[x]

Things I'll Never SayThere are certain things I’ll never say,
Like how I thought about killing myself today
Just to keep my own scary thoughts away.
Like how I stay awake way too late
To be sure I don’t awake in a bloody state.
Like how I soaked white into red last night
And turned myself into a ghastly sight.
Like how it hurts too much to breathe
When I make my own skin seethe.
Like how I Google things I shouldn’t
When I want to do things I couldn’t.
Like how I’m scared of being alone
Yet I’m only happy when I’m on my own.
Like how I know I’ll wind up killing myself
And turn into just a dusty photo on a dusty sh

because i have toimpaled
& wreaking havoc on these
young bones

more than endorphins &
planes out of control

pretending that if
not-so-masochistically

i--

p

a

r

a

l

y

z

e

d:

a manifestation
instilled in bedsheets
& ghosts

Mors AtraDust motes gathered in the corners of her lips
Bruised and rotting her mottled lungs fell apart
The skin of her wrists were smudged with pretty pink roses
And below her dissolving pupils just above the plains of her cheekbones
Were streaks of yellowed pages and posies
And ten days later she fell asleep under a bed of earth and soil

You Can't Tell MeYou can't tell me
that my writing is wrong.
It might be for you
But for me it will live, forever strong

You can't tell me
that my words are not right.
They might not be prefect
But I'll still put up a fight

You can't tell me
my rhymes are too mix-matched.
Its just because they are not yours
To me they do not lack

You can't tell me
I did not try my best.
Who are you to evaluate?
Its not like its a test

You can't tell me
that I didn't follow a rule.
Creativity has no list
I think you are a fool

You can't tell me
that I didn't emote at all.
How can you tell me what I feel?
Its not like I'm a doll

You cant tell me
everything that I should.
How can you think you know everything?
And think you know whats "good"?

A lion among sheep.There are ghosts in my bloodstream
kissing concrete cells &
the bedroom eyes of nerve endings.

( foreign words
engraved into my marrow, birds in my chest
& wars not yet fought between my hips. )

I've taken myself apart every night
since I learned how to swallow a pen
without gagging;
limb by steady limb.

Passed around by grabby hands,
a sold, & borrowed daughter;

I am a lion among sheep,
drunk on life & ink.

Hero ComplexI bartered my soul away
For the boy with wolf eyes
He locked me behind his teeth

He carved snake bites into my lips
And tore apart the gilded edges of my lashes
In an endeavor to uncover some semblance of my siren words

He broke apart my ribs in an attempt
To find my landmine heart
Which held no sound

It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,
or the burning gaze of her lover.
I am merely a forest of silences,
old dogwoods & untamed hair.

-But, I made a promise
to a bone collector once.
He could have my spine,
my kneecaps, &
one flowered rib,
wrapped & bowed-up
like a present

-if he could fall in love
with things that slip through his fingers:
Me,
the sea,
shooting stars.

-“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”

april 18th, 2012.therapy:
"I'm not an artist. I'm just a kid with a keyboard."

“And, y'know, I’m probably not really sick.”

“I read a lot of books. I probably just act like this because I saw it somewhere on the Internet.”

“I just want to be more like my dad.”

“I’m really just a pathological crybaby who wants attention,” I tell you.

You say, “I think there are better ways to get attention than fake a mental disorder.”

“Maybe I’m doing it for fun.”

Charlie,
The problem isn’t that I need to see a therapist.
The problem is that I need to see a therapist because

Dust on the Lensi.
He took photographs
as if he were loving
with a broken heart—
Slowly,
cautiously,
Careful set up—
The lighting soft
To smooth the harsh shadows
The colors just right
Sighing against the eye
The model all wrong,
Yet interminably perfect.

ii.
He took photographs
as if he were taking a life
Or in the way you fall asleep
or fall in love—
“Slowly, then all at once.”

iii.
When he took my photograph,
he also took my breath
and the beat my heart skipped.

Open Heart SurgeryI've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,
poisoning every atom of my soul.

"Bite your tongue," they say.

How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.

They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.

And so I wrote,

"Dear poetry,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."

The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:

"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and mak

GrowthI remember the day I caught him 'gardening'. His cheeks stained cherry with the brisk wind that trotted beside him up and down the smothered garden path. He dropped a seed as his feet brushed past each other. Up and down he walked, a solemn lieutenant. I asked him what he was doing and those wide sky eyes reflected the ice as he told me he was trying to grow flowers for his mother. I looked at the seeds spilt on the snow and told him that they could never grow in these circumstances. I will never forget the clench in my heart when he responded, with a child's tongue; "I know".

Hunchback"Hunchback"

So much that I've done wrong
Always believing it's bad to be me
That I'll never amount to anything
Despite what I've already achieved

So much I can't control
No matter what cards I'm dealt
If I'm a product of my environment
Then why do I blame myself?

So much negativity
Was throw in my direction
It's no wonder I frown
On my unworthy reflection

So what if I've made mistakes?
That only shows I'm imperfect
Show me one human who's divine
And I'll shake his hand with respect

Still when darkness falls
And I sit here in the cold
i know I could do so much better
I know I can be so much more

One day, I'll show them
Everyone who laugh

Snow White SyndromeI seem to have forgotten the sound of my own heartbeat
Splitting apart my limbs I've found the source of my insanity
Coiled around veins and arteries
Star dust and a lazy man’s drug
Has put me to sleep under fictitious pretenses
Of forbidden apples and two faced prince charming’s

Wake me up whenWake me up, when crying is only for those moments that are unbearably beautiful.
Wake me up, when helping someone else, is done genuinely and joyfully.
Wake me up, when society becomes less interested in falsities and more aware of truth.
Wake me up, when equality is real, apparent, strong and inevitable.
Wake me up, when children's innocence is untainted with maturity.
Wake me up, when control is dead and freedom roams wildly.
Wake me up, when poverty only exists in bad decisions.
Wake me up, when money is last, on the peoples to get list.
Wake me up, when power belongs to us, and not the self-proclaimed.
Wake me up, when we heal the ea

Aching I'm hungry for your hugs,

Oh, how I swear my hips ache for you.

