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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:
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
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
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
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
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
I'll Never Know If I Go To SleepHe'll come by night, when memories
resurrect and dreams become real. He'll
steal the air from my lungs, again, and
replace it with promises of a better day.
The sky will open up and I will finally
drop into place.
(the sweetest love story for an insomniac)

He hides in the shallowest holes of my
brain, waiting, waiting- the best things
in life only come to those who've
never been given a chance.  

but
I'm falling apart, like all the worst clichés.
and my knees are bloodied, now, they
weren't built to pray. He said he'd come back
in the stories he carved in my palms.

(can you hear my heart tick? These
days are
crystal catastrophies bottled upv
her shaky hands couldn't hold a pen
or a promise
"my fingers have broken
trying to rewrite clichés-
believe me when I say, I'm special"
hollow laughs glossed over her
tempered smile

as she waited for the day
when that might actually mean
something

i
there was an eve long before dawn
ever tainted the starry night sky and
inflicted vision on those who preferred
to stay in the dark, where a girl
crooned quietly to herself
"what if when we meet,
I've run out of I love you's?"

this was before the sun whispered in her ears
that they'd never mattered, anyway

iv
hopelessness descends
on wearied souls
who couldn't lear
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
Nighttime Ramblings and InsufficiencyYou drop your jaw,
and you pull words out from
hiding, deep in your throat.
You wretch up a mass of
unfiltered, unedited, reality
because you believe that's what it is
to be understood.

You leave a trail of mutterings
wherever you go
      no one will ever want me
      it's not enough
      and i'm sorry,  i'm
      so so sorry
Do you remember the difference between
a shadow and a ghost? (the world ends
the day the sun won't shine)

Instead of sleeping (maybe
tomorrow won't come if you
don't say goodnight) you wait;
you will not be remembered, and
that is the scariest part-
you were never loud enough.
      i'm s
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,
Deliverancean angel drifts at the edge of the sky
with dwindling wings, she murmurs 'genesis'
and extends her fingers to try
and catch the pieces of a broken world

"sometimes we just need to burn
to have a way to light up the night"

the ground collapses upwards, and the
clouds come tumbling down-- the stars
awake and smile, they set fire to
desiccate all blinded faith

the masses watch on; glazed eyes,
broken spines, excised tongues-- they
are seduced by the twinkling lights

"destruction breeds beauty and
it seems to go both ways"

as the day decays, their time shatters
until those knuckle-dragging fools
find broken moment shrapnel
dee
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
ColorblindI gave away my name today

and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides

the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes

I'm waiting for a silent night.

I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)

I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution

they ran out of ways to ask for help.

I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much

and
diluted evanescencebreezes are fickle things, you said
when your eyes were somewhere far away

the wind danced in the narrow expanse
of all our waning hopes and desires,
and something about the way the air grew static
made me remember a time when
inexperience was still a virtue.

sparks go out, you said
as the discord dimmed
(glossy eyes weren't always
made of glass, but they became
along the line of desperation)

I truly believed the world pulsed somewhere
in the cadence of your voice,
because in your breath- earthquakes would
break and oceans would crash and I always
came up short.

we're living a borrowed life, you said
but no one ever taught u
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More from *intricately-ordinary

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
ColorblindI gave away my name today

and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides

the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes

I'm waiting for a silent night.

I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)

I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution

they ran out of ways to ask for help.

I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much

and
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
I'll Never Know If I Go To SleepHe'll come by night, when memories
resurrect and dreams become real. He'll
steal the air from my lungs, again, and
replace it with promises of a better day.
The sky will open up and I will finally
drop into place.
(the sweetest love story for an insomniac)

He hides in the shallowest holes of my
brain, waiting, waiting- the best things
in life only come to those who've
never been given a chance.  

but
I'm falling apart, like all the worst clichés.
and my knees are bloodied, now, they
weren't built to pray. He said he'd come back
in the stories he carved in my palms.

(can you hear my heart tick? These
days are
Autobiography of an Empty EndingYou will live farther
and ingest a world
unaffected by me,

where words wasted on spent breath
crumble like the last crush
presented with a wedding ring,
goodnight kiss to eternity.

You will live better. As if my name
was never given a being, as if it were not
engraved into the foundation of your efforts.
Can you remember the day we gulped dinosaur piss?

That rust-colored wine bottle, an arrowhead abandoned.
A Native American's last stand weighing down on your shoulders,
as you gasped Napoleon's last sigh
of relief-
wind kicked up dead leaves;
red clay, lost wars forgotten,
and clear spirits hoping
to intoxicate.

Once upon a
Nighttime Ramblings and InsufficiencyYou drop your jaw,
and you pull words out from
hiding, deep in your throat.
You wretch up a mass of
unfiltered, unedited, reality
because you believe that's what it is
to be understood.

You leave a trail of mutterings
wherever you go
      no one will ever want me
      it's not enough
      and i'm sorry,  i'm
      so so sorry
Do you remember the difference between
a shadow and a ghost? (the world ends
the day the sun won't shine)

Instead of sleeping (maybe
tomorrow won't come if you
don't say goodnight) you wait;
you will not be remembered, and
that is the scariest part-
you were never loud enough.
      i'm s

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[x]

Staying for the Season

:iconintricately-ordinary:

you were born
of a broken cradle
where no one taught you
how to breathe

you need the stars
like nourishment, but
they just don't feel
the same

you live like a heart attack,
an insufferable shuddering,
a socially aware illness without
the will to pull through

it's a sad truth when we
look up in the mirror, and
only see ourselves-

but it's okay.
write it on the walls, it's
okay, you just need a
little more sleep.

(wake up. it's nearly
December and you're
already dead.)
:iconintricately-ordinary:
Heaven isn't hiding with the monsters under your bed.

I'm sorry.
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:iconlisayonna:
~lisayonna Nov 17, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I like the images I get while reading it ^^
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Nov 17, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
oh, thank you! I'm so glad! :la:
Reply
:iconlisayonna:
~lisayonna Nov 18, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome~ :iconrainbowlaplz:
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
=Sammur-amat Nov 9, 2012   General Artist
This is a special blend of serene and sad and stunning:heart:
Excellent job, madpie :tighthug:
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Nov 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I'm so honored you took the time to read my work and actually enjoyed it! Thank you so much, sweetheart :tighthug:
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
=Sammur-amat Nov 10, 2012   General Artist
How can you be so sweet? :tighthug:
Reply
:icon0hgravity:
*0hgravity Nov 8, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
striking final stanza made more so, I think, by the parenthesis.
Reply
:iconintricately-ordinary:
*intricately-ordinary Nov 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
thank you
Reply
:icon0hgravity:
*0hgravity Nov 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
welcome
Reply
:iconzaquiastorm:
Mood: Adoration =ZaquiaStorm Nov 8, 2012
:iconbigheartplz:

I wish my writing was half the quality yours is. As it is, I think I lack the beauty of flow that is required for poetry to be any kind of decent. I just wrote the most rambling poem ever, and I'll upload it, but it's a bit of an embarrassment. It's so difficult for me to put pen to paper anymore; the words don't flow like they have in the past for some of my works, and yet, even when I look back at those that flowed best, they're hardly quality enough to keep on this site, especially when there are poets like you who raise the bar as high as you do.
Reply
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