deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy Art Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
[x]
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
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
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
Amnesiacsmaybe you forgot how to
wake up without screaming.

she smiles like a broken dawn
and the meek will inherit the
earth, if they don't drown,
first. she's barely breathing;
trying to grow gills because
it's only in the state of dying
that we adapt.

and you won't see the colors
pouring out of her chest, you
won't hear the ebbing swansong
she hums so quietly.

you didn't come to be reminded.

you inject a little further, a little
closer to the heart.      numb.

(she died the day she
was given a name)

she made you promise never
to be a number, or a majority;
she made your heart beat in a way
that made you think you were alive,
The Art of Detachmentdehumanized:
I am a stirring in the breath
of an unswept sky, an itch
in the throat, a tear in
the lining of the sleeve you
keep fingering- like reminiscence
will repair loose strands

(I woke up this morning
in a new carcass, trapped,
by fleshed out flaws and
dismal dreams and the
hush hush thrum ,steady,
[pulsations are riddled with
intent] of my veins)

I am the dents in the floorboard
where boxes of I-can-never-forgets
lay, I am the aching cold of walls
untouched, I am the callouses
of your fingers forgetting
how to work.

(my voice will melt the icecaps,
it will draw all salt from
the ocean and carve a careful
coffin
and He believedalong the road to change, you decide:
you lack a heart. your voice will
tear the world asunder. you
wreak havoc on the unassuming,
because you stopped trusting in
institutional stability the day
God poured over you.

He cleansed you in his tears, He said
He built you strong- it was
an obligation with weighted
requirements. He drove nails into
your flesh to test your faith,
you were pained and you were
perfect.

you were a prize, a person to
swallow lechery and lead our world
into redemption; you would tempt us
from our questions why

everyone needs a Hero
(but who do you have?)

-

I cared about you, once, when
you were unb
Ashes to Asheswhen they peel back her skin they
find a feeble layer of stringent
exigency saved up for the people who
would lend her a light on her path
to gossamer fabrications, she's

lost herself in fairytales like
the crumbs that don't lead home
and the girl who needs to sleep off
a few decades before things can
fall into place-

she dug her own grave but
it turned out to be a rabbit hole,
she's sea sick- she lulls
       it's
       a little disarming when the waves reflect
       your mirrored malignance and the
       only way out is
       down
    (her siren song sounds like
     a martyr's last motive)

she sighs and p
Transientif I went searching I'd find you in the sky,
again, inebriated and make-believing you
can really breathe stars.
if I tried to take you back, you'd weep
your glass tears and slur together the
meanings of "wait" and "I know"
(no weight, hollow)

you'd try to paint your mind
on the wall, always the misunderstood
artist- maybe in a divine exposition,
people could finally hear you and
that little world would writhe in your hands,
barbed and entwined; the currents carry
your whispers (but no one ever hears)

you're choking on the remorse lodged in
between the vertebrae of your throat,
the people who were never real, the
letters to
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.
Fervid AwakeningThere's a fire beneath my feet,
but not the kind that burns
mountains and ruins girls
made of papier-mâché—no,

these are the sparks that
drive the insane to dance in
the rain; the flames that
gave birth to a million voices
itching to be heard, too.

It's spreading, settling, somewhere deep
beneath my sternum, like an anticipatory
story, waiting to be told, giving
my heart the ardor to beat.
-
No one ever says happiness
is like a butterfly: beautiful,
flighty, and fleeting.

If you let it slip through your
fingers—you are left
alone, palms full of feathery dust
which soon fades and leads to the scary
appropriately appallingi
the flies are in the food, again.
festering, feeding- because i sewed
shut my lips when you warned me
they were a gaping wound.

silence is the best kind of infection;
you can't know what's kept inside

ii
i carry little girl dreams
of dying and coming back
diseased, depraved, an atrocity;
at least then I'd be something
worth writing home about

i deserve more than what
i am- i am selfish and
greedy, but not strong
enough
to steal a life worth living

(look at me now, mom
i'm growing into the
ugly thoughts i birthed.
i think this is what it must feel like
to finally follow through)

iii
there are things you never say:
Sorry Then Safei
we like to play with fire.
as it eats away at our
insipid nature, and licks the
desolate consistency of our bones,
our inner cold is warmed.

