[x]

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

Sleeping Souls Never Liethey buried you
with stars in your palms, because
they thought it was a crime
you'd never made a wish in your life

the dirt and darkness
was enough to extinguish
their dying lights

(it's okay, your silent skin
said, softly, I always wanted
the sky to bring me to sleep)

the priest begged, believing you
might rise from the hole
you'd dug for yourself

he wanted to let you know
there was something bigger than all of us,
someplace farther than 6 feet under

(I'm alright, your stony eyes
swore, sometimes falling
feels enough like flying)

their voices all filled with tears
even though you said you weren't worth
their worries, the

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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:

Somewhere Between Creation and Beingthey built him out of sandpaper
so he could help those
a little rough around the edges

they gave him rose-colored irises
and put his heart in his throat
so he could only speak love

they wrote him a history
deep within his DNA
(lingering, and a little too clingy)
but he learned to live on promises
instead of mistakes

they gifted him off-center feet
that always leaned into his dreams;
he was tall enough to live
with his head in the clouds.

sometimes waiting gets to you.
it settles your leaden bones
and you forget why your legs won't move

you fall a little too far
into everything you're praying on,
and you d

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

(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

Empty Nestand as your sepia-saturated voice fades into the night

you will remember all those dreams you woke from,
weeping, for the conversations you'd never
have and the people you'd never get back

you will remember the flock of birds that used to
reside in your chest, pounding against your
ribcage, crying to be free (and you will try
to remember the day their wings went silent)

as you hear the leaves hum and the sky pulse,
you will try to fall into cadence with the steady
music of nature, but instead begin to believe you're just

an outlier.

you will tell yourself, in your needly, narcissistic
way: you are a falling star, a withering cel

Whistle+++
i am the wicked edge of ricochet,
the asphyxiation of dust
in a hummingbird's bones. skeleton,
i am silver, grass torn hollow
by a child's breath. corkscrewing,
my veins etch true reflections
on time's skin:

a cardigan crumpled
like a child. Blue
and torn in half.
---

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wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,
swollen around the words she never said;
dark rings around her eyes
like planets unremembered, and
a staleness to her touch,
the crystalline Dead Sea.

she's living like a story
that's already been told
"if no one loved you
would you mean anything at all?"

in that moment,
we forget to exist.

softenedthe sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.

in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.

and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.

I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me.

Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character who
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival

(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

regret in seven stagesi. attraction
when my negativity finally
found something beautiful,
charged up like a bipolar
thunderstorm waiting to come
crashing down

(you were everything
i ever wanted and i
was entirely selfish) then

ii. simplicity
like the way our smiles blended
perfectly together and how we’d sway
to rhythms that never existed;

your eyes were a springtime day
decades before we were born and
happiness became an instinct
instead of a defense [until]

iii. commitment
like a jail sentence worn
around the neck. spine
contorted and screaming

bound too quickly by the uns
and nots and fear you never
quite kept at bay, we were
guilty of so much

existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked and
diamond-hearted; a work
of art in reverse,
tearing between my ribs
and calling it beautiful,

and I wonder now why they
never taught me this in school;
the sepia-saturated glow life
gives out some point after
you’ve realized wishes are
for those who’ve not yet
woken more alone than when
they went to sleep,

they never taught me all
the reasons why or that
sin tastes sweet. I met

my maker once in a backalley
bar, stormy eyes and peppermint
breath, charming off a hangover;
he sighed, “I know how many
days it’ll take you to give up
completely. I know how many
dreams you’ve sold away and
how

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crystal catastrophies bottled up

by *intricately-ordinary, Sep 28, 2012, 4:26:52 PM
Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

v
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 learn just how
to cross their fingers right
"maybe depression is a state of mind
for those who never knew
any other way"

she threw out all her mirrors
when they became too loud

ii
life is something you grow into
a conglomeration of
soul searching and
forgetting to breathe
where age is indicative of
all that you have lost
"children dream, but adults
deny wishing in anger-
they are hurt it always falls through"

dreams are something you grow
out of, with time

vi
she never made it anywhere
(you can't move
when you collapse)

"strength only belongs to those
who know how to believe in their own actions

it's hard to be forsaken
by yourself"

iii
confusion breeds resentment and sadness
anxiety, fear, despair,
and sometimes even writers
with a need to be heard
"one day, my every last word
will be a treasure,
worth holding onto forever"

and every struggle
would finally be worth it

because the end, she dreamed
would justify
the means

crystal catastrophies bottled upby *intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

Fragmented story, fragmented girl.

