Vexed Affectionssecrets entwined,
sugared kisses lie (dormant)
her starry smile twinkles,
linen skin, fresh, unwrinkled,
"wear me"

bodies out back in rows,
stowed, head to toe, measured
by stature, counted by
statistic.
you are a number.

hearts quiver, splayed
openly beating
bleeding defeating
purpose and point, pain
holds no meaning,
crudely careening

you are a number

and sailor boy swoons, caught
in the tides of her moon.
quaky sea feet hold no
ground

he's drowning on land
breathing in sand
falling

she's already gone,
grave gusts at dawn
whisper

you knew it all along,
she's gone

you are only a number.

Virgin QuietDear Vivian,
the unblooded angel who
weeps for me in my dreams -

why don't you make a sound?

shuddering in the corner,
conspicuous convulsions bring you closer
to me than anyone's dared -

why won't you breathe? is it so
hard to take in life that your
paper lungs are tearing?

where do you go? hiding between
the promises of salvation:

you are among the skeletons in
my closet where no one ever
lives; don't you know, oh
don't you know that morality
will make you a ghost?

they've draped you on a hanger;
your skin is an accomplishment,
bleached and rough and
unmarked by wanting hands.
your bones are gnawed, oh, look
at

Keepers of My Hearti.
you are in love with being in love
like you're caught on the train tracks,
tied down by want, waiting for that
insistent collision to
steal you away into the land
of concussions and self-medication
and hearts that barely heal

ii.
and stories confessing the notches
in your bedpost, the lines in
your smile. the sour note in your
liberally dissonant melody.

iii.
you did not want tangibility

cotton trees cascading and butterfly
innards, serenading clouds and
fluorescent lips
(until the sky came crashing down
and you reoriented the earth)

iv.
you did not want me

v.
I am solid and as notable as
the ghosts sleeping in y

Spotlessone day you'll fly a little too close to the sun
and you'll remember the boy who told you
gas station trinkets were worth more than
the heart you wore on your sleeve.

disillusionment will take you home, and
it will not leave your bed in the morning.
(you will remember he called you loose, too.)

you are the one who believes in smoke
smiles and candid cadavers. no ones'
nose grows, so everyone must be
undeniably true (except

you lie to yourself, too)

a few lifetimes ago you fell in love
with your own reflection, but as you
stripped away layers of common mis-
conceptions, you realized you are not

virtuous and radiant and hung o

Idylliche always spoke of the romantic stance in a smoker
whose every gasp was like a suicidal swansong, he
wrapped himself up so tightly in unwarranted wishing, when
they stripped him free, he then stumbled into the sunlight
and burnt [out]

no one laced his pillows with lavender and moonbeams
and all the other things that call dreams out from
hiding; but he still prayed upside-down overdone
every evening for a falling star to find its way
back home.

instead, they surrounded him with [a grain of]
salt circles like curses to draw out the weaknesses
temptation had embedded in him, because
nothing beautiful was ever built atop a rotten

Indefinite Tidesshe speaks in vinegar riddles
and bides her time in shipwrecked
smiles- she's
ticking off days for the boy
with stormy eyes who promised
he'd be back in a season or
two. he, who was

crafted from the leftover bits of the moon
and the meandering sky with runaway
stars lurking deep beneath his ribcage,
waiting to fall whenever he spoke
like a saint, whose divine sacraments
parted land and birthed lives; like a
sorcerer whose words launched a
thousand sunken ships but

now, she pops pills like reminders,
stabilizers that last 4-6 hours
depending on her ability to forget

and she's lost in herself
again, among faltering brainwa

expired warningsI hate to break it to you but we're all betting on the day when
your nightmares will swallow you whole and you won't
remember how to open your eyes. we forget your voice,
it broke and no one buried the pieces. we're giving you up:
secessions (your ribcage is a civil war, your heart is the victim.
there will be no memorial; there are only red flags)
obsessions pick your bones dry, vulture needs, vulgar
mortality argues at least you're not alive

at least you can't see us anymore, counting the knots
in your neck and catastrophes in your mouth. in
your summer cage you were a soggy butterfly bearing
a cumbersome cross. now, we leave yo

don't forget to let me go(the worst thing I’ve ever been
is an accident)

my words have no filter and I am
too many apologies bound
together by the stringent belief
tomorrow is worth more than today—

remember that summer when I was
beautiful? all covered in amber fog
and delivered like a dream. I was
a porcelain promise, a lavender
whisper, a breathtaking cancer,
and so many other precious things

