[x]

caring for p(o)etsscribbling down vicious verses on
tissue napkins while seated at
the corner of a sidewalk cafe is
about as romantic, raw and
honest a p(o)et
-outside of the four corners of your bedpost-
can get

if you've got that person dreading over
drafts and dreams on end
-of you, for you-
consider yourself a new owner
it is now time to
tame this p(o)et's perverse mane
you've got your hands on
a fragile purebred
which can be very tricky for
first timers

zeroi swore
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;

i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises

colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,

but i was born into a colorless world--

no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but

all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered he

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

Lovebirds' Sorrowshe was the girl with cat
eyes: broad and judging and
carnal; he was the doe
with a broken collarbone,
yet she found herself lost in
the warmth of his sighs and
asked simply for a set
of sweeter lies

[because it's only after you
sell yourself to the earth that
you learn love is not a
chemical reaction anticipating
every ignited glance and soured
word; no, it is a thing
of obligation that sleeps upon
your doorstep, knowing you
will always come back,
knowing you could never forget
its name]

he called to her on hollow
nights, and she found his
voice when she had nowhere
left to go

he was the cereal box savior;
she only needed a place
to bur

I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offer
when your joints ached and your bones creaked
and you wept dust; (the cobwebs around
your tongue were a comfort once)

but I am three times screwed
over backwards and turned right around,
breathing in gravel and praying on
the only consistencies I know like
on Sun-day we are in the house of God
and it won’t rain and dad won’t speak
and mom will sit with pursed lips counting
all the times we didn’t kiss her goodbye
and everyone will call it normal,

everyone will look at the way I write words
on cracked pavement and get glassy-eyed
when they speak softly and forget the sound
of my own vo

ghostwriterhere, everyone’s pupils are dilated
and skin is stretched too tight
to expose the wind-swept spider webs
writhing beneath their porcelain composure

here, the shadows are afraid of us.

(and it is our desire
to finally come down to that place
of completion
where we
are
simple skeletons
with bleached
bones and
detached jaws)

at night, the rigid ghosts rock me to
sleep. their cardboard hearts and
inky eyes just begging to be seen

(it is only in the
darkness that I am
perceived to be more
than I am; holy
nightlight, exalted
star to guide them
all home

sleepily but
steadily blinking
out.)

the current carries my name,
I have spent

on essencebut first, kiss my dopamine--

rest your untiring hands on this swelled belly: feel me
as i swallow oceans whole enough
to condensate these north pacific skies, and accept
petrichor’s last offering.

so kindly are these breaths
left to lay rest
on the beds of noetic trees, let us watch
as they breathe,
let us watch as they breathe;

tasting the oxygen
swirling at the back of our throats:
life.

i love how simply the lull of your voice
bathes me in laconic moonlight
how this longing slows time two degrees below
the sixth of listening to mountains grow

pieced is this slow-beating
apologetic metronome, teethed and
sweetheart these
were

(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

on wet roadsv. She wasn't meant to be helped. We are all wrung from the same breaded soil, bound by our virginal ties to bareback earth. And so maybe it's okay to be a beggar, then, cradling this age-old fatigue.

xcvi. "Here, try this."

Nothing had ever sensitized me more than the smell of green, carried heavily on gusts of crisp oceanic air. The world slowly began to fade around me, and I let my head drop to my knees while the gentle rush of sea teemed humble volumes of vibrant aural stimulation.

"I don't really care who it is, you know. All I want is someone real."
An hour passed in silence. "Lift up your head." It's too heavy for me to carry, plea

001 i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)

an aching heart
(dark blue)

twisted guts
(red)

&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)

Subliminalthere was something about the way his whispers
entwined around the vertebrae of her neck
and caught in her ragged throat
that was reminiscent of nights long ago:

a heavy sky incensed with fears
forgotten, and a boy with full moon
eyes. she blamed her starry stomach
when she gagged on innards, unaware that
she herself was actually

undigestible.
stale and forgotten,
lingering like a smoke cloud off the lips
of someone with nothing better to say.

the leper and the lambbaby boy grew up and
the thorns left his crown;
his sides cry red,

it scares me to hear the
same stories in his sighs.

he is the kind of poetic violent whose
words are like calculated anvils; he
dissipates between my bones and

my heart will burst, I swear it. I am
afraid of balloons and the imminent
explosion of my delicate monstrosity
rising through my throat and suffocating--
but it’s really beautiful

when he turns over and rubs the galaxies
congested within his eyes. I believe in
shooting stars and intoxicated nights and the
prickled promises intertwined between our
fingers, as I miscalculate how fragile I really am

it&rsquo

Misconceptionsthe extrovert isn't—
self-possessed shining,
sun in the sky of a million
blue silks sewn together:
that summer to come,
a laundered morning strewn
with white yearning—

no,
and the introvert isn't—
scraping coins in an alley,
smoggy eyes above a mouth like
lines: red-cracked but parting
when stars break gray clouds,
calling on their mica beds
to reflect off his face—

no,
the extrovert is—
the man sweet-talking the first ideas
of his tongue,
waiting for reception—

while the introvert
thinks.

pacificher longbow mouth is un-
strung; loose bottom
lip with a cocked
jaw -
.
she
births into him like
a womb

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Those in Glass Houses Will Always Fall ShortHis knees were practically built for bending,
his heart sounded of waves set to succumb
His lackluster soul required mending
from heroes who didn't exist, or come.
Time goes quicker if you've nowhere to run-
days blaze like falling stars, burning new years
So he'd use sleep to forget what he'd done
(rough living when waking's your biggest fear)
He grew so used to folding for his peers-
his bones turned to rubber, his mind grew dull
the change was seamless, he couldn't draw tears
his insides were deserts- deserted, cold.
Thank goodness his fragile heart did turn fake;
when you're made of glass, you are built to break.

