[x]

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.

Ask Me To Write a PoemAsk me to write a poem
about kissing witches in my sleep.

Ask me to write a poem
about the bump on my middle finger
from forcing pen to paper.

Ask me to write a poem
about the discolored bruises on my knees
the poetry written in ink upon my flesh—
the love in a foreign tongue on my wrist.

Ask me to write a poem
about Boyfriend,
my possessive Siamese,
about my rose thorn teeth,
and the battle scars I wear like trophies.

Ask me to write a poem
about how my own words make me sick,
about how I swear I'll die by the pen.

Ask me to write a poem
about boys and peaches
and how I wish they tasted just as sweet,
about how I san

Stitched LipsHer lips, soft like old paper
tastes of stardust and ink.
I'd kiss her a thousand times over,
just to savour the poetry resting
on her wasp tongue—
but, I'm kissing ghosts
with empty eyes, void, naked,
and vulnerable like sleeping
gargoyles in the mid-day sun.

[ I'll love her quietly, close-mouthed
and tongueless,
in the arms of stone angels. ]

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.

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?

-this windowpane loneliness
has devoured too many stars
making love to ocean beds.

NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 days
to defy Icarus:
teach this rose thorn heart
how to fly.
[ All I want to be
is the space between
the stars.
]
But, I’m here,
ripping holes in blank pages
while nursing nebulae knuckles
with white plastered walls.

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.

Poetry,She is stardust leaving sweet bones
in her wake. A trail of poetic destruction
conceived in verse--answering questions
with kisses. There is a hunger in her
freckled constellations, like spider webs
woven together with golden thread.
Like the wild roses she braids in her hair:
She walks backboned and head held high;
the strongest of letters on a page
left to rest in your mouth.

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 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.

20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
is unrecognizable.

NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
that one.

Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.

For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers

-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.

Poets do it betterPaper thin words
hang off the tongue
of an angst ridden poet
who writes his verses
on used napkins—
in hopes that one day
his words will get him
in your bed.

Poetry turned angry,
clinging silhouettes,
teeth and cold fingertips
between the sheets.

His words make you
moan false religions
as you lay vulnerable
to the strokes of his pen.

Browse More Like This

Download Image
PNG, 662×1183 more ▶

More from *DearPoetry

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.

I am biting my lip,contemplating

just how hard

I'd have to tug

to rip out my own

lip rings.

Do I even have the balls

to go through with it?

FeverI 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.

RepossessionYour words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding on
the raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.

My ribs cracked from the blow.

But, I think sometimes
of how these were the ribs
that should have chased you away from me,
quietly wondering how you managed to
slither past this cage of bone and flesh
to engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.

You were sweat & spice & scars-

Your eyes,
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.

(I want my insides back.)

Sweat, Spice, and ScarsYour eyes,
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.

I want my insides back.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#DailyPoetics
Found Poetry

#Literary-Visions
Transforming words into worlds

#EverythingAccepted

#11PM-Literature
When inspiration strikes...

#Poetry-Screams

#A-Fistful-Of-Pages

#BlackoutSunrise

Details

Submitted: June 25, 2012
Image Size: 1.9 MB
Resolution: 662×1183

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 57
Favourites: 265 [who?]
Views: 4,717 (3 today)
Downloads: 24 (0 today)

[x]

The kind of boy mother warned you aboutby *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Visual & Found Poetry

©2012-2013 *DearPoetry

Her royal blood: Common as dirt.
A tramp fallen in battle
for gentle eyes.

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~xxAiko-chanxx Aug 30, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

This made me chuckle. It's splendid

Reply

*DearPoetry Aug 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks, I thought it was quite funny too. lol!

Reply

~Goodbye-to-you Jul 8, 2012

I am speechless. This is perfect.

Reply

*DearPoetry Jul 8, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Why thank you!

Reply

~Mystieka-Senko Jul 4, 2012 Student General Artist

The visual really strengthens the words, wonderfull

Reply

*DearPoetry Jul 4, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

Reply

*KaitForest Jun 30, 2012 Writer

the movement of the line adds to the beauty of this piece

Reply

*DearPoetry Jul 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

It seems to just flow.
Thank you!

Reply

~Nymphe-AR Jun 29, 2012

That was great! I love the..look and feel of it all, literally

Reply

*DearPoetry Jul 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!
I'm glad!

Reply