[x]

Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their way
to the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.

Until you.

You carried them away saying, "I'll use these
to fill the empty spaces of my universe."

You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,
wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs.

"I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."
Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.

Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch

               of your tattered surface ).

you were the beatific grin

of a kindergartener high off oxygen,

mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,

black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.

(You taught me praying was for the weak

      as I fell for your gypsum nails,

               white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).

A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,

devoured blasphemy-

hallowed out, & spit back up,

( you are afraid. )

Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;

god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves

grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.

( spread your legs. )

Red-inked and trembling,

prosetry masked as screams

knots into her anatomy.

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.)

Her Musethese words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.

no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.

nothing moves her.

she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.

"Write of me," he says, "right here."-

planting sun-stricken kisses

along the hollow of her burning throat.

"I want to be where your heart sleeps."

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."

N o v ai.
This distance between us
is devouring my lungs.
I'm left here gasping,
trying to suture back together
all the broken nights-
the cigarette burns in my bedsheets.

ii.
I'm tracing maps on my limbs,
and I'm painting black holes on my palms,
pressing them into letters
left on my nightstand
untouched and unread.

iii.
I keep telling myself
none of this is about you.
But I'm reaching for empty galaxies
as I try to remember what it felt like
to be one of a binary star.

iv.
Light-years away, and I'm here-
just another nova on your ceiling,
searching this vast universe for 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."

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

Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.i.
    these god-hands are barbwire's,
    snagging & scarring everything
    they touch.

ii.
    black tongue bleeding sweet ichor
    along the guarded walls
    of skeletal frames.

iii.
    'i want to taste heaven.
    it rests there,
    just beneath your bones.'

iv.
    he is a god dog
    made of scythes & scalpels,
    sewn together with weak thread.

v.
    and she is

She has the moon in her eyes.But, this body is a black hole,
a hollowed out womb-
and these palms are sandpaper
thin and bleeding a silent stigmata.

"Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,
too young to understand her own limbs-"

She folds back July's origami skin,
wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.
She is a raven heart, thumping wildly
against the whispers of vintage lips.

Her bed is empty,
but the sheets are red.

Androphobiai was stitched lips and a flightless raven heart-
all sex and a contorting spine;
his own lips engraving 'kiss me's' on empty stars.

& between you and me: i feared his teeth,
& tongue, & honest organs-
with skin that begged, 'please, don't touch me.'

don't touch me.
don't fucking touch me.

i am not soft.

there is a war raging in my lungs,
screaming through the uncharted galaxies
of my wanderlust heartstrings.

i am not soft.

i am lust, & war, & envy—

i am sin,

crooked, misshapen,
& the kind of prosetry yet to be proofrea

OmegaThere is a wolf lurking in my doorway;
our eyes holding breathless conversations
as secrets whisper through the stroke of my pen
into the awaiting lungs of strangers.

…Soon young pup, you'll have nothing left to say.

My heart is woven together with tight-knit words,
blood red Poe, and thumping Hemingway-
Yet, no headstrong Omega sleeps
within this slightly cracked, ribcage embrace.

"I am unafraid of forests with teeth."

William,If I am nothing but an actor
on a stage in this dust town
of rose torn bones and washed up
stars, why is it that the galaxy sculpted
crescent moons in my palms
ache?

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.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 453 bytes more ▶

More from *DearPoetry

At night,black birds rest on my eyelids.
I am drowning in their feathers.
My dreams are old movies,
monochromatic fears

( laid out in silent film. )

I asked you to lie to me,
to this supernova skin—
to kiss cookie crumb freckles
along my braille throat
as I smothered you
in disheveled heartstrings.

( It did not matter your crow eyes frightened me—)

Speaking to me in God's tongue
of watercolor skies
and mid-morning realities.

As we live in a wonderland
of giggling hyenas &
3am coffee.

P i e c e sIt's 3 AM—
Clumsy kisses have me contemplating
forest nymphs and the ages old
coffee cup resting on my night stand.

( why was it exactly
that I let you touch me? )

It's 3:14 AM—
Sex and Sexuality is a funny thing,
like these poetic new age philosophies
that I sprout from tongue and teeth.

I loved a Pieces once.

We were graveyard lust,
screaming to any god
or goddess who might be listening.

It's 3:32 AM—
You spilled coffee
all over these overheated bedsheets.
And I laughed:
stale heavens and
stale Pieces do not compare
to the one I lost.

S u p e r n o v aI left my heart in the elevator
1,000 floors above your own.
Humming mismatched melodies
to the fallen stars
in your outstretched palms
Your curling fingers
reached out to empty galaxies.

You always longed to leap
from the tallest of skyscrapers,
Believing yourself an angel
who'd merely forgotten how to fly-

As I forgot to tell you:

dying stars
aren't as pretty
as they sound.

T h i n k i n gI want to write of the tiger
crouched in my doorway,
the smirking hyenas at my bedside,
Apollo's love life,
beautiful Seattle skies I only dream about,
and girls with dragon scaled spines.
But it's all just tornadoing
around inside my head,
bouncing off my castle walls
—straight jacket medicine—
in an attempt to save me from myself.
So, I'm going to sit here, in the dark
as the clock tictictics away the minutes
of my evening as I stare into the face
of everything I've yet to write.

Sometimes I wish I knew the girls I write about.Believing God speaks to her in riddles,
                          She feels most alive
when hanging out of windows.
                          A fearless free faller
with an adventurers heart,
                  and innocent New York eyes.
Stubborn, beautiful,
     &

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#written-from-within
Written From the Soul

#BleedingHeartsPoetry
A Poetry Club

#Pencils-of-Doom
After School Art Club

#Writers--club
A group for all writers!

#PoetsandWriters
Authors of all things Lit.

#WritersPen
Poetry - it's all you need.

#LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls

#The-Free-Pens
A Writer's Sanctuary

Show all (31)

Details

Submitted: September 14, 2012
File Size: 453 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 36
Favourites: 128 [who?]
Views: 2,357 (0 today)
Downloads: 25 (0 today)

[x]

Willow

by *DearPoetry, Sep 14, 2012, 9:02:13 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Your confessional arms are Willow trees, draping lonely limbs around an empty ink-jar heart. Scars worn down like henna tattoos. A night witch scrawling her incantations on blue moons, rolling her letters into sentences like a curse. But, it is in these coffee eyes you have found a home.

Willowby *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Was thinking about Willow, and her life so far. Then I started thinking about her as human and not just another abused cat. She must have been so strong to have survived this long.

This poem was born.