you say that it reminds you
of my fevered eyes.

ii.
we make scarecrows into humans
into saviors, then tear them down again
for not cleansing out our wounds.
we forget they were only born
to keep the birds from
devouring us further.

and they watch, feebly, as we
fall face-first into our fate

iii.
you looked me dead in the eye
"we are all walking ghosts
waiting to die so we can live"

and your whitened hands became
a symbol of achievement

iv
we write our epitaphs the day we're c
(D)elusivesometimes I begin to believe I am not real
and the obligations of the world
are too many to swallow,

when they drop me, I will go (but
please don’t count upon the feathers
bleeding through my back, halos
hang like a noose, I

am a single dawn: do not
count on me to raise again
   it wears me out, gossamer
 thin and glistening as they wait
   for something to explode)

in a month, I will not remember
my name. I will have shed my skin
someplace south of the border and cold,
ice cold where the air is stale
and barely alive; in a month

I will be unable to look back.

but now, these floorboards creak
under the assumption of forgotte
Storybook AddictionsI want you to love me as much as you do
the thorns in your side; seeds planted and
forgotten and bleeding cyclically.
when the swallowed night drowns and
drains darkness like a trickled lullaby, I want
to be the last thing in your dreams.

I want to be your mistake East of Eden, your lack
of redemption; when they tear apart your paper
flesh with metal claws, I want to be the one you
come crawling back to with bloodied knees.

[right now I am an empty vessel, unfulfilled
and metaphorically obsolete. I want to clear
my throat for once, without seeing the ashes
of my disease.]

I want to love you like a swansong;
breezes make your bones ach
Browse More Like This
Download File
HTML, 1.1 KB more ▶

More from *intricately-ordinary

String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
 what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.
ellipsisshe goes to sleep
clawing at her chest with pinpoint accuracy
for an emptiness she can’t describe,
but hates all the same. tomorrow

she will write a letter: “dear boy,
i always wanted to be somebody’s
flowery poem, but the verses carved in my arms
are riddled with ugly clichés. & you are why

i don’t sleep through the night. if
we were a language, i was the
subordinating conjunction, you were

the punctuation.

i remember you in staccato
conclusions, solemn absences
of goodbye”
This is a Love PoemI must admit to less than innocent thoughts
about the lithe lengths of your frame
and the mysteries crowding in your eyes,
clouded over with ecstasy (or affection,
that word in the English language
forgotten in place of more life-threatening
controversies, taking value over the
fire-warmed embers of necessity and want).

We cannot be ephemeral, not when life
is the longest prison sentence I’ve been
inflicted with, and I still remember the scent
of your surreptitious skin when we
renamed conspiracies as derivations from
our [single] definitive state of unliving,

an ineffable defiance of
misery’s inevitable subjugation.
dreamergirlThe Last Time I saw you,
you were down in the dirt,
[literally] on hands and knees,
looking for the bit of magic
your father had promised was toiling
just underneath the surface.
You feel it, you whispered in
a cotton hush like the vibrancy
of your voice would intimidate the
dreams you scraped at beneath the
faultlines. Daddy never told a lie
[excluding the usual good things
come to those who wait, and 'tis better
to have loved and lost, and every end
is a new beginning]. You feel it,
you whispered, trembling at the hands
the same way you did for the Pills
that couldn't quite fix the Problem.
.
I never really understood all the ways
you crumbled. Ours was only
a simple appreciation, the kind
you see in dog-eared romance novels
and time-old photographs but never
real living people. And The Night
you swore to me you loved everyone
in the world, imperfections and
jaded natures and judging eyes and all,
for the simple fact they were alive,
I called you crazy. You said
they were impossible
checklist of a masochistiii
you were an untouched sunset,
never before seen and familiar
at the same time; delicately shedding
shades of pink the same color
of your starving voice

and I was most beautiful
with my clothes off, too much skin
intersected by too many lines (never
the near parallel you longed for)
a hazy blur that made the nights
our own watercolor cliche

ii
you were that cheap love song
that never sounded authentic,
lyrics stitched through your
paper skin; chords resonating
from your every wanting sigh

and you were surprised how much
you needed me, from the concrete solidity
of my ribs to the metaphoric indecency
of my thoughts, naked and tremb
Addressed to Jane Doesome nights I like to tear my veins out, individually
like flower tendrils waiting to bloom and
string them up in the sun I never got to see;

violet memories, severe and sharp around the edges
like the day her eyes clouded over. blooming
purple, precious thing, nurtured by her inability to say no;

