to you i am only me
beneath sun shadows &
"pretty" little stereotypes.
you hang my insecurities
from my neck like a sex thief -
stealing me from myself.
were you that hungry - starved out
from the frostbitten world
between your own thighs?
aroused & f r u s t r a t e d -
you are a bruise - purple
& ugly - there is nothing "pretty"
about you.
no inch of the cosmos
rests like a fever
beneath your skin.
You: a dead wasteland of
- cold.
i am uncategorized
space, a body of seared rose petals
& thorns.
like a burning kiln -
phoenix feathers,
i am the eye of Jupiter's hurricane,
raging for centuries.
-DP
The anatomy of my survival. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
The anatomy of my survival.
I am machine, cold,
though I want to be devoured
like sweet blood oranges.
Scarred, crimson fruit
in autumns alleyways.
& for those unaware,
this is a freudian slip.
I have never known
the meaning of silence.
I am too loud,
not loud enough.
My knees
are their own
bruised universe
as I ask for wisdom
spread along my soil.
My branches -
they shake
with insecurity.
This cemetery cat:
I want him to hurt me.
Claw his way
through my anatomy -
into the darkest parts of me.
This is not love.
This is back-alley
romance, untamed
wanderlust &
he begs for the chance
to find it. -
He is pieces,
emotionally cursed.
A black cat,
& I am not sup
I stared at the mirror today
trying to remind myself
that I am a hyena.
Misunderstood, but
great.
Hell - I’m lying
to you. To the world.
To myself.
I’m not even a
cicada -
At least they
have a voice
to scream.
& I wish
I could scream.
So loud the sound
breaks eardrums.
So loud
that all the voices
in my head
shut up.
- dearpoetry
What happened to your voice? by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
What happened to your voice?
your thoughts are jackals, yet
their twilight howls sound like cries
in your head;
you have been finding yourself
& not-
while trying not to sound so
sad.
so, Dear Heart,
you can write.
yet,
you stopped wearing your words
on your wrist
& all that hair you chopped off
this day a year ago, refuses
to grow back.
you turn, try to decode
your encyclopedia of powerful
spines, tearing at the pages
you wrote them upon.
angry, You were so angry.
& now?
nothing but an untamed, wild thing
you leave collared & quiet
in a cage.
I am the daughter of a sailor. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
I am the daughter of a sailor.
There is pure sea water
rushing through my veins
& my vocabulary can be
just as colorful.
But,
how do I begin to tell you
we all have jungles growing
& growling
in our chests?-
Wild, fierce,
untouchable
by human hands?
Sometimes,
I like to pretend
it’s Draco residing
in this chest of mine-
his smoke
clogging my lungs,
choking &
suffocating me.
I have forgotten
how to write
poetry-
or anything with a shred
of feeling.
I have no space left within myself
for celestial, fire breathing dragons-
because I realize now
when I look in the mirror,
I do not see my father.
Sad poems need pretty titles. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
Sad poems need pretty titles.
April was lungs weak of blue, and
scalpels held in heartless,
uncaring hands.
You told me you were no coward
that the seas and the oceans
whispered in your ears and told you
only the bravest of men
deserve to kiss their beds.
May passed too quickly.
No time for mourning
when I gained ten pounds
of pure muscle
holding up your stars.
People asked too many questions.
People told me I was strong.
One day in June
you woke up to a skeletal frame
that wasn’t yours and the biggest,
strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.
I had cornfields in my eyes;
You misplaced your anchor
and your mind.
Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
imperfections, sticky
metaphors
& an inability
to speak.
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Your smile,
the sound of your voice,
the laugh lines—
bruises.
Know
poets got it hard
when the muse
only falls in love
with words.
i hate her,
you know-
that rat girl
who thinks she’s
celestial or
god sent hero
or some shit.
so constricted
in her own
problems
to think about
you
too
busy buying
the stars
& giving them
names,
but
all they do is
scream.
i guess
living out of my suitcase
wasn’t such a bad idea-
i’ll be running away
any day now,
anyway.