I just want to go back to that
time where I was unmolded by
mistakes and words unsaid
(it was never you

I have spent too long trying
to drain out every tear from
the ocean, my love,

simple tasks are for the
weak of heart, it was
never you)

I am still be

In Piecesrum-lust lips make gentle friends,
words slurred in hands blurred,
burning in between the lines to find
some
drunken concoction of wilted laughs
and heavy sighs, scented sultry
with desperation.

you are that
rasping in my throat when my voice
deteriorates and I am left breathless
and hopeless and raw, my
muscles ache in memory of the
motions to forget-
we do not let go.

and cold beds call, stability,
metal frames and sunken heads –
rest now, rest with
a prayer on your lips you don't
care to share, a dream in
your mind you'll never get back;
rest and the earth will lend you peace
and

you will stop. the rivers will cle

scraps and sacramentsyou,
beautiful siren girl with melodies
entangled in her hair: you are
shell-shocked and sea-struck
even though you cannot stand
the sensation of sand beneath
your toes.

you have fingers for prying, picking,
pulling at your skin and nesting
in that hollow space between
your bones. and if anyone asks,
you will swear there are monsters
sleeping in the concaves of your ribs;
there are ghosts beneath your tongue,
embittered, and you are not the words
you speak.

they say there is an answer, little girl
(sometimes you begin to believe you are
a scarecrow on the border of reality
begging people to turn the other way;
and the mirror will agree)

RestlessI’ve been living in the same breathy dream
for too many days now; I’m bed-ridden and
stale and I reek of those moments that come
full throttle like a car crash on a winter night

   this is evolution where weak hearts
   are afraid of the shadows and where
   everything changes,
   an apologetic wind births no remorse;
   he will move on—anchored ship
   set sail, I am the sunken wreckage
   that never learned how to swim.
   he will move on, Darwin says
   I never had a chance

I wish I were the textbook sadness,
symptom and solution and endurance
but I’ve spent too long sleeping on the

Seemingly Intrinsicthe November sky trembles and she's
out sleeping on the railroad tracks, again,
where no one hears her staggered breaths
and stuttered dreams

she promised she'd be back in a few
summers, once the war raging within
her ribcage finally called it quits
(she's so close to raising that white flag,
her fingers plead)

tightrope walkers never feel free, she's bound
by the internal pulsation of her heart, going
stagnant as she gives away the pieces of
herself to people who see her as nothing more
than the wide-eyed doll in the corner, yet
unnamed, forsaken by children with better
things to do

and perhaps these are intrinsic qualities

Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications are
easier to swallow down when
incandescence is a blessing bestowed
only upon those with silky tongues.

deceptions are beautiful
in the right words

because they are salvation, like a
rapture, they save the sickly,
self-indulgent souls from those
tragedies they used to write on the insides
of childhood notebooks about who
they could never be [themselves]

they rescue them from tremulous
corners and closets, hideaways
where they've grown too akin to
the demons they nurse; and drag
them into a land beautiful enough
to wear light as a second skin

(where lies are never discussed
but always shared)

cl

DFC Day 2: MarieOf calm and quiet breath, she waits
trusting, atop her stable ocean's bed
where salty whispers gently guide her head
and drag her down with their assented bait;
but still, her lungs weigh down like lead.
(she smiles, the waves plunder her teeth
the fish consume her eyes, and yet she sings
them lullabies) She lives all her endings
again, to make them new, to dream-repeat
the memories before her mute drowning.
They ask her, darling, dive lower
she sleeps, she longs, she breathes once more --
she cries (her tears divide the ocean floor.)
The water-logged prey lent her voice today,
now it complies with the whispered tides.

Birthday celebrations.Twenty-three cigarettes
at midnight in honour of
the years you might have
lived,

but chose not to.

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She is SinShe walks to the beat of our fearful feet
The air grows stale with the scent of her skin
Her lies are her only feature that's sweet

She longs for our weaknesses, what a treat
She gnaws on the hearts and souls of fallen
She walks to the beat of our fearful feet

It's my job to warn anyone she meets
Entranced by her, I tell them "She is sin.
Her lies are her only feature that's sweet."

I continue: "Patterns always repeat.
You must be careful, with her you can't win.
She walks to the beat of our fearful feet."