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More from ~tubefed

the long way hometoday i threw half my
fridge away
and waited for 25'000
to starve

people like you
jump off roofs and
stick their heads
in ovens

smile-face stickers
don't frown
(even when you put them
wrong-side-up)

life's already hard enough
without trying to
find
what all your curtains
mean

i am guilty
of forgetting about
my tea
the kettle boils
like my head on a pillow

you will never
see them again
or the fears that wonder
about you

no one is ever going to want memaybe once
this would've been
poetic
but i'm crying &
there's nothing
pretty
or wonderful
here

i think
my face is scrunched
like a red rag
in the sink
slumped beneath a leaky
faucet &
my hands are shaking

maybe i could make
it
sound nice--
high
buzzed
lustful
but what i have
you won't like

memories
and do you want them too?
stealing & paying
pressing bottles and
pictures to my sternum
the heat
the cold

maybe it's the silence
that hurts
the stumbling
the tumult of words down
the sink and
across the floor
the empty heads
&

i was pretty then
bird-legs and stilted poems
so nice
numbering stars and
crushing books between
my teet

hungry ghostsswallowing the morning glow and
quiet pills:
fawn-eyed and rabbit-eared to
watch the warmth of limbo
touch the
city

going down down down
to where nothing alive
can see
the palls of grey hanging
from streetlights

and i try to find a metaphor

1. (hide your eyes from
penny candy and laughter--
white caravans and
dirt)
2. something less complex than nonsense;
simpler than art and noble habits
purging in the alleyways all the
virgin snow and eyelights
3. maybe it was meant to be this way:
the cold wakes the neighbors
as fate meets destiny to conspire
a way out

a religion
a brothel
a murder that wasn't meant to complete
me or the mani

you make me write bad poetryi made you up
from pillows and comforters
and anything that stuck
its tongue out from
my drawers

and slept in

next year i will shy away
like a child
when you touch me--
which
if you know me
(and you probably do)
seems very in-character
anyways--

but it's not like what
happened in the bookstore when
you
put your teeth against my ear
and everything felt
like it did last week
in the treehouse
except
backwards

it all seems so out of
context
like i am a little girl again
playing house
and pretending i know what those
funny words that taste
like soap and dirt
mean
and what we are

i just wanted to make you something beautifulyour goodbye
tasted like cold
toast
rather bitter, really

kind of poetic--&
a bit absurd
while waltzing
around your bedroom

(hitting my shin
on the nightstand)

a goose dabbing
its beak in
lyrical genuis

a little less than
brillance
& every law of thermodynamics
pressed against
my inspiration

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[x]

i'm not an artist

by ~tubefed, Mar 5, 2013, 8:02:12 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

we do not belong in boxes
and bags and books or
words,
and we do not sit contently
in wordsworth and shakespeare
and blake, burns, and brownings
or in the cold stiff bones
of raleigh's of long ago;

no--

we infect,
detect, and re-select
a virus--a disease,
a germ in every verse and line;
the first signs of
foolish waitings under
bridges and scolding parents
and melodrama
and nothing to signify at all

yet--

we are the blood of nations
and the heart of men
and the love of every
rhetorist and sentimist
to come;
we dance through the ballrooms of
the age and chat with
higher minds
we shake hands with heros
and the homeless, dirty
type that gum over 'hello's

yes--

we are
we are and aren't and will be
silly verse and
clever schemes
naive philosophers and sweet oxymorons
waving hello from the shore;
forever onward and never ending
like the stars in an
ever-cliche sky.

i'm not an artistby ~tubefed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

A little inspirationf for my contest, eh? [link] (Some watchers may remember this from my journal.

)

love 7 7

joy 6 6

wow 3 3

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~FinstereFrau Apr 17, 2013 Student General Artist

Your style of writing is awesome ^_^ you have some serious talent!

~tubefed Apr 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Ah, thanks.

~dreamersthoughts Apr 7, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Aah, the ever ephemeral life of an artist. I enjoyed this, "we infect,
detect, and re-select" YES.

~tubefed Apr 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

X3 Thanks. It's nice to hear that you have liked it so.

*vikingjon Mar 15, 2013 Professional General Artist

Nice work. The ultra-modern is just as valid (and silly sometimes) as the old. Thank you for helping to enunciate that.

~tubefed Mar 15, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks.

The new and untried are often looked over (too much unbased thought on the part of critics, I suppose); but, as with artists, they'll probably all have their fame when they're dead.

*vikingjon Mar 15, 2013 Professional General Artist

You're welcome.

Too often we don't notice people's work until they've sacrificed everything. Knowing that each new day brings new realisations keeps it interesting though.

~YautjaVasquez Mar 12, 2013 Student General Artist

You are 100% right (in my sitcom)

~tubefed Mar 12, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I wanna sitcom...D': Thanks for the comment, by the way.

~YautjaVasquez Mar 12, 2013 Student General Artist

Sitcom hire means noncyber situation

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i'm not an artist

i'm not an artistby ~tubefed

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