I wonder what she’d say when she saw the spaceships
steal the sky. she’d raise her bloodless palms
to the empty heavens and ask them to take her, too

(these nightmares are a self-diagnosed
expiration date, I wake to the sound
of your wildflower heart mourning my

goodbye. I still wince like there’s
a war being fought between

Featured in Groups:

:iconlooselacespoetry: #LooseLacesPoetry
Poetry Feeds Our Souls :iconpoeticalcondition: #PoeticalCondition
A safe place to express yourself :iconwritersink: #WritersInk
What's your story? :iconeliteliterature: #EliteLiterature
Elite Literature Collective :iconpoetry-screams: #Poetry-Screams
 :iconoriginal-scribbles: #Original-Scribbles
Promoting Original Writing

Details

December 3, 2012
1.1 KB
Link
Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 31
Favourites: 44 [who?]


Views: 437 (1 today)
Downloads: 2 (0 today)
[x]

Nostalgia

:iconintricately-ordinary:

she fell in love with the sound of
dying storms, and lost herself in
the blind spots accompanying her
every furtive glance

her downturned spine labeled her:
pitiful,
and her relentless divulging to
overcast skies defined her as
needy; but still she offered the
seeds of her pomegranate heart
to anyone willing to settle down
inside the breeze

and she was abandoned, long ago,
(once upon a time, no one cried)
by wolves with insipid fangs
and human eyes (her glittery irises
never quite belonged)
they discarded her when she asked if
self-delusions were a state of mind

and
she is poorly veiled, so see-through under
our cracked gaze; you can watch her
heart beat and her thoughts spin
(and you can watch her when she
invites death in)

she's a glass asylum, they breathe
in dampened sighs-
and when she shatters to a thousand
pieces, she only smiles
 because love would do the same
:iconintricately-ordinary:
Abnormal and infatuated, she wears her story like a second skin.

Feel free to tell me if you don't think the last line works ♥
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
love 0 0 joy 0 0 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconmozartsnemesis:
~MozartsNemesis Jan 23, 2013
Wow. This is better the tenth time i've read it than it was the first. You reach another tragic, beautiful climax, and leave me speechless.

The first two stanzas are my favorite.. the reality of the character is so genuine and in your face.. the idea that settling is all you have left.. wonderfully written,

The last line is the icing on the cake. Absolutely brilliant.
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Jan 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Oh my gosh :love: you are so so very sweet, I'm so honored to hear this. Thank you!
Reply
:icondreamsinstatic:
`dreamsinstatic Dec 14, 2012  Professional Writer
Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 15, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
you're lovely! :heart: thank you!
Reply
:iconhfeather53:
*Hfeather53 Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Featured here: [link] :hug:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
:iconepiclaplz: WHAT AN AMAZING FEATURE
I AM SO EXCITED TO LOOK THROUGH IT!
Reply
:iconhfeather53:
*Hfeather53 Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
<3
Reply
:iconzaquiastorm:
=ZaquiaStorm Dec 6, 2012
As always, I love it!
I must admit, the last line threw me off a little. I was reading along, the words taking me away like your work always does, and then, 'because love would do the same'... I'm not sure how I feel about it, and it's just that line, but I don't know what should go there in its place, either.

I love how it's written, like she's saying 'because love would do the same' as she smiles, and maybe I'm just being dim, but I don't see how that line ties into the rest of the poem. :noes:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 6, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I wondered if it might do that. Within the context, it's directly referring to the fact she's okay she's shattering, because any form of love would have the same results. But, throughout the poem I tried to show that she didn't quite fit in with everyone else and she was weak, so it was me trying to make a point in saying that love would break her the same way.
Reply
:iconzaquiastorm:
=ZaquiaStorm Dec 7, 2012
Ah, well, that makes sense. I'd have to reread the poem with what you just said in mind, but that does put it into a different perspective. :la:
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
©2013 deviantART. All rights reserved
About Us | Contact Us | Developers | Careers | Site Tour | Help & FAQ Advertise | Premium Membership Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy