[x]

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.

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."

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

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.

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?

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?

The rule of nines.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.

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?

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.

-this windowpane loneliness
has devoured too many stars
making love to ocean beds.

I could make a list,but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,

"What is it you're thankful for?"

How could I tell her
I was thankful for this heart
that beats a thousand times over
when I hear her speak?

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.

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.

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.

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More from *DearPoetry

Ask Me To Write a PoemAsk me to write a poem
about kissing witches in my sleep.

Ask me to write a poem
about the bump on my middle finger
from forcing pen to paper.

Ask me to write a poem
about the discolored bruises on my knees
the poetry written in ink upon my flesh—
the love in a foreign tongue on my wrist.

Ask me to write a poem
about Boyfriend,
my possessive Siamese,
about my rose thorn teeth,
and the battle scars I wear like trophies.

Ask me to write a poem
about how my own words make me sick,
about how I swear I'll die by the pen.

Ask me to write a poem
about boys and peaches
and how I wish they tasted just as sweet,
about how I san

He thinks her a Goddess,and he whispers, "Little bird—
Your stardust arms are quaking,
allow me to hold up your universe."

Closed mouthed,I tried to devour myself in my sleep,
all tight lipped and tongueless—
hours after you left me
with only an unbeating heart
keeping me company.

Callused fingers made me shiver,
but never managed to make me burn.

Instead, they left me feeling cold—
a frostbitten liar with a snake for a tongue.

An unnamed poetic.

I'm dreaming of red skies
and dragons of old—
I'm begging, and I'm begging,
and I'm begging—Please—warm me up.

Set fire to these bones—
Give me a real reason to scream.

Because, there rests an old poet
in the farthest reaches of my soul
and she longs to fight this fire with flames.

[

AryaShe is a wolf in her dreams.
Sitting upon an iron throne-
Woman of an old Greek myth,
A woodland Goddess
with a fire spirit sleeping
in her veins, a hyena heart
thrives within a ribcage embrace.
This lovely girl steals the hearts of kings,
assassins, and lowly blacksmiths.

Lacking honor, brave little shoulders shrug-
She whisperes, "My heart beats for no one."

How did you get those scars?And I asked her,

"Do you remember
why I counted tiles-
sat in silence for hours,
wishing on the black holes
in my pockets?"

Stuttering against quiet delusions,
She bit a vintage tongue.

"Because,
I tried to bury myself alive that night,
just to engrave the taste of rose thorn monsters
between the cracks of my glass skin."

Licking dry lips,
She asked to taste them.

Your Poetry Sucks.Poetic verse does not sleep contently within your bones.

You are not made of Shakespearean sonnets.

Metaphors do not cling to your teeth like snowdrops,

and similes do not lurk like assassins behind those false psychic eyes.

Your veins bleed nothing but red.

And your whispers,
they will never leave galaxies
along the length of spines.

So, Dear Heart,
you can take your stars,
your full moon romances,
the many, desperate love letters,
the gag-worthy cliches-

and eat them.

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respiration.

by *DearPoetry, Dec 9, 2012, 8:57:44 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

i am shipwrecked fever; kerosene sleep, & she is denied oxygen. i taste sirens on the shore of her collarbones, & salt-licked sea limbs. but, it's the natural disaster wrapped around her coral spine that really has my _{lungs s p i n n i n g.}

respiration.by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Please cure me of this dreaded writers block. T^T

But it seems most of my work is a form of writers block. :/

Oh well.

Featured: [link] [link]

---

EDIT: A DD? WHAT? On this ol' thing? Thank you so much!

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-09

respiration. by *DearPoetry catches the eye with interesting metaphors. ( Suggested by *Namicat101 and Featured by `thorns )

Critique by *valleigh Dec 9, 2012, 3:31:04 PM

Your over all poem is very good, you gave it a twist, and I love it.

You made this poem stand out, and made it your own, I loved how you really reached out tho the reader, good job.

Your a good writer and you know how to keep your poem flowing.

The over all set up of this poem caught my eye, and made me want to read it. The more interesting and eye catching you make your work, shows you know what your doing. I want to wish you the best of luck at writing, you have true talent.

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

The Artist thought this was FAIR

32 out of 35 deviants thought this was fair.

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