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Nostalgiashe 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 cracke
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
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
Skeletal Foundationsit's the city that makes you,
she says when her industrialized eyes
start to flicker. her heart rushes
like a subway falling late and
the patterns in her skin remind you of
striated architecture (reminds you of how
everything's human in its own way)

we're precarious concrete skeletons
crafted by men praying we won't fall,
and we yearn- you know- we ache
for a sense of vitality and being to
enter us and make us more than a
pale ghost of an engineer's dreams and

maybe we have our own shadowy corners,
too.

commotion exists betwixt her ears and
she's a destination, a place to rest and
catch your breath but not to settle
down b
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
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
Comatosethe 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
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
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,
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
embeddeda sunset blister[pops] overhead, dripping
security. she kisses her lover and leaves
with splinters in lips. there are moments
when she swears she can hear a breath
rattling somewhere within his
reciprocating chest
she swears in vain

and sometimes it's like they recycled
an old day, it fits the same and that
is an alarming halt to progression-
she says, we have to move on

but she doesn't ever leave, feet buried
under years of promises and plans and
anxieties. she's had a bird cage by her bed
since she was a little girl (begging wounded
blue jays to escape)

the day won't break, he watches
her sleep uneasily, respiring
like
Epilogues like EpitaphsOnce upon a vapid day in
a town full of glazed-eyed murmurs
ultimately amounting to nothing, she
met a boy who said he'd calculated the
probabilities of wishes and knew what it felt like
to breathe a dream. He told her he'd write
her the world, he'd tell of the promises the
oceans kept and the way the stars never
quite compared to her eyes

but he lied.
And she figured love fancied
narcissism the same way she believed herself
deliquescent. (because we're always looking
for the prettiest ways to say we're
dying inside.)

Then on a broken night that tasted of
lucid intoxication and blind reminiscing,
she met a boy built of big words
whose h
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.
admittance is defeatthey called you beautiful

with porcelain eyes about to crack
and cigarette skin crumbling
away, a knotted spine and
jagged smile:

you were never gracious.

you're slipping underneath, this
virulent smog masks a paper sky that
never allowed a dream and

you're afraid because it's soaking in
your pores again, unattainable and unoriginal;
the meaning of life never meant enough-

you were never hopeful.

there's a getaway map on the underside
of your pillow, and a lifetime of secrets
on the underside of your bones

you're a walking travesty:
your chest ticks, dull
your wrist beats, dying
time is keeping you but

you were never pa
defeatheredand this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)

and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago

as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--

all I ever wanted to do was belong.

dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len
Browse More Like This

More from *intricately-ordinary

Hear No EvilI don’t know what you think you’ll find in the hollows of my lies
and cracks of my spirit but it’s not me; courage is the weak voice
in the middle of the night that says we’ll try again but
I am deaf.
truly, though, I clawed my ears out and fed them to the beasts--
an offering of all I had:
the words I’d never need.

I am a secret, can you taste me coating your tongue? I am
that lie you never let slip, I am every mistake you ever made, I am
regret.
I am the demons nesting in the back of your mind as you
mourn for lost nights; yet I am only chalk,
I will line your feet one day--
the paths you traveled dusting
Insomniacs and Insecuritesthe ground is a friend, feeble feet meet stability
and never return. it listens, oh, it listens
with tiled ears and absorbs all your secrets.
fault cracks, your fears seep underneath
the pavement, someone knows
that you cry at smoggy nights and
run out of words when you stop to breathe
and you drown in your thoughts, no
one taught you to swim, your

stunted, stilted stature goes stagnant and
this is destiny. it was written in
the storybooks that the princess would find
an answer in the murky depths and her
prince would turn out to be the
desperate attempt at normalcy all along

(raw,
plunging face-first through
vibrant v
starry eyes implodeshe cannot recall all
the things she's
swallowed:
pretty pills, rancid
razor blades and
wasted words coat
her sorry throat

she can't count her
fingers, like she can't
count the days again--
it's zero to zero, in it
to spin it:
time is measured in
lengths of abandonment.

she comes home empty-
handed; defeated,
depleted, repeated:
"I gave up again
I gave up I gave it
away I gave up"
repeated like some
makeshift lullaby

and once more she
apologizes to a
broken window,
shattered, scattered,
just hoping to
know somewhere
better to go

and when she walks,
she holds hands
with the yellowed
skeleton of a
forgo

Featured in Groups

:iconopen-mic-poetry:
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Spotless

:iconintricately-ordinary:

one 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 out
only to shine, your paleness is
not purity- only blanched bones.

gravity never liked you and
the secrets you tucked away
beneath your sternum, you're
falling out

you are a moth flitting selfishly,
you only wear your tattered wings.

351

36 28 2
:iconintricately-ordinary:

Spotlessby *intricately-ordinary

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For those with speckled hearts.
©2012-2013 *intricately-ordinary
Category: Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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December 7, 2012
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:iconthypoetsorcerer:
~ThyPoetSorcerer Dec 12, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
This is incredibly beautiful :heart: and I find these lines absolutely magnificent:

"gravity never liked you and
the secrets you tucked away
beneath your sternum, you're
falling out

you are a moth flitting selfishly,
you only wear your tattered wings. "

I was also impressed by the continuity and the grittiness of the imagery, it's executed splendidly.

(Coincidentally "gravity" and "moth(s)" are words that I use occasionally, a couple of my poems for sure include both words. They are awesome!)
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 13, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much! :heart: I love those words and all the meaning they hold, especially the way you've used them in your work.
Reply
:iconlantern-rose:
*lantern-rose Dec 10, 2012  Professional Writer
Wow! So delicate, yet almost harsh, and sad, all wrapped into one. So very descriptive and powerful! :star:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I'm so happy all of that came out! Thank you! :heart:
Reply
:iconlantern-rose:
*lantern-rose Dec 10, 2012  Professional Writer
Anytime! :heart:
Reply
:iconzaquiastorm:
=ZaquiaStorm Dec 10, 2012
I can picture you sitting at an open mic night or a poetry slam (yes, poetry slam, that's what I'm picturing right now), reciting this aloud in a kind of haunting voice...

Or maybe that's just the voice in my head that always speaks when I read your work. :dummy:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
awww you're so sweet! my goodness, a poetry slam would be amazing.
Reply
:iconzaquiastorm:
=ZaquiaStorm Dec 11, 2012
I just wanna go to a poetry slam, I've never been to one. :dummy:
Reply
:icontiajones:
~tiajones Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
"disillusionment will take you home, and
it will not leave your bed in the morning."

absolutely beautiful, well written, and painful in such a lovely way. <3
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Dec 10, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
thank you so much! :heart:
Reply
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