[x]

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

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 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.

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 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

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.

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?

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 4I might have a scrappers knees,
wildflowers growing on my knuckles,
& I might remind you of every nasty thing
you ever did,
but I don’t see you in my mirror.

I just have the right
to hate my own face.

-

Oh atlas,
I think this hitchhiker’s heart
is breaking &
I don’t have the medical skill-
or the time
to suture the pieces
back together again.

So please;

lead me,
lead me
anywhere,
but here.

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

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. )

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.

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More from *DearPoetry

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.

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

Dragons BloodYou are an art journal,
all scraps of paper and profound quotes
of those you say "I'll fucking know one day",
because you love to shock me
with even more profound profanities
and those watercolor fingers
you use to shut me up.

Gently. Always gently.

You leave me moon-eyed;
Dragons Blood still lingering
in the wake of your
heartbeats against mine.

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

Je t'aimeShe told me, "I love you this much!"
stretching her arms out
as far as they could go, fingers taught
and desperate.
I looked at her, eyes smiling
and asked, "Only that much?"
"That's all there is." She replied.
And I agreed,

"Vast oceans can not compare our our love,
little bird."

DracoIt was the unwritten poetry
dripping from her eyelashes
that made me love her.

She was a sinking ship,
and I longed to descend
into the watery depths
of her eyes-

just
to see
how long
I could hold
my breath.

It was the bruises sleeping
on the curve of her hips
that called to me like hungry sirens.

Licking her salty lips,
I traveled the scattered freckles on her back.

Shaping an angry dragon as if together,
we were part of the sky, all long-limbed,
tongues and teeth- she whispered,

"Do you know the story of Draco?"

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Submitted: March 6
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Sun Child,

by *DearPoetry, Mar 6, 2013, 3:09:55 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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.

Sun Child,by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Critique by ~baglord-lordmindor Mar 6, 2013, 5:31:34 PM

Other people and yourself included might not have something to say, but I do:

I do like this poem, with its subtle inference and the symbolic nature with which the second stanza speaks. I find that your use of subtlety is also sharp, crisp, and well managed.

I'll skip bag references and just pin-point outright: I didn't find the plot in this poem but the flow of events, and the way that they're portrayed in this work, made it worth reading.

Every word from the opening (which was haunting by the way) down to the sun child's surprising ending. good.

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

The Artist thought this was FAIR

13 out of 13 deviants thought this was fair.

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Devious Rating

Vision

Originality

Technique

Impact

Critique by ~heart809 Mar 6, 2013, 5:30:48 PM

I feel emotionally awful at the moment, so this poem makes perfect sense to me.

Vision: A four, because this topic is nothing new, but it is certainly an unusual perspective to take on it. The last line pushes the vision up because it suggests a way out of or a solution to this bad situation.

Originality: A five because the piece's approach to the topic is so unusual.

Technique: Beautiful descriptions - the only 0.5 missing is for saying "102 degrees OF skin", which messes up the flow of the poem slightly for me, since I can't make any sense out of it.

Impact: Again with that last sentence - it suggest that people feeling this way should speak up instead of suffering in silence.