[x]

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

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

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

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:

Almost Perfectthe sun is melting away,
we call it romantic when
all good things die quietly;

I feel like I’m always transitioning
through different levels of sobriety:
spent up on the people in my life
like the girl who doesn’t remember
my name and the boy who thought
I was joking.

(I will care for myself, and
then the world will stop and
spin in the right direction;
the mirror will blur and
I will finally see me,
unfiltered and beautiful)

I just want to believe
that somewhere there’s a boy
ready to sing my bleeding ears
to sleep

with a cinnamon voice, he
will tell me I couldn’t
possibly be human: something
otherworldly,

expired warningsI hate to break it to you but we're all betting on the day when
your nightmares will swallow you whole and you won't
remember how to open your eyes. we forget your voice,
it broke and no one buried the pieces. we're giving you up:
secessions (your ribcage is a civil war, your heart is the victim.
there will be no memorial; there are only red flags)
obsessions pick your bones dry, vulture needs, vulgar
mortality argues at least you're not alive

at least you can't see us anymore, counting the knots
in your neck and catastrophes in your mouth. in
your summer cage you were a soggy butterfly bearing
a cumbersome cross. now, we leave yo

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

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

WelcomeI'm ready for a romance to ravage my heart and tear apart my
dusty limbs, I'm waiting for someone to take my breath and
never give it back; I'm prepared to sell all I was for a trip
somewhere new - beyond the paper mistakes I sailed away
down the river long ago. (even rocks and leaden thoughts
won't let the truth sink.)

I left my being somewhere under a waning summer sun
when the trees hummed melodies of moving on;
my soul still stays there, porous and pining and
lost. Dying stars don't lead home.

I suppose
it's more than just losing
your words, it's losing
you

too.

I am someone who mourns Sunday morning for another lost
w

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

Lovebirds' Sorrowshe was the girl with cat
eyes: broad and judging and
carnal; he was the doe
with a broken collarbone,
yet she found herself lost in
the warmth of his sighs and
asked simply for a set
of sweeter lies

[because it's only after you
sell yourself to the earth that
you learn love is not a
chemical reaction anticipating
every ignited glance and soured
word; no, it is a thing
of obligation that sleeps upon
your doorstep, knowing you
will always come back,
knowing you could never forget
its name]

he called to her on hollow
nights, and she found his
voice when she had nowhere
left to go

he was the cereal box savior;
she only needed a place
to bur

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

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

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,

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

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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

Condemnedtheir eyes,
golden with hate,
glint in the darkness.
they are everywhere...

they stand among the others ignorant of all my crimes,
still unsullied by judgement though tense and apprehensive
until my vain denials weaponize the vial truth.

...slowly it spreads.
all eyes glint golden.
I can't be saved.

Cotton Ballsinside
cotton balls
numbness, lack of everything

no thoughts
blurry

apathy epitome
blinding still
blankness

Diving Deepher bony fingers dive in deep
cascading down her throat
her motions cause a heaving weep
a grievous after note
the only way to feel okay
this ritual repeats each day
the only way
the only way
the mirror wants her to obey

to be tiny is all she dreams
she does not see the truth
those fingers make her stomach clean
but steal away her youth
she'd rather die than see that guy
look at her with disgust in eyes
she'd rather die
she'd rather die
than be a "fat" girl, so she tried

their cries of ugly pierce her heart
they tell her she's a pig
it tears her self-esteem apart
she hates to feel so big
she'll be pretty and he will s

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defeathered

by ~intricately-ordinary, Jan 25, 2013, 10:44:52 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

and 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 lent all mine away; I am

something entirely ignorant, in the dark,
believing fingers fumbling can find answers.
they never told me reflections are backwards
and the world spins the wrong way and
hurricanes are really an embodiment
of all our own withdrawals:

but one day, these walls will crumble,
and I will learn to breathe in dust.

defeatheredby ~intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

(goose bumps)

I had writer's block. So the first thing I did was go and read ~featherback's work

this is a tribute to her. She is simply one of the loveliest people alive.

~disrhythmic Feb 10, 2013

and the world spins the wrong way and
hurricanes are really an embodiment
of all our own withdrawals:

...wow.

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you

~featherback Feb 4, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I cannot read this enough.

It's up on my wall now. C:

~intricately-ordinary Feb 4, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

really? thankyouthankyou

_{I MISSED YOU SO MUCH LEE AHHH}

~featherback Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

You're very welcome!
I MISSED YOU MOAR

~intricately-ordinary Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

NO WAY SANJAY

~featherback Feb 12, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

YES WAY MICHAELANGELLO

~wannabeliterate Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh my fucking revered idolised goddess-figure... my wheezing chest and pounding heart full of make-belief tearjerker phrases cannot possible utter the words to describe how ingenious this is...

'...we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren't true;'

...do you think there is a parallel universe in which you could fall in love with me?

~intricately-ordinary Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

oh gosh this comment totally made my day. you are so incredibly lovely, it is such an honor to hear these words from you

thank you so so much sweetheart

you are one of a kind.

`FuzzyHoser Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I happen to be madly in love with this poem.

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