[x]

001 i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)

an aching heart
(dark blue)

twisted guts
(red)

&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)

beaut(if)ulYou exist in the
space where beautiful is a
question unanswered.

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

i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbol
because he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphor

i want to write in abstract like in a book of
contemporary poetry i bought over the summer;
it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and over
i want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -
like:
dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and .

i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poems
that defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become me

starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.

i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.

one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into

slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head
begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot
into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.

with thanks to salingerAudio version.
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
and smiles
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear

one day, i sent a letter to the mooni got sick of our tired old earth
and asked if i could join
the man in the moon
on an afternoon for coffee;

he preferred tea.

dismantledyou're too bad, too m
u
c
h, using my heart as your
c
r
u
t
c
h. who knew human beings could
hurt each other by the softest t
o
u
c
h, so deeply
and so very, very
m
u
c
h.

TitanicSo you've decided to be a shipwreck
just to taste the Atlantic open
between your lips
and soak your lungs in saltwater
until your limbs turn to bones
and grow their own crust,

a new orphanage
for the school striving
in the depths of the underworld.

bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
tonight,
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
tonight,
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
so again-
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
my th

white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
&

a town i don't want to call mineon the right of the turquoise green sign
that welcomes you to columbia,
there are two gas stations and a church.
on the left side, there’s a morgue.

when i was five years old, my father pulled over
and stopped on the side of the road while black car
after black car passed us, going the other way.
“did we know them?” i asked.
“no,” he said, putting the car in drive. “but someone did.”

at seven, mr. jimmy down at the ice cream shop
let me have free samples of all the new flavors he made
before he put them out to the public.
a favor, he called it, for his little henry.

(years later i would realize t

old songs for a first lovethe crow is screaming

& the fields are swaying

& i'm staying

here

Euros' InfernoIn a smoke blanket
mistaken for overcast, he
wraps us –
the wind, undoing –

and the old gum tree writhes
against him, but
we sit inside
with our homes on fire.

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Foggy"Think you can keep up?"

He grins at her, and, suddenly, she finds she can't breathe.

"Psh, are you kidding? I can do this all day."

And he takes off past her, running down the pavement.

She woke to a slash of sunlight filtering in through the curtains, rays slowly sweeping away the cobwebs of sleep that dream-spiders had made in the night. Rolling over, she blinked, staring up at the ceiling and mentally prepared herself for another day.

"Favorite color?"
"Teal."
"…you mean blue."
"No, Teal's a specific shade of blue. That doesn't necessarily make it blue, unless you're being general."

He holds his hands up in surrender.

"Woah

OakRaw and naked, it stood,
stripped bare by the elements,
majestic in its simplicity.
Deadened arms threatened to fall,
swaying precariously with the wind,
tales of of others, lives and stories,
written in every crack on its body.
Dull, dry, diminished,
resigned to its fate of fading away,
content and at peace
with the years it weathered through.
Lonely on the hilltop,
waiting for the last chapter to close,
forgotten as the world rushed by,
and left it behind.

Early Sunday MorningsEarly Sunday mornings

has sunlight peeking through the curtains,

rays tickling my lashes and drawing me out

from underneath body-warmed sheets,

taking the sleep off my lids,

and leading me out to you.

Early Sunday mornings

see you still where you never left,

one hand wrapped around an empty mug,

Times New Roman imprinted, just-visible,

in your heavy, tired eyes,

their shine dulled by the laptop screen glow.

Early Sunday mornings

find us curled up on the couch,

with you giving me a sleepy smile

after I lean in close and quick,

stealing for myself an overdue kiss

from your lips still coffee-laced,

to taste the not-so-hidden wh

Wall
i. She's not alive.

But she's not dead yet, either. Not in the scientific sense of it. She moves and breathes and functions as normally as anyone else, but inside, inside she's anything but living.

ii. She's rotting inside.

Like all corpses, she can't do anything against deterioration. Outside, she's perfect/ohsoveryperfect/, but she's not, really. Never has been, and she doesn't believe she ever will be. She's all smiles and loud laughter, but if anyone bothered to notice, they'd see the way she'll never look into your eyes because she's terrified you'll see t

Soldier
I don't have the words,
I don't have the strength,
Tell me it's alright,
Even if you have to lie.
Put off 'Goodbye's,
Pretend everything's fine,
Let's talk about what can never be,
An empty promise is good with me.
One call, talk about nothing,
Save what's unsaid,
Stay alive and call me again,
Please, please, don't go ahead.
I'll give you a week,
A time, and a place,
I'll let this rain check slip,
Be there, you owe me a dance.
-Please don't be late.-

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Pocket Stains

by ~WhimsicalApocalypse, Jan 14, 2013, 4:57:39 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

She keeps pens in her pockets, and the ink bleeds d o w n her thighs, dripping into her shoes and soaking through the soles, so that people will see her footprints and know where she’s gone.

Pocket Stainsby ~WhimsicalApocalypse

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Glory-Be-Project Day 14.

Felt like trying my hand at playing around with the spacing and placement of the words to create an actual image out of the poem. (In this case, an inkstain...sort of. XD)

Still keeping up with the project, and, I must say, that it's been an incredible stress-reliever when my thoughts get over-crowded. I'm excited to be able to compile everything at the end of the year and see how I've remembered every day.

~Lacewinged-Beauty Feb 10, 2013 Writer

^{I like the idea of this}

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~WhimsicalApocalypse Feb 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

Reply

~Lacewinged-Beauty Feb 11, 2013 Writer

^{You are most welcome!}

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*0hgravity Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

beautiful piece. really nice work with the formatting.

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~WhimsicalApocalypse Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you very much!

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*0hgravity Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

welcome!

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!travelgirlxx Jan 28, 2013

This is really lovely

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~WhimsicalApocalypse Jan 29, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

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!travelgirlxx Jan 29, 2013

Reply

`vespera Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Your formatting is lovely!

I AM SO GLAD that you're finding value in the project. That makes me super excited!

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