[x]

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)

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

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,

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

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

Pestilenceall of God’s children sleep
together and count the falling sheep,
stars nestled in their eyes as they
prey upon the crumbling walls;
God loves all his children and I am
the orphan with an asphalt blanket;
clouds scorn me and I mourn
their wasted hatred

(my eyes, my broken plastic
looking glasses; my hands,
termite ridden and frost bitten;
my heart, worm holed and
seeking absolvance)

what’s there behind these echoed
words? divisions of another from
a better time, I have begun to live
and lie with no consequence

because that little toxic feeling
floating in my chest likes to
poison everyone I’ve ever met,
and I&rsqu

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

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

(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

tense intentionsiv.
you lurk behind my sternum and
lace my uneasy breaths with
doubt and self-deprecation, I

can't breathe. I
guess I didn't need to sleep.

ii.
I am smudged in between the lies,
an asymmetric astrology chart
mapping misguided dreams

when you make a wish on me,
I sell away another piece

(I wish I were my own)

v.
it was always me, it was always
the blood clotting in my heart
and words coagulating on my
tongue – I swallow cyanide to
vomit up my narcissistic tendencies

iii.
it was nothing that ever mattered
when the dust settled and you
could finally remember my name

(and you settled down into my bones
deciding I was

Staying for the Seasonyou 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.)

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

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

AutonomousShe asks me to tell her a story,
a quiet ignorance of the self,
separation from
the unaffected scratches
on her freshwater skin and
years she spent
searching for the dreams orbiting
her like forlorn moons;

love happens on the sharp
nights unbalanced with
a little too much of the things
you don’t understand. She never
liked her eyes, full and honest and an
unignorable admittance she was real.

But she never was a cheater,
she claims, no one
put a price on her; the things she gave
away cost too much like
doctored up, re-polished
silence. Sounds familiar.

Imagine a place where
no one has a nightmare. No one
has a voice, their lives are

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

Download File
TXT, 1.3 KB more ▶

More from *intricately-ordinary

Empty Wordsyour empty words have no meaning,
they only sound pleasant.
they are supposed to be calming:
your pacifying presents
then you bestow these terms of woe-
to try and make my "dumb" brain grow
then you bestow,
then you bestow,
your thoughts and feelings- so hollow

your empty words have no meaning
if you've no intention.
without one they go careening
off into pretention.
wreaking havoc and laying waste
until compassion's been defaced.
wreaking havoc,
wreaking havoc,
on love, humility and grace.

your empty words have no meaning
when I asked for silence
a moment of sweet peace ringing
on the bell of your pretense
I tried to he

Losing Faith a priest is rushing to my side
begins to read me my last rites
father you're too late, my faith is weak
so won't you save your half-hearted speech?

The Priest and the Matador by Senses Fail

I lay down in the grass to watch
stars twinkle in the fading night,
the vastness makes me feel so lost:
a flicker in a sea of light.
With hopeful efforts I attempt
to reclaim all those tears I've cried,
but stillness turns into contempt...
stars whose lights have sadly left-
and with it, too, my faith has died.
a priest is rushing to my side

the air stolen from

String of Lifethe strands of time merge into one,
with past trailing behind
fragmented memories are none
but pictures in our minds.
the time's run out to change our route:
those choices that our life's about
the time's run out,
the time's run out,
and of our past we cannot doubt

the strands of time merge into one,
and here is where we stand.
now is the moment we become
in power of time's sand.
time for a change of pace or choice
be strong with both your heart and voice
time for a change,
time for a change,
take up the power and rejoice.

the strands of time merge into one,
chosen as our future
utopia so we out run
the decay of culture.

