DearPoetry on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/dearpoetry/art/RIP-332590160DearPoetry

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RIP

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Published: Oct 15, 2012

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Description

There was nothing
half ripe about her-

A struggle in my throat,
a blackness ground
into the angles of my body-

her eyelids, an open coffin.

Book: Kissing the Witch

Other poetry by me:

Post Mortem I 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.

Supernova She only ever wanted a real reason to scream, collecting her tears in jars and hiding them behind Poe and Hemingway; she secretly hoped for an ocean too call her own. She would name it after an aged bird spirit, pain manifested in many a Gods image—believing our vast universe formed by the callused hands of artists.

"They must have a sick, twisted sense of humor." she said, eyes on the moon.

And I asked her "Who?" curious, because I'd yet to figure her out.

"The Gods; they give dead stars the prettiest of names."

Fever I 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.

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

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© 2012 - 2024 DearPoetry

Comments81

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aah, so haunting!

DearPoetry , i just finished working on a #Blackout app..
currently doesnt have that gorgeous hand drawn aesthetic as your work here.. but check it out please.
search for "Blackout Bard" on either ios/android app stores

thanks!