[x]

Sun Child,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.

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.

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 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 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.

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

ConstellationShe is dream dust,
too bitter or wise
for her own good.

A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.

She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.

& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.

To me,
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos

& I orbit her.

It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,
or the burning gaze of her lover.
I am merely a forest of silences,
old dogwoods & untamed hair.

-But, I made a promise
to a bone collector once.
He could have my spine,
my kneecaps, &
one flowered rib,
wrapped & bowed-up
like a present

-if he could fall in love
with things that slip through his fingers:
Me,
the sea,
shooting stars.

-“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”

Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhouse
with broken fingers.

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.

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.

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 10   Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knees 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 unsta

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

Hear me howl.Tell me again, Father,
I’m the perfect daughter-

when all I want to be
is the crescent moons
resting like strong soldiers
in the grooves of my palms.

I am but
(outgrown)
lonely bones,
quaking with frostbite,
numbed with rage.

A wolf's jaw:
locked, teeth tearing
into the chilled flesh
of your neck.

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Fuck YouAnd this brown paper bag
filled with warm secrets,
that make me melt
from the inside out.

You say I'm masochistic,
that I crave the ache
And the burn of the knife
You slice through my spine
every night.

You bend me backwards-
contorting my limbs
just to spread my thighs.

For I was never made
to mold under your hands.

This liquid fire is
merely a reminder,
Of all the nasty little things
you have made me do.

You whispered, bit and tore—
That [hollow] blood pumping
organ from out my chest.

Then, hid my heart away
under the floorboards
of your darkest dreams.
For this, you swore.

She never wanted children.She was cold.
With frostbitten fingers
numb to the touch,
She set herself on fire
just to w a t c h her skin burn.

It's always been cold hereYou covered me in sweet nothings,
and I didn't have the heart to tell you
I didn't have a heart that beat.
How could I, when you didn't even
believe me when I told you
poetry lay naked underneath
my skin, carved into my very bones-
That anyone with eyes could see?
That your sweet nothings
might flush my flesh,
But have never once touched my insides?

And with a scalpel,
you swore you would prove me wrong.

I dream of HitchcockA young boy, not much older than I-
Stared transfixed on me as if maybe
He could see things that weren't really there.
"Crows are pecking out your eyes,
right now."
By then I was terrified,
I never spoke to him again.
I can't help but remember
his words to this day
As I feel those black birds
pecking and clawing
At the base of my neck,
My vulnerable clavicle,
Making my insides prickle
all at once.
And they snarl like
dancing demons
along my back.
Cawing angrily
Their talons control me
like a marionette.

Skeleton KeyShe collected keys and
hid them away in a
little jewelery box
in the darkest part
of her closet.
Believing she held
the key to her own
heart,
no one had
the ability to hurt her.
That was,
until you came along.
She hadn't expected a
skeleton key
to be lurking
in your back pocket.

And the worst part of all,
you didn't even need to use it.

You write love songsWith numb fingers, you strum the melody that's
Stuck in your head like a broken record.
You pray to the heavens to keep you grounded,
You have yet to find that special something.
Believing your heart is made of paper-
Easily broken.
Shredded into a million pieces and
spread out upon the earth.
Searching for years,
Missing that one tiny piece
To make yourself whole again.
But you tap
And you hum,
And you dance to the beat
Of that song stuck on repeat
Inside your head-
Mismatched lyrics
From the paper heart
You hold in your hand.

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Submitted: March 7
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[x]

Writers Blockby ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Visual & Found Poetry

Tumblr: [link]

Critique by ~UnicornRainbowCake Mar 8, 2013, 12:25:41 AM

Like many of DearPoetry's wonderful poems, the ambiguity of this poem means it evokes different memories to different people. When I was in hospital with untreated diabetes, I can strangely only remember the times I spent talking to the nurses, seeing the other people on the ward...remembering the good rather than the 'car crash' it really was. The language and words used add so much to the richness and depth of the poem, while the personal viewpoint makes it seem like a train of thought than a mechanic poem. My only critique, like others, is I think it should say 'and' instead, but that's just picky.

A lovely poem, one of my favourites.

What do you think?

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Critique by ~murtaghmorzansson Mar 7, 2013, 6:58:55 PM

I loved the effect this poem has. It gives the reader a sense of what readers block is and can be... I have personally been through that sense many times before yet wish no other to experience it for it can change your view on the story and alter it from what you might have originally wrote if not for the writers block
I agree with

that the & sign should be replaced with "and" but disagree on the change of writers block, it is spelled correctly in the poem...

This is a truly unique poem..I love this in whole <3

I hope you continue with your most beautiful poems.