I had this picture in my head of a glass ship in a bottle: easily shattered and untouchable.

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*DogmaticKerr Dec 24, 2012

This is what did it for me - what convinced me - what made me realize that you are... breath-taking. Is it really possible to express too-much good of a person? But, I digress! I cannot pick a favorite part as I've fallen a little bit in love with every word here - and again, it all resonates so much, it's hard not to cry. It is all so familiar. Desires, wishes, realizations and that ache of honesty.

It can be hard for writers to present words as art - really well and truly as art - where you can get the same impression that you would from looking at a painstakingly crafted and presented painting or sculpture as you can from words, if not more. I, again, have to recognize my own bias in just how closely I feel this... but then again, that's the point.
This really takes me back

*intricately-ordinary Dec 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'm honored to know it was this piece, then, because it's something so close to me. I keep this in my "Me" folder because it's a piece that captures everything I feel, no matter how ugly or painful. I'm really touched that it resonates, and even that it made you almost cry. Thank you so much for all your kindness, and about how you consider it art. It really means the world

*DogmaticKerr Dec 24, 2012

This is more artful than most things I've ever experienced in my life and as beautiful as my favorite celestial images (stars!) and music... the music in particular. Not the music that draws you in because of its more base appeal, a nice tune or anything like that, but the music that simply reaches right inside of your chest and resonates, the kind that makes you think and makes you feel.
As you can imagine, I am feeling pretty good about my decision to start with your "Me" folder first and, as I've suspected, it shows you to be a uniquely beautiful person - and its an honor to see this part of a person.
Oh no, not "almost", I've had the same reaction with a lot of what I've read of yours tonight. I had a really rough childhood and... I'll never forget it. I had many of the same realizations, the same beliefs - how the struggle and strife can be worth something, can make me greater and stronger, that I not only wanted to be someone better for it, but was. I wrote a lot, back then, much more than I do now and it was all about dealing with that life. I certainly haven't put it behind me, I chose instead to make it a part of me and I do love and appreciate being reminded of that part of me, and my life, as often as possible. There's something to be said for unending misery and loneliness when the person experiencing it decides to learn from it, rather than inflict it upon others. I am wandering, but yes...

I've felt this as closely as I feel my own heart beat and I'm left in awe of you.

You're very much welcome Miss Intricate - and I swear, it's just the truth!

~Flummoxative Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

"she threw out all her mirrors
when they became too loud"

beautiful, that.

But my absolute favorite bit, because it was so very, very true, was this:

"life is something you grow into
a conglomeration of
soul searching and
forgetting to breathe
where age is indicative of
all that you have lost"

*intricately-ordinary Dec 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so very much!

I'm absolutely honored you think so.

*dagoth-jeff Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Nice wording, I can't write like that. Amazing stuff.

*intricately-ordinary Oct 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

oh you are so kind! it's just my weird jumbled up thought process.

~Golden-Leaves Oct 2, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

"...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..."

Brilliant.

*intricately-ordinary Oct 2, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I believe that sometimes people tell themselves they are special and different because they are waiting for it to feel true.

Thank you very very much

*lantern-rose Oct 1, 2012 Professional Writer

This is so sad! And such a twist on that statement in the end, "because the end, she dreamed would justify the means" and before it says every struggle would finally be worth it, the things we endure, that living was worth it. And the comment about the ship in the bottle, "shattered and untouchable" This was so very impacting.

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crystal catastrophies bottled up

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