They deny it, then at last claim their defeat
What they still don't know would make their heads spin
(Her lies are her only

The Loveliest DissonanceI need a guy with a smile so contagious
it would take a vaccination to subdue.
He'll have a brain so deep it could hold the world
and a mind so curious it would try to.
He'll need to be hopelessly optimistic, always searching the skies
in hopes of finding shooting stars, and he'll have dreams for eyes
He'll make the stupidest jokes and laugh at all my quirks
he'll pull silly faces just to try and make me smirk
I need a guy who's thoughtful and slightly crazy
and who sings songs because he believes he lives the words.
He'll prefer a girl who spends hours star gazing
to a girl who spends hours in front of the

Can't You Help Me?"I don't know what to do, I've lost it all. It's at a point where it feels like a miracle I just have a voice. After all the things that have gone, my voice just feels unnatural coming from my empty insides. Still, what good is it when I've run out of things to say?"

"Well," Carol said, turning on her side and recrossing her legs. She searched intently into my face and wrote some notes down. She looked up again, but shut her eyes. "What is it you feel you've lost?" Carol wrung her wrists a few times before noticing what she was doing, and grabbing her water instead. I make her very nervous.

&#

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Comatose

by ~intricately-ordinary, Nov 28, 2012, 9:04:57 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

the clock rolls backwards

say hello to cold floors and breathing
ceilings and sleepless nights,
a snowflake city down in flames
and a humming monotony --

fingernails never dug deep enough.

you're stuck on words like I love him and
I miss him and this is it and I
love him I really really love- it's
better to have bled than ghosted
out into the

silence.
those are your thoughts suiciding themselves
under the smother of night, no
veneers can hide your
lines- time carved
you a new face and metered
your breaths;

asphyxiated and strung out by
your own needs, at least you had
the time
to write it all off,

but not before you tore the wings off the
weak-willed sparrows and cried
for yourself.

bleached eyes and too much black
liner cover the fact you can't
see
anymore, you can't
see
the world and it shouldn't see you

you're sick of butterflies melting on your
fingertips and fairydust that's only of
dreams long dead, and

you nightmared these very days long ago- of
love as a hoax and siphoning smiles
and, some things are better
not true.
I love him.

this is how you live when you
aren't afraid to die, and the dents
in your heart do not hinder your
ability to float, on churning dirt,
barely unswallowed by the ground
that delivered you screaming into a world
wanting nothing more than to watch you
fall.
the scuffs don't make you crash, you
wish they did

your flutters kick the bucket,

finality tastes preemptive.

358

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Comatoseby ~intricately-ordinary

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Disenchanted, I love no more.
if you don’t want to critique, please feel free to skip my little ramble below!

First, let me start by saying, I used a few experimental things as verbs (a while back, I remember *0hgravity saying something about how nightmare ought to be a verb, too) so, please do not include that as a grammatical error. Do feel free to tell me, however, if you do not think it works in context.
Now, for the #theWrittenRevolution: What were your favorite/ least favorite lines? Do you think this piece was paced and ended properly? Is it something you can relate to? What do you think the relevance is in the repetition of “I love”? Any other comments or critiques.

My critique on Black Leather Woman: [link]

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Submitted on: November 28, 2012
File Size: 1.8 KB

Views: 358
Favourites: 42 (who?)
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*Concora Mar 3, 2013 Writer

I think this is one of my favourite pieces from you.

~intricately-ordinary Mar 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you!

~disrhythmic Dec 21, 2012

this is how you live when you
aren't afraid to die, and the dents
in your heart do not hinder your
ability to float

God I love your poetry.

~intricately-ordinary Dec 21, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

ohmygosh you are so kind

~disrhythmic Dec 21, 2012

~WriteWhileDreaming Dec 15, 2012 Student Writer

Featured: [link]

~intricately-ordinary Dec 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I was not only featured, but I am among such beautiful pieces?? Oh my gosh! Thank you so much!

~WriteWhileDreaming Dec 15, 2012 Student Writer

You're piece is just as beautiful. You are most welcome

~ThyPoetSorcerer Dec 3, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Your writing is turning from amazing to absolutely phenomenal. I can't stop rereading this(...And maybe for the most part think I know what you are trying to say here.)

~intricately-ordinary Dec 3, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Oh wow, I'm so honored you like it.
I wrote it after thinking about a lot of the things you'd said.
Thank you so much

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More from ~intricately-ordinary

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Comatoseby ~intricately-ordinary

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