[x]

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

astrology.i lost my cigarettes today while
sparing kisses to too many witches
with apastron blackberry tongues.

& like the scattered stars of scars,
saturn's rings whispered secrets
to the telescope eyes of these strangers
cradling galaxies between lovely bones-

( their fingertip heat
knowing nothing of intermissions. )

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I think you left a piece of you in me.This tangled mess you call a heart,
daisy veins & sin;
She's bringing me down.
& you were merely shivering
kite-string clavicles.

Nothing,

pressing winter bones
against my sun-stricken mouth,
darkness searching for a home
buried in my lungs.

You whispered breathe me
lovely in the inhale/exhale
of carbon dioxide suicide.

She speaks only of you now,
lonely & mourning beats-

Crack open this damn ribcage;
set me
free.

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.

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?

The rule of nines.I know more about half-moon palms
than most know about lifelines

the kind that beg dandelion child,
love-yourself-breathless.

I know about forged castle ribs & broken homes.

Myths that are half fact & imaginary friend
turned bogieman -

Fangs that tear clear through ice-bone hearts
like they are nothing but pretty paper
to be folded over, again & again & again
by the hands of quivering youths:

Icarus, the reincarnated
sky conqueror searching for warmth.

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.

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

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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

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

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.

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.

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.

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No wander about it, just lust.

by ~DearPoetry, Jan 8, 2013, 8:07:09 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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.}

No wander about it, just lust.by ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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~AgentBabycakes Jun 10, 2013

Holy mother, that's amazeballs.

~DearPoetry Jun 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

lol!

~panther372040 Mar 3, 2013

'Paint moments' you do, quite well I might add, I think I like that quote as much as the poem!

~DearPoetry Mar 4, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~themorningtrain Mar 3, 2013

Wow, this is a really phenomenal story. It's always incredible when a writer can sum up a huge part of your life in a few choice words. Thank you for writing this, and for bringing peace to a part of my life.

~DearPoetry Mar 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

You're welcome, glad you enjoyed it so much.

~RomanloverofGermania Feb 14, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Holy Hell you are so talented!!!

~DearPoetry Feb 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~von19 Feb 11, 2013 Student Writer

Dafuq...

~DearPoetry Feb 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

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No wander about it, just lust.

No wander about it, just lust.by ~DearPoetry

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