[x]

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

dust.I'm choking
on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;

the starving,
dead-flower scent
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.

How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?

How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
star-soaked frame?

Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.

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."

BloodI've got a filthy mouth,
& a house of stars
thriving in my throat.

21 years
silent

& I still have yet to tame
this grounded constellation
I call my temple. -Slithering
tongue hissing too many
"fuck you's" against my teeth.

I fear I will write myself hollow-
or until my bones are corroded away

& I am nothing-
an insignificant nebula
orbiting the wrong atmosphere.

But, my veins bleed sweet ichor,

& words are only words, Mother.

Please, forgive me.Like lies, you said
I make breathing the cosmos
through rose colored lungs
look easy- vertebrae stretched
toward the moon.

& I'm hanging my bones
out to dry, carving Saturn's
rings into my wrists- my
star burst ankles.

I swore then I'd keep my
black tongued poetry
& uprooted limbs far,
far away from you.

But, like lies, galaxies,
& night fevers, you
are the destination
on my star map skin.

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.

Scorpion"Show me your bones."

the atlas of her thighs quaked
as she misplaced her skin
in the backseat of his car.

"I'm a scorpion, you know-"

a messy promise
folded napkin-neat.

"Prove it."

& she smirked,
sure of her limbs,
her scars, & her teeth.

"I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."

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

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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.

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Submitted: December 10, 2012
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by *DearPoetry, Dec 10, 2012, 5:51:27 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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 together."

astrological.by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

If you follow me on tumblr, you might have seen the birth of this little gem. And I have to say--I am very impressed with myself. I've fallen in love.

Critique by ~PoisonIvyBlooming Dec 10, 2012, 8:58:06 PM

Absolutely beautiful.
I am a massive fan of all of your work, but this is my favourite by far.
Very visual images, with perfect amount of emotion.
I could really connect with the persona and understand the meaning.
I would suggest using more... Varied descriptions within the poem. Fr example; if you are writing from two different personas, actually switch your writing style along with the metaphors. By doing this, the facet so so much larger and can be related to by almost any audience.
Overall, beyond excellent work and I look forward to more of your beautiful poems, no matter what they are about.

What do you think?

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*bloodawni Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Lovely.

*DearPoetry Feb 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

*bloodawni Feb 11, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

You're very welcome.

~apple-fresh Jan 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

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
together."

What is the secret to your amazing imagery? Every poem you make is a joy to read, especially this one!

You are a lovely, amazing writer (and I'm not kidding)

*DearPoetry Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

No secrets.

I just write. ^^
Thank you!

~apple-fresh Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

~amidarosa Jan 18, 2013

Usually when I read poems, I see myself as an outsider and it takes its time to reach into my emotions, but your words cut right to the core and it makes its way outwards (if that makes sense). You have such a rich collection of connotations and you transform words into something else.
"My body is a house of stars and her palms are black holes" I can't think of any other ways to describe this kind of intimacy, your poems describe a state of mind beyond physical feelings, they transcend to the spiritual realm.. Do you publish ur works??

*DearPoetry Jan 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I will eventually have a collection of selfpublished work.

~Kenyaninja Dec 16, 2012 Hobbyist

This is absolutely lovely. The whole thing makes me want to fly or at least jump off a star.

*DearPoetry Dec 16, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Jumping off a star sounds pretty!

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