Innocent Purgefingers not full grown
still manage to pull free
undesired calories
and a mother's fear
"honey, please"
says the mom who has too many
worries and wrinkles for
her daughter of nine
"please"
tears spring forth
from wells not seen
since her own pitiful choices
"you're already beautiful,
and there are so many better ways
please, please, please
don't make my same mistakes"
tiny fingers just long enough
to grasp at insecurities
and struggle with feelings
of inadequacy
I want to be pretty

drain her empty
in the filthiest of cleansings
the mind of a child can't comprehend irony,
and that is her only solution

"but mommy" she

Your Name's My Best ObscenityThe sweetest curses are sugar on lips
If I died this evening, you'd find your name
aflame- the words I last shouted in vain
lingering on my tongue like a toxic kiss-
revenge is addicting, venomous pain,
even spent on cries I know are mundane
No fixing up this unholiest tryst,
forged by two fools who believed in their lies;
or maybe it was I, eager for light
even in spite of the flaws I had seen
Can light be fake? Were your twinkling eyes
a mere disguise to make me ignite?
Aflame, in vain, impure light fuels my screams

Cyanide MindI lost my voice
choking on my own tongue.
The words still spill out
from my eyes.

I bit my lips raw
hoping to stem the flow,
but ideas still drip
from my fingertips.

A soggy brain leaks, I suppose
and all my thoughts taste like tar

Coven of Vexed Heartsthere were four girls
who wore hearts on their arms
each with a different intent;
they wanted to see what they had in common,
and what their symbols meant.

the mousy girl, Penelope
was nothing more than a whisper
"I trace hearts on my arm in pen
and spray them with my mom's perfume
I used to worry no one cared,
I'd sit alone in my own gloom.
The hearts let me remember
I'll always have her
even alone, I can know
someone really loves me.
She's always there."
the breeze trickled through her hair
she brushed her bangs from her quiet face

and Nora outright laughed-
her soul was scarred
just like her arms, permanently marred

The Day Before DawnI remember when we were all that existed
the only sound was our hearts beating,
nothing else mattered.
You'd take my hands,
and that shine in your eyes
was the heaven everyone had told me about.

   can't you stay a little longer?
    you're going nowhere nowadays

I remember when you told me I was the only thing in your mind
and I believed you

   I realize how little it is I live
    when you leave.
    You go,
    and take my breath with you
    I suppose

I remember when you used to write
and the w

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by ~intricately-ordinary, Jan 31, 2013, 9:36:17 PM
Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

she fell to the earth in a stream of shrapnel
and stardust in holy proportions; born
of silence and unfulfillment, tumulting
through that narrow area between
expectations and reality where
the pink glaze marred her romantic,

(blurry: a photograph held by careless hands;
a memory outdated and forgotten
and beautiful, once, before
the future fell in pace)

she landed with a deafening crack--
ribcage split and spilling secrets,
gasping for air beneath the surface of a pond
so stagnant that even the lilies withered away:
bubbles rose slowly (she began the process
of forgetting to breathe)

and she was not made for
our atmosphere; the air poisoned
her velvet skin and thickened
her blood-- it trickled through her veins
with nothing better to do, stopping short
of her heart (coagulating in her throat,
weighting her words)

evolution in reverse: she became
one of us.

Progressionby ~intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

Becoming one with the shadowy corners, sacrificing virtues for a gentle place to sleep.

Read by the super stupendous awe-inspiring *disrhythmic here.

*disrhythmic Feb 10, 2013

Masterful use of alliteration.

Could I pretty please with sugar on top read this aloud for Elocutionists?

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

OMG FIVE MILLION TIMES YES

*disrhythmic Feb 10, 2013

asdlkfjashdfjh

Will record tonight! <3

(Also sorry for, like, sprawling all over your inbox but holy hell woman. Your poetry. I can't.

)

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

oh gosh you're too lovely to be real

can't wait to hear it!

*disrhythmic Feb 10, 2013

[link]

Hope you like it.

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I simply adore it!

*disrhythmic Feb 10, 2013

Up! [link]

Mind adding the link to the description, love?

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

done dollface!

(1 Reply)

*RiseandBe Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Wow, this is really something. I can't quite find the words to describe what I think about this. I love it. It's not something I ever would have thought of before. The ending is perfect. Wonderful work.

~intricately-ordinary Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I'm so honored to hear that! Thank you!

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