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*DearPoetry

My blood is black.
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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
     tastrological. by *DearPoetry
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.Please, forgive me. by *DearPoetry
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?Frost by *DearPoetry
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 proofreaAndrophobia by *DearPoetry
Personal Favorites
Poetry 2012
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
     tastrological. by *DearPoetry
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. wet scribbles, tattooed tragedy by *DearPoetry
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?Depression like lipstick stains by *DearPoetry
respiration.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
Poetry 2012
Found Poetry
Found Poetry
Prose
Prose
Haiku 2012
Haiku 2012
NAPOWRIMO 2012
NAPOWRIMO 2012
Photography
Photography
NAPOWRIMO 2011
Poets do it betterPaper thin words
hang off the tongue
of an angst ridden poet
who writes his verses
on used napkins—
in hopes that one day
his words will get him
in your bed.

Poetry turned angry,
clinging silhouettes,
teeth and cold fingertips
between the sheets.

His words make you
moan false religions
as you lay vulnerable
to the strokes of his pen.Poets do it better by *DearPoetry
Witten in the starsYou whisper—"Your
hands are soft, may I
borrow them tonight?"
With fingertips dipped
in stardust- I read
your skin like a
blind man reads a
bible.  Your own
callused fingers
make me shiver
as we mimic
a classic act of
lovers.  We were
never written in
the  s t a r s.Witten in the stars by *DearPoetry
Lines in a diaryI wish that I could just
write it all, everything
I've ever longed to say.
Cut it out of my chest
with the dullest knife
I can find, and display it
like a murder scene
between the crumpled
sheets of this notebook.
Sometimes I wish
there was really something
wrong with me.  That I have
a legitimate reason for feeling
this way.  Sick, empty—
Wordless.Lines in a diary by *DearPoetry
Warning Signs, or Battle ScarsHe burrows himself so far into the layers of her skin she will never be able to dig him out.  It's not like she hasn't tried—wearing her battle scars like trophies.  Sliding into herself every evening; partly enthralled and partly sickened; she enjoys the delicious ways his kisses burn the bruises. He loves making her hate him.  The  stubborn anger in her voice gets him every time.  Whispering lust filled greed against her skin, he takes her, and twisted pleasure in the hateful way she says his name.  The more she hates him, the more they both enjoy his punishment.  Because she'd never been given a reason to scream before.  She likes it Warning Signs, or Battle Scars by *DearPoetry
NAPOWRIMO 2011
Old Poetry
Old TricksYour lonely collarbone
                  whispers of destruction,
and flowery obituaries.

Sometimes,
it sings of has been stories, and—
remember whens.
                    But, only when I
                    dare open my eyes.

You weren't the pixie goddess
I painted with pretty words.
                    You were hard life pains,
                    and those nasty little pleasures
[ we never dared to talk about. ]

But, I'll save you the trouble
of a halfhearted denial—Sweetheart,
                   We came alive in my nightmares.Old Tricks by *DearPoetry
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."Tragedy by *DearPoetry
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.She writes the unknown. by *DearPoetry
ShoppingI'm not looking hard enough—
but I'm seeing underneath,
the underneath.
Tell that to my knees,
the very ones
that throb, and ache.
Bruised from car doors
and you.
They hurt a lot worse
than it looks.
But, boys don't like girls
with broken knees,
bloody fingers,
or eyes for someone else.
I don't bother anymore—
looking, that is.

I write and write and write
and write and write and write—
Of loves that never happened,
flaws and imperfections—

[ as I forgot how to shape my lips
 to form words in my defense.    ]Shopping by *DearPoetry
Old Poetry
Moleskine
Moleskine
NaPoWriMo 2013
NaPoWriMo: Day 10    Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
   your knee's 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 unstNaPoWriMo: Day 10 by *DearPoetry
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 becomeNaPoWriMo: Day 9 by *DearPoetry
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.NaPoWriMo: Day 8 by *DearPoetry
NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
that one.

Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.

For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers

-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.NaPoWriMo: Day 7 by *DearPoetry
NaPoWriMo 2013

Featured

to the starsI’ve got this arrow
curled around my finger
like Apollo’s heart
& your nicknames
engraved on the inside
of my lungs.

I don’t want to write
pretty little stanzas
or pick at the seams
of your poetry
like some deadbeat
psychology major -

I want to
scribble profanities
all over everything;
shoot down your moon
& wear her
like a charm
around ink stained
wrists.

I want to
   take you
       to the stars,
                   & leave you there.to the stars
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RelapseIt’s like counting
Saturn’s rings,
hash marks
along your limbs -
remembering a time
when

‘just one more’

made you feel better.

- & you’re sitting there
wondering why
Draco, stuck in limbo
always looks like he’s

falling.Relapse
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I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,

"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn
thing.”

I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.

But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to     f
                a
                   l
                l
                    ?I'm talking myself in circles,
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NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.

I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.

Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.

But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.Necromancy
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Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhouse
with broken fingers.Poetry,
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NaPoWriMo: Day 10    Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
   your knee's 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 unstNaPoWriMo: Day 10in NaPoWriMo 2013
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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 becomeNaPoWriMo: Day 9in NaPoWriMo 2013
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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.NaPoWriMo: Day 8in NaPoWriMo 2013
17 Comments
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NaPoWriMo: Day 7Watch out.
She’s a devil,
that one.

Glad for her spine,
& her teeth,
even God hands fear her.

For she has arched her back
for a flower-woman
with sin dripping
from her fingers

-who taught her
how to laugh
like the stars.NaPoWriMo: Day 7in NaPoWriMo 2013
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NaPoWriMo: Day 6It’s hard enough to love her skin on good days,
feeding encouragement to wide eyed strangers
as if to fill the emptiness in her own gut;
she lives on a diet of sad stories &
starving lips.

[Sometimes,
you must shed your own skin
to save it.]NaPoWriMo: Day 6in NaPoWriMo 2013
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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 5in NaPoWriMo 2013
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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 4in NaPoWriMo 2013
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NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,
I wanted to pluck my ribs
from out my chest &
hang them about my house
like wind chimes-
dangled brutality;
a taunt for hungry wolves.

I didn’t grab for sharp objects,
I just wrote about it.

I never knew
I wanted to be a writer
until I lost something.
I still don’t know what that is-

(my mind, maybe.)

But words,
they fill gaps
that had no stories
to keep them
from hollowing out
in the first place.NaPoWriMo: Day 3in NaPoWriMo 2013
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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.NaPoWriMo: Day 2in NaPoWriMo 2013
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NaPoWriMo Day: 1I’ve got 30 days
to defy Icarus:
teach this rose thorn heart
how to fly.
[   All I want to be
       is the space between
                      the stars.  
                                    ]
But, I’m here,
ripping holes in blank pages
while nursing nebulae knuckles
with white plastered walls.NaPoWriMo Day: 1in NaPoWriMo 2013
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NAPOWRIMO 30 Days of PromptsDay 1: I am a poet.
Day 2: I own my flesh.
Day 3: Tell a lie.
Day 4: Love through letters.
Day 5: A thousand kisses deep.
Day 6: Monochromatic fears.
Day 7: You have 7 days to live.
Day 8: Glow in the dark stars
Day 9: Misplaced bones
Day 10: Write as if you are a body part.
Day 11: Wake the dead.
Day 12: Love bites
Day 13: I never think about ____ anymore.
Day 14: Find me.
Day 15: 7 Deadly Sins
Day 16: 3AM coffee
Day 17: Kiss the stars on her arms.
Day 18: ‘Last night—’
Day 19: What is your sign? Write about it.
Day 20: Galaxy skin
Day 21: What is tangled up in your heartstrings?
Day 22: A fight in a stairwell
Day 23: A forNAPOWRIMO 30 Days of Prompts
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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.”It's all about her,
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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.Hear me howl.
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Writers Block
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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.Sun Child,
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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.A lion among sheep.
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Muse:She corrodes star shapes into
the hearts of sleeping poets,
slowly, methodically.Muse:
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Poets have the loneliest hearts.I drink morphine
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
filled up
with nothing.

& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
but-

I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.

I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
tiger-striped skin.

With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,

I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.Poets have the loneliest hearts.
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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?lub-dub
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Comments


:iconstarnoyume:
~starnoyume Apr 7, 2013
Your gallery is amazing! gonna read all your writings here \(^o^)/
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry May 15, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you! :D
Reply
:iconqueen-of-butterflies:
~Queen-of-Butterflies Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
just found your poetry...I think I want to fave everything you've got here! :love:
Reply
:icondearpoetry:
*DearPoetry Feb 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Go right a head! :)
Reply
:iconqueen-of-butterflies:
~Queen-of-Butterflies Feb 15, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I did. :P
Reply
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