again! I really love the IV part. I like the deep feeling in the whole poem, the transition between the first part (depression) and the last one (resignation).
It's really beautiful.
Maybe I would like the poem even more if each part had a different number of sentences, and I even thought it went like that, but the III part doesn't fit. That's only my opinion, about the number,
I will keep an eye on your literature, you're improving everytime I see your gallery.
You must keep on writing, you're very good!