[x]

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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. )

Heart:a rebellion
tucked away
in her chest.

they say
she's got skin
unworthy to write
poetry on,
but
she tapes those
lovelies
to her limbs
anyway.

astrological.i. On some nights,
street lights guide
this lonely heart
to her lonely bed.

ii. In this universe of twilight skin
& mismatched bones,
I wonder just how many poems sleep
beneath the inkwell of her eyes.

iii. My body is a house of stars,
and her palms are black holes
sucking ( me ) into their vortex of

nothing.

iv. She says, "Please—my moon,
please—give these bones a reason
to stay."

& I am whispering lovelies
into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.

v. "Goddess temple,
sunset eyes, &
my windowpane love-

Let us eat the stars
t

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?

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

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.

Lonely Gods"I wish my body to be a staircase

to heaven." She said, "A conduit

of lonely Gods."—Swaying

pendulum hips, she, she

was made of stardust.- Scars sleeping

above a city of sweet bones, stirring

like sun-stricken scorpions during

hollow painkiller nights,

mistaking her redred burns

for Apollos kisses.

"Sadly, this body has whispered away
the last of my secrets."

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.

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More from ~DearPoetry

What is loveShe has these long, storm fingers.
The kind that leave me wide-eyed and angry.
This gargoyle heart that beats 6 times slower than it should—
As she loves to leave me with half finished sentences
and a p o e t i c tongue covered in ink.
She spreads jealous heat along my cheeks,
as my nights are filled with stardust dreams.
Her words fight off hurricane nightmares.
She is a ribcage embrace,
warming these thin origami bones and
tattooing monochromatic love stories along my curves.

Night DanceWe danced like monsters:
lurking shadows atop gravestones,
long-limbed, and hungry.

We were hips and stitched lips.
Clinging widows to a dying mate.
You held my hand, whispering,

"Scream, Baby—
S c r e a m
lets wake the dead."

And in the end,
we collapsed
like fallen soldiers.

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. ]

Love slipped through my handsWhen the stars collapsed--

You
followed
them
to
my
doorstep.

Chilled, your smile
w a r m e d
my
iceberg

h
e
a
r
t.--As you loved the word 'super-
nova' even if by definition it was
the death of something beautiful.
We held conversations between
grains of

Lurking between the foldsDear _______,

Words don't mean
as much as they use to.
These letters are pointless.

[ I tried to write
today—about anything
that wasn't centered
around —>you

How fitting.I'm gasping for breath.

Words clog the back of my throat.

Death by poetry.

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Submitted: January 26
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The rule of nines.

by ~DearPoetry, Jan 26, 2013, 5:02:27 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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.}

The rule of nines.by ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Ask me about the percentage of my burns.

Critique by *somebodi-else Jan 27, 2013, 5:15:39 PM

Well hello there, hope you dont mind me doing this.
I found that your imagery was fantstic, and your words beautiful. My favorite line would be...
'Myths that are half fact & imaginary friend
turned boogieman "
Fantastic really. But the ideas you are presenting to the reader dont seem to connect. The first two stanza
I know more about half-moon palms
than most know about lifelines

the kind that beg dandelion child,
love-yourself-breathless.
are connected in a way that you can see clearly. The same with the next two.
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
There are possibilities for other poems woven into this one.
In the words of my own mentor, you can break it down and wax eloqent about these things, whether or not you choose to do so is all a matter of decision. All in all, this was fantastic, and I hope to read more of your work.

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

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Critique by *jadamslh Jan 26, 2013, 11:38:10 PM

This SO much better than 99.9% of what I see here, I like the images you use very much. You use them well to paint pictures in emotional colors.

Here's my criticism [critique is not a verb, you don't "critique" someone's work, say it what it is, it's a criticism. that doesn't really imply something bad.]

In our wish to convey feelings and / or emotions, we tend to overdo it. We want to be sure that our point gets through, this is natural, but really people are hungry for the implied point, the judo of words, a little implication, a subtle shove of meaning.

Try dialing it back. See how your very good images and emotions work when you use them sparingly.

I'll be interested to see how it works for you, if it doesn't, OK.