[x]

Undedicatedi
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 firs

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

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)

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

zeroi swore
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;

i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises

colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,

but i was born into a colorless world--

no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but

all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered he

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

Absolvedecho girl drops down so far,
(so dark) she swears it is heaven:

exodus, this final breath
strapped to the wings of fairies
and forced to fly away,
light like the gossamer sun
seeping in her skin and the
repetitive reshedding of her
meager lungs, exodus

the awakening and glorious release—
swan-dive into everything she ever wanted,
where the broken jaded looking glass
never shines right and the spiders
nest between her spine and he

still calls her beautiful and she
drops this faithlessness in exchange
for a quiet dawn.

(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

Skylight SongsI am not the dysfunctional light switch,
17 times a day on again off again but
I think sometimes I’m caught in the parallels of
my own distorted perception and I just see
a jagged world falling fast and
and

you are blue, the deep
cyan-scented thing of night I crave, blue.
beautiful bleeding blue who cries like
the breaking sky and sings like a summer night,

I am invisible, changing before your eyes.
nauseous regurgitation of every color
I’ve ever loved,

while these crystalline dreams tinted teal
cradle me to sleep

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

ghostwriterhere, everyone’s pupils are dilated
and skin is stretched too tight
to expose the wind-swept spider webs
writhing beneath their porcelain composure

here, the shadows are afraid of us.

(and it is our desire
to finally come down to that place
of completion
where we
are
simple skeletons
with bleached
bones and
detached jaws)

at night, the rigid ghosts rock me to
sleep. their cardboard hearts and
inky eyes just begging to be seen

(it is only in the
darkness that I am
perceived to be more
than I am; holy
nightlight, exalted
star to guide them
all home

sleepily but
steadily blinking
out.)

the current carries my name,
I have spent

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

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

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

Vexed Affectionssecrets entwined,
sugared kisses lie (dormant)
her starry smile twinkles,
linen skin, fresh, unwrinkled,
"wear me"

bodies out back in rows,
stowed, head to toe, measured
by stature, counted by
statistic.
you are a number.

hearts quiver, splayed
openly beating
bleeding defeating
purpose and point, pain
holds no meaning,
crudely careening

you are a number

and sailor boy swoons, caught
in the tides of her moon.
quaky sea feet hold no
ground

he's drowning on land
breathing in sand
falling

she's already gone,
grave gusts at dawn
whisper

you knew it all along,
she's gone

you are only a number.

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Comatosethe clock rolls backwards

say hello to cold floors and breathing
ceilings and sleepless nights,
a snowflake city down in flames
and a humming monotony --

fingernails never dug deep enough.

you're stuck on words like I love him and
I miss him and this is it and I
love him I really really love- it's
better to have bled than ghosted
out into the

silence.
those are your thoughts suiciding themselves
under the smother of night, no
veneers can hide your
lines- time carved
you a new face and metered
your breaths;

asphyxiated and strung out by
your own needs, at least you had
the time
to write it all off,

but not before you

Transientif 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

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

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

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

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Submitted: February 26
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[x]

the leper and the lamb

by *intricately-ordinary, Feb 26, 2013, 9:36:02 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

baby 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’s beautiful. the sun sets red
and the aftertaste of bile is of
the loveliest reminiscence,

“these things are never
yours” he croons so
sweet.

the leper and the lambby *intricately-ordinary

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

not going to specify who is who

(romantic love poetry is hard, okay)

!Lacewinged-Beauty Mar 1, 2013 Writer

_{It's really beautiful.}

*intricately-ordinary Mar 2, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

you're precious

!Lacewinged-Beauty Mar 3, 2013 Writer

~v-espertine Feb 28, 2013

very sweet. <3

*intricately-ordinary Mar 2, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you <3

*Hfeather53 Feb 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

*flails* are you really afraid of balloons? ;< ~~i am~~

*intricately-ordinary Feb 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

ohmygoodness yes, absolutely terrified

*Hfeather53 Feb 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

OMG I'M NOT ALONE IN MY FEAR ANYMORE

~Contradictory55 Feb 27, 2013 Student Writer

It feels like loving the wrong person and being unable to not love them... I would say it's from the point of view of the leper, and 'he' is the lamb, because... Just because a lamb looks innocent, doesn't mean it's pure, and the fragility of life, of being unable to 'have' because what you do 'have' prevents true attainment...

*intricately-ordinary Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

your interpretations are lovely to read

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