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Literature Text
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.
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.
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteem
forgive these
rorschach nerves &
mercury veins -
i am no tragedy boy,
but i have self-decay
down to an art.
this tar tongue only starts
marlboro conversations &
self-ignition;
i only start fires.
Literature
Glass Half Full
We have a new cat now.
She streaks through the house
and sleeps in your old beds,
watching me from the rocking chair
as I habitually seek you out.
She's sweeter than you--
she sits in my lap
and plays with my fingers,
doll-faced and docile
against your angular independence.
I still search for you
amongst the cracks in my heart
as you slip like sand
deeper into the dark recesses
of my faulty memories.
I am always afraid
that my tears will ruin the circuitry
through which I access
our sunny afternoons and quiet nights,
and you will slip beyond me.
I did not hope for an afterlife
until I ran my fingers through your cold fur,
and understood
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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.
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.
© 2013 - 2024 intricately-ordinary
Comments73
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This is a rather interesting work. Since It has been... well long since I commented on your works and knowing that you don't like critiques - I would say that I did understand the general feel of the poem and I like it. The ending was the most well writen part.
Over all a fine poem. keep writing.