[x]

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

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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

What's That in Your Heart?months later and I'm still pulling pieces of you from my wounds;
memories are salt and you were the ocean that never dried out.
selfishness is the wear of the weary – I wonder, now, how much life
can you steal from a ghost?

my stomach still sinks, I've swallowed too many words. you were
the anchor that allowed me to drown. you were the siren that never
sounded sweet. when the noxious night comes I don't know who's in
the mirror (or what hollowed eyes mean.) am I the one or the nothing
that died out?

I tried so hard, I tried so hard to lose my shadow and forget myself
somewhere dark. I'm trapped between hell and a hard place,
try

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

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,

Expectantwe're waiting

emaciated souls fall among the
promises of a better day,
memories drape like skeletons,
and we sleep, hands together,
to try and be pious prior to death.

we forgot how long it takes to take
a life, as we write novels about heroes
and purity that we're too afraid to call
myths. the art of distraction is a
nasty one, at that.

the clouds are rending, it's always
hurricane season when the trees cry and
the oceans mourn. the heavens are
caving on top of us as the children
dance in the rain. purged clean,
washed out, they were expecting to be

free- but there are still spiders in their
throats, crawling through th

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

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

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

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Blurry Skies, Dreary EyesMy days and moments
and gestures and emotions have all begun
to blur and blend together until I'm not sure
what I was to start with
I can't separate these things anymore and
every person is anything and
time seems to go nowhere,
because I've torn a hole in my pocket
that has allowed the drainage of my sanity and youth
to continue, uninhibited.
I can't get any of it back,
blurry memories and all
but maybe I wouldn't want to.
I'm losing definitions
as I'm finding new words,
and even if I don't know what they mean,
I know how to say them
which is just as well.
Sometimes I worry
that if you weighed my thoughts on a scale,
yo

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

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Submitted: November 26, 2012
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by *intricately-ordinary, Nov 26, 2012, 6:52:29 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

if 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 God yet unsent
(you couldn't bear the chance he
might respond)

you never counted on this- no one
told you we have an expiration date
stamped into our wrists, and

you just want Life to float over
and nestle in your ears "you've
done it, sweetie" in liquid tones.
she'll kiss your seeping wounds, so
softly, "c'est la mort," with splintered
teeth, and it'll be enough.

you're still intoxicated, dear. no one's
insides are celestial semblances .

people weren't built to breathe dust.

Transientby *intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

You never slept a wink, your shadows share your bed.

I have a lot of sources of inspiration as I'm writing. One important one, as I wrote this piece, is the wonderful ~ThyPoetSorcerer. He has this amazing way of personifying emotions and fears, and his writing is unbelievable; check him out when you have time.

~~love 0 0~~

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`FuzzyHoser Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Mmhmm...yep, I like this. You're gonna make me want to come back and read more soon. (:

*intricately-ordinary Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

oh my gosh! you are so sweet, thank you so much

`FuzzyHoser Dec 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

A pleasure, dear. (:

~thepoetboy Dec 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

this is a beautiful poem again, especially this stanza:

you just want Life to float over
and nestle in your ears "you've
done it, sweetie" in liquid tones.
she'll kiss your seeping wounds, so
softly, "c'est la mort," with splintered
teeth, and it'll be enough.

im in love with your writing♥♥

*intricately-ordinary Dec 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

gahhh you are just one of the sweetest people ever, I'm honored, thank you so much

~thepoetboy Dec 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

oh my gosh, thank you! im the one who is honoured by your sweetness♥

~Contradictory55 Dec 1, 2012 Student Writer

Wow....

I loved reading this. It was just... wow.

*intricately-ordinary Dec 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'm honored you think so

~Contradictory55 Dec 1, 2012 Student Writer

~silver-ships-fly Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

wonderfully done!

i love it so much.

i can feel the emotion
as i'm reading it! C:

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