Deserted Manalas, buried carelessly
dwindling evermore
gloominess holds irony
jumbled keepsakes linger...
many neglect,
ostracized pauper
quietly remains solitary
the undesirable.
why vanish, exiled?
years zoom.

p.o.vperspectives meet at a set point
lending that point depth's illusion;
can known discrepancies anoint
without birthing more confusion?

lending that point depth's illusion-
whose words attempt to spark anew,
without birthing more confusion
so many notions to pursue...

whose words attempt to spark anew
ancient collective archetypes;
so many notions to pursue
it's tantamount to hunting snipe.

ancient collective archetypes
of unattempted works of art,
it's tantamount to hunting snipe:
the masterpieces of the heart.

of unattempted works of art:
can known discrepancies anoint
the masterpieces of the heart?
...perspec

Lullabyyou can rest your head on my shoulder
don't let the world just pass you by
the pastel sky blends together
a soothing sight for restless eyes
drift off lightly as a feather

don't let the world just pass you by
birds croon for the lingering breeze
a soothing sight for restless eyes
a lullaby to tempt your dreams
allow yourself to fantasize

birds croon for the lingering breeze
drift off lightly as a feather
a lullaby to tempt your dreams
you can rest your head on my shoulder
just rest your weary eyes and sleep

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#PoeticalCondition
A safe place to express yourself

#Poetry-Screams

#DA-Poetics

#Glory-Be-Project

Details

Submitted: February 24
File Size: 1.3 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 36
Favourites: 50 [who?]
Views: 505 (2 today)
Downloads: 9 (0 today)

[x]

Undedicated

by *intricately-ordinary, Feb 24, 2013, 10:01:37 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

i
I wrote you a poem.

skeleton smile-- moonbeams
drip from your unharnessed
habilitations; you speak and
ravens tear through your throat
(I will be there) you are
a catalyst whose ghost eyes
died for a better day

ii
unaware promise bearer, take
me away. as you live these
beautiful vanities, take me
away

somewhere refined and romantic
like the lies you languish, where
a heavy heart weighs up to
something nice

iii
primed and pruned, I am
a seedling: an exaltation to
all that is you

we both cry the same kind
of quiet, and whisper the same brand
of please-don’t-listen-close; I
just want to leave before I break
when you [do it first] decide there is
a life worth more than the scars
I bear (though I mostly want to ask

does it ever go away?)

iv
churning repetitions of an
unmentioned time, I carry you
within my mouth; tucked away and
slowly disintegrating the things
I barely speak:

(you saw more of me than either of us
could admit) the time for letting go
has passed me by

Undedicatedby *intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Each section is something I'll never be able to tell someone in my life.

I may do this again. It was ~~passive aggressive~~ therapeutic.

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

sad 1 1

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~j-uyen3 Feb 26, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

ASDJKLFHJL I never commented on your work before because I fear I'm too stupid to say something as meaningful as all the others who comment, and I'll sadly admit that half the time I don't entirely understand all the vocabulary (LOL I sound stupid). But, I do read all your work that you've posted ever since I watched you on dA and I felt the need to say that I LOVEEE THIS. SO MUCH.

*intricately-ordinary Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

oh gosh that's way too kind ;u; you never have to be afraid to comment, haha, no one is going to judge you. And thank you so so much!

~j-uyen3 Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Ahaha I know but in the end I still feel awkward about commenting sometimes. xD
You're welcome!!!

*MattVoscinar Feb 26, 2013 Student Writer

Holy. Shit. That is my critique. Holy shit.

*intricately-ordinary Feb 26, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I hope that's for good reason, then, but ashjdgashkjghhas

*MattVoscinar Feb 26, 2013 Student Writer

It's your writing. I don't think it can be taken any other way.

*intricately-ordinary Feb 26, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hush, you're too lovely. I envy your talent.

*MattVoscinar Feb 27, 2013 Student Writer

Bah! Your poem made my eyes go from: o.o to O.O and inspired me to write. Your gallery is a pool of inspiration and joy.

*intricately-ordinary Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

then I'm so excited to see your writing!

(and still incredibly honored)

~IntraSect Feb 26, 2013

"Clipped wings and caged: unable to fly."

"Why hide real inside? Come, now, is it truly so bad?"

"No, my dear, but it may be all we'll ever have."

More from *intricately-ordinary

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

Undedicated

Undedicatedby *intricately-ordinary

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style