[x]

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.

August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,
hold your secrets between my
ribcage-embrace & just
breathe.

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

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?

wet scribbles, tattooed tragedyI am shedding my skin
like the poetry that bleeds
from your ink-cracked lips
onto the bare bones of my
anatomy.

Unfold these moon-shy limbs
that chase silence
& beg stay-with-me.

For you are the only verse
hidden within this labyrinth
of scar-damaged flesh.

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?

dust.I'm choking
on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;

the starving,
dead-flower scent
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.

How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?

How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
star-soaked frame?

Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.

Scorpion"Show me your bones."

the atlas of her thighs quaked
as she misplaced her skin
in the backseat of his car.

"I'm a scorpion, you know-"

a messy promise
folded napkin-neat.

"Prove it."

& she smirked,
sure of her limbs,
her scars, & her teeth.

"I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."

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.

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.

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.

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.

NecromancyShe replaces her wrists
with the sharp thorns
of roses and slurred
don't-touch-me's

-

as she speaks
in an old tongued
language that whispers

de

cipher

me.

-

She collects stars
on her knuckles,
& her dust eyes
are sad moon nebulas
starved for love.

-

But, the kisses
she sinks into the curve
of her lover's ribcage
by night, warm that
supernova heart.

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. )

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.

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3am Poetry I bit my lip,
keeping myself locked away
as your curved fingers
taptaptaped away at my
abdomen.

[ permanently engraving
love stories on my skin
as if my body were your
personal typewriter. ]

Only the clench and slight
q u i v e r gave me away.

[ Your mouth was wild
tasting of dark secrets
and 3am poetry. ]

"It's your eyes
that give you away."

On the ledge,I contemplated suicide
as my feet mimed the edges
of skylines,
and the act of lovers,
intertwined.
Dancing on the roof tops
and staring down at street lights
the edges of my world turned
m o n o c h r o m e
like a photograph forever
stuck in time.

Dream a little dream.Right now,
I wish pretty words
would roll off
my tongue like
syrup.

[If only
I could keep
my eyes open.]

Maybe I'll dream
p o e t i c a l l y
and awaken
tomorrow with
ink stained
bed sheets.

The Power of Spoken WordIf I could give a voice
to the words scribbled
down deep in my flesh,
coursing through my
bloodstream romances
and lodged in the back
of my vise throat,
with lungs slowly
s u f f o c a t i n g
from lack of spoken word--
I believe I could
churn the hearts of
love sick coffee shop attendees.
anger every government official,
and cause a riot in the white house--
as I place a pen in the hand
of every child with poetry lurking
behind innocent eyes.

April ShowersStaring up at you under the porch light,
I thought how cool it would be for rain
to suddenly pour down like kerosine
and set us both a flame.

[You found the idea appealing.]

That...trickI felt my skin itch
and tear under the pressure
of your slurred tongue,
slithering along
the curves of my
contorted spine.

[You left me b r e a t h l e s s. ]

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Submitted: December 16, 2012
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Shy moon,

by *DearPoetry, Dec 16, 2012, 12:56:05 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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.}

Shy moon,by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Critique by *Niyla Dec 16, 2012, 9:01:42 PM

I've never been personally fond of the use of titles as first lines, but I think it works in styles like this where the narrator addresses a titular subject. Your imagery is quite obviously your strongest point, and each carefully chosen one enhances your tone.

Your syntax is good overall. I'm fond of your capitalization; it emphasizes the grammar very well in your third stanza and allows for the anaphora which, again, emphasizes the longing sensation. However, your line breaks seem slightly inconsistent. In your first and third stanzas your ampersand comes at the beginning of a line, but in the second it comes at the end of the line. I think you might consider moving the one in the second stanza, which also leaves punctuation at the end of that line (like most others). As it is now, you're essentially emphasizing the word "and". I'd be fond of some parallelism between "eyes" and "fingertips".

I'm also slightly confused by your last two stanzas. Your images are still beautiful, and although I'm used to more traditional syntax I can understand that the smaller text does a good job of quieting the statement. However, I'm unsure of what the function of having "spare me your ribs" as its own stanza is. I would think that you would keep it together as a single stanza so as to maintain cohesion between the last two stanzas. Was there a purpose you had in mind? You're definitely a much better poet than I am, so I wouldn't be surprised if I'm just missing something.

All in all, this is mostly nit-picking. Your idea was brilliant, you communicated it well with perfectly selected archetypal image combinations (which is why I have a problem with "originality" being a category here), and overall it did a great job at what you meant it to. Definitely worth the read!

What do you think?

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Critique by *valleigh Dec 16, 2012, 7:38:04 PM

I have to say, great job, you went above and beyond with this poem.

You knew where you were going with this, and you made sure you got there. I love most of all of your work I read, and you have a great talent.

Your a great writer, and you know how to choose all the write words. I hope to see more poems like this one from you.

This poem really got me wanting to read more and more of your work, keep up your good work, it will get you somewhere in life, just never give up.

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~~fear 0 0~~

~Adagiobunny Feb 3, 2013 Student Writer

such a sense of the vast & the personal, something wanting to burst out of its shell...

*DearPoetry Feb 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

~ClosetedWicca Jan 12, 2013 Professional Artist

"honeysuckle wrists" you are a genious. wish I knew you.

*DearPoetry Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Aww! I'm not all that special.

~PseudonymLizzieDeLov Dec 27, 2012

Hide that you bloody fascist! Stepping all over my rights for freedom of speech! Why, no wonder you have all the bloody praise... any critique you delete!

*DearPoetry Dec 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'm not looking for drama.

~PseudonymLizzieDeLov Dec 27, 2012

This poem sucks!

~Kenalli Dec 17, 2012 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Oh my goodness this poem reminded me why I miss having internet so much. You can be gone forever but come back and find something amazing like this! Kudos to your talent.

*DearPoetry Dec 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much!

~roztargniona Dec 17, 2012 Hobbyist Photographer

I don't know how many times I can just write how beautiful your poems are. But they are! Purely magnificent. and this one is no different. I love it, especially because I can relate to it so much. It fits my recent mood perfectly.
"but, love me. love me, Love.
show me what's beyond Grimm fairy tales
& scars." I love this!

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Shy moon,by *DearPoetry

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