[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

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

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?

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."

FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild. Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.

When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?

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.

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. )

WillowYour 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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."

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

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Stone AngelsHe had tigers blood.

Poetic fingertips
that called to me
like a siren's song,
while his demonic tongue
hissed 'S h i p w r e c k e d'.

We covered ourselves in ink,
danced along jailhouse walls
under street lights, the edges
of skylines, darkened alleyways
and the parking lots of churches.

No fear,

We spoke in riddles— gestures;
the quiet sweep of eyelashes;
cigarette smoke that lingered
long enough to shape heavens
within our irises while crows
rested on our shoulders—perched
pecking, waiting for one to move.

As we were nothing more than
long-limb statues atop gravestones.

Poets make the best liars. His black eyes were stars, and
the c o n s t e l l a t i o n s in their depths
told me sad

Scorpions and Love LettersI never longed to hear him call me
'Dear Heart' as if he wrote love letters
to his own, bloody mass of an organ
that beat up a rhythm between my
bruised yet sturdy, castle ribs.

Anonymous scribbles,
itching between the stitching
of a patchwork Frankenstein.

As I will never give it up to the poet
with the sloppy tongue-
ugly verses dripping from his lips
like a love sick plague
leaving me hollow;
a soulless shell seeking escape.

I'll never love him.

This Scorpio heart is mine.

Covered in barbed wire,
It stings and it cries—
but it rips and it tears
and it bites—

TragedyShe said, "The way you go about your life is pointless.
You bury yourself so deep into those notebooks—
the world passes you by as those 'artist' fingers cause you cramps."

And I stared at her with angry eyes and angry fingers,
saying, "I'm sorry I don't have a life worth writing about, Mother."

Cemetery CatsThe wolves were out that night—

and all of the hook laden quips
that we concocted
fell upon lips
like a hummingbird's whisper.
Then, they ignited into flames
like burning stars.

That should have been us:
beautiful ash, supernova romance
with tongue and fingers soaked in ink.

We always did find the taste of Heaven
stale, like coffee three days old.

And with that taste still lingering,
you were a walking oxymoron.
A sinner come to save
these easily swayed, glass bones
from smashing into oblivion.

I longed to taste that wild,
untamed energy beneath your skin.
Devour that dragons heart,
and tattoo love along the bruises

She writes the unknown.Locked away in a convent,
her curling smoke iris's
whispered blasphemies.

A phoenix lay restless between
her tongue and teeth, burning
burning burning - her alive.

A fire in her blood-soaring
through labyrinth veins
seeking an escape.

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Submitted: December 14, 2012
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dust.

by ~DearPoetry, Dec 14, 2012, 8:55:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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.

dust.by ~DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I'm so tired of hearing I'm not good enough.

love 8 8

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*tweehooligan May 28, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

'how long can butterfly ankles hold up a star-soaked frame'
This ia a great line, simply beautiful, your whole writing style is mysterious, and longing, you are a great inspiration to me, and your art is so great!

~DearPoetry May 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much--that is always wonderful to hear!

Glad to be of inspiration!

~purplegrin Jan 26, 2013

you write poetry because...

and i like this most

~Actsofart Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

wonderful use of metaphors! this was lovely to read.

~DearPoetry Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~Persianmaple Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow that was heroic, 'dust in my veins..' well done, you took somewhere, not sure where but you took me.

~DearPoetry Dec 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I hope it was somewhere good.

*M4cK3nn4 Dec 19, 2012 Student General Artist

I want to write something, to tell you how good this is, how it speaks to me. How it speaks of me. But saying "this is beautiful" is not enough. Because it isnt, its more, and I cannot even begin to describe it.

~DearPoetry Dec 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Oh goodness, thank you! You are much too sweet!

~DarkestNocte Dec 16, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

That was... breathtaking. I don't know how else to define it.

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