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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
it only lasts a little whileat the bottom
there is
love
little hands
dissolving themselves

in the desperate
sunlight & waves
cut by ships
and continents

open
suspended
trembling as the water
passes through

hollow bodies restless
& agile
waiting for the sun
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
wanderlusti was all sex and stitches
with every color on a TV screen;

(and between me and you)
your teeth, your tongue,
your ferret-hands and knowledgeable mind--
they scared me.

the foreign worlds beneath your skin:
the contortions of your spine and
organs;

you wanted to conquer; to claim
and plant a flag--

and i--i wanted cancer
i can make you love mewriters,
what thoughts
do you bend in
these cathedral-ribs
shaking with leaves?
(self-conscious,
headache)
 
shopping neon
for
a sinner's devotion
or that boy
in the other aisle
 
(i hold your books
and stroke the pages,
suddenly frightened)
 
'excuse me'
they haven't arrived:
(that was forty-five
minutes ago)
 
blushing and
hoping no one notices
that i've read this
before
as i watch him
slip behind the counter
 
(i devised a plan to
volunteer on fridays
and trap him)
 
as i read
sentence three
for the fifteenth
time
we will never grow old togetherwe will never grow old
muscles loose
beneath holy jeans
divine and baptised a thousand
times

when did the nerves
grow soft?
rain fallen on the hair
of cleopatra &
tennyson

i didn't think about it
with ears pressed to the trees
the universe expanding
& pulling my life
in every direction

that 103 and dying
on my birthday
sounded so romantic
but less than
32 promised an eternity
give me my shadow, put on my crown.i.
I knew you well enough
to know your birthday
and middle name
[even the shampoo you wore
on my pillow that really needs to be cleaned anways.]

Your bow-arms and thin shoulders;
pretences always daring me to
look away.

A symphony of laughing bones;
a thousand "what if's"
without their "nevers"
and a silly pet name that gave you blond hair.

ii.

What could you ever know
about those little secrets
and apples in your eyes?

Nothing.
Nothing.

No mirrors;
until you sat with your hands
grabbing cold-shell ears--
over and over and over
until you believed

That if I did--I would remember
because it didn't happen of course;
no never, never.

N
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
will you ever learn to love yourselfshe was dead
before she hit the ground
a cell
frazzled & 60 percent water

her friends
or whatever you call them
‘seedy backwater
girl
brimming on the bus & never
wants to
haven’t  you ever seen clouds before?’

she threw a handful of stones
pinched
sinking like balloons

a hungry ghost
tracing the outline
of a breaking surface
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
medicinegrowing older is a big word for medicating my youth

because i was once wild-eyed

i was once foot-loose

i was once alive with gaps between each tooth

i was once sea dust & cusps of mountains

i was once drinking pennies from fountains

i was alive alive

i was alive

i was alive

i was

& my fingers are dropping

my skin is growing pale

pushing around a child until painfully thin

it's just medicine

each year is just medicine
Mimicrymildewed [ghosts]
haunt the c.r.a.c.k.s in the w        do not
                             a        mistake
                             l        their voices
                             l        for
                             s       
ampersand heartyou're touching my sea skin

get me back to the ocean
hyperdontiasometimes it feels as if
I have too many milk teeth,
too many parts of me that belong
to a time when I climbed trees to touch the sky
and I swam in sunflowers
and fireflies -
to a time I have long since
painted in sepia tones,
long since pushed
to the back of my mind
with hands so tired
of being filled with splinters
- too many seeds
and not enough light.

there are too many parts of me
that I have placed underneath pillows,
that I have kept behind closed lashes,
that I have slept upon, waiting
for the morning to arrive and them
to be g o n e ,
replaced with coins that I could place
underneath the tongues of the dreams
that I could not fer
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i can make you love mewriters,
what thoughts
do you bend in
these cathedral-ribs
shaking with leaves?
(self-conscious,
headache)
 
shopping neon
for
a sinner's devotion
or that boy
in the other aisle
 
(i hold your books
and stroke the pages,
suddenly frightened)
 
'excuse me'
they haven't arrived:
(that was forty-five
minutes ago)
 
blushing and
hoping no one notices
that i've read this
before
as i watch him
slip behind the counter
 
(i devised a plan to
volunteer on fridays
and trap him)
 
as i read
sentence three
for the fifteenth
time
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
i'm not an artistwe 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
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

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February 26
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[x]

the long way home

:icontubefed:

today 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
:icontubefed:
"Why do you laugh?" I said. "Is it because you hate the sound of laughing?"
-As I Lay Dying

...I really didn't mean to post this, but now that I have I can't stand the thought of taking it down. This is one of my worst, I suppose. I'd love a critique.
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:iconwinteroffire:
~WinterofFire 4 days ago  Hobbyist General Artist
I love this
maybe it is your worst, but in a way, maybe that's why it's good.
Reply
:icon4sauce4:
*4sauce4 Mar 3, 2013  Student Writer
You don't know how much I enjoyed this one. Perhaps it's my new favorite of yours.

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

I love that stanza. It's so brilliant and wonderful!
Great flow and wording. :D
:heart:

Don't take it down
Reply
:icontubefed:
~tubefed Mar 4, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
That's my favorite stanza! :D It's really rather true; sometimes the symbolism behind a trifle detail is really belittled by the harsh realties.

It's k, I won't.
Reply
:icon4sauce4:
*4sauce4 Mar 4, 2013