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NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was told
to slice through the thickest
of scar tissue this evening.

Let all my inner demons
fall to the floor
& write them out
in my own black blood.

It’s not red anymore,
even though needles
& the bruises
laid out like war-lands
on my arms
say otherwise.
I don’t think it ever was,
honestly.

Therapeutic,
they said.

My mind is a mess
of free versed insecurities,
cat’s eye marbles,
& untamed forest fires-

but,
I still don’t have the nerve
to slice open my skin
& bleed for her.
NaPoWriMo: Day 10    Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
   your knee's q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
   that buckled just before your whole foundation

                           t  
                       o
                  p
              p
         l
      e
   d
              over?

                              I have.

  & no matter
  how many times
  I've restarted your heart,

  one would think
            I'd grow tired,
  eventually;

  I'm still writing you in poetry

     (in the most inappropriate of places.)
  You forced yourself beneath my blades
                                & my fingertips,
  Licking unst
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
NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.

I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.

Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.

But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,
i have this
sudden urge to cut
my hair.

most of the time,
i just wish I were anything
other than me.

a rocket ship, a bird-
the sweet flavored smoke
I promised my girlfriend
these briar patch lungs
would not in.hale.

instead,
i have fallen in love
with the strangest of things-

eyes that intimidate
godless boys.

the way my scars
play hide and seek
with her hands. -

the love letters
that start and end
with kisses
pressed against limbs.

i make promises
i know i can not keep.

but if i were a liar
i would say i was tired
of writing to the stars.
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.
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.
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.
Muse:She corrodes star shapes into
the hearts of sleeping poets,
slowly, methodically.
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,
I wanted to pluck my ribs
from out my chest &
hang them about my house
like wind chimes-
dangled brutality;
a taunt for hungry wolves.

I didn’t grab for sharp objects,
I just wrote about it.

I never knew
I wanted to be a writer
until I lost something.
I still don’t know what that is-

(my mind, maybe.)

But words,
they fill gaps
that had no stories
to keep them
from hollowing out
in the first place.
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
                    ?
NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect
   for hungry lions,
 than man's
        greedy fingers,
she really,
         really
         doesn’t want to write this poem.

As she forgets how to use words
                  (on most days,)
relying on curses
         like casting some witch's spell-
with only ten dollars to her name.

The oldest daughter:

she’s still somewhere in the middle,
filed under
                     miscellaneous

because they had no other way
           to categorize her.

Getting her first gravestone at three-
she prayed
              not to the gods,
but to the lily stargazers
   in her palms.

One day
   she would become
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?
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. )
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More from *DearPoetry

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.
GravityAutumn 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.
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."
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.

Featured in Groups:

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Don't ever stop writing :iconcreative-writers: #Creative-Writers
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February 11
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Show me what the stars look like tonight.

:icondearpoetry:

I’ve fallen in love with wars & darkness.

The kind of darkness said to have made
shadow monsters of seen-too-much eyes
& the kind of war lands made of
desecrated, dandelion wrists.

I am the wind, the morphine pump


& I’ve carved my bones into stars.


I wear them around my neck
like outward sun marrow
warming my carotid pulse.

These little glow-in-the-dark blankets
aren’t enough to stifle the sounds;

but my anatomy never seemed to fit
together the right way anyway.
:icondearpoetry:
"I am not a poet. I hate poetry. A poem doesn’t come out and tell you what it has to say. It circles back on itself, eating its own tail and making you guess what it means." -Chime, pg. 5 Franny Billingsley

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:iconapple-fresh:
~apple-fresh 3 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there! :wave:

I used the title of your beautiful poem for my title poem found here

Have a wonderful day and keep creating! :huggle:
Reply
:iconsigma-echo-seven:
~Sigma-Echo-Seven Feb 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
So much power in these lines! You've got a knack for that.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Feb 24, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!
Reply
:iconazizriandaoxrak:
=AzizrianDaoXrak Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hi there! This is a friendly little note to let you know your piece has been featured!: [link]

Please consider taking a peek at the other pieces and faving the article to support the other artists :)
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Feb 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! And I'll be sure to take a look at it! :)
Reply
:iconazizriandaoxrak:
=AzizrianDaoXrak Feb 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
You're so welcome!
Reply
:iconbloodawni:
*bloodawni Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Your writing is so beautiful and this is no exception. Gorgeous.
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! :)
Reply
:iconbloodawni:
*bloodawni Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You're very welcome. :)
Reply
:iconchancerox:
~chancerox Feb 12, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
your poetry just renders me speechless. you are one of my poetry role models. :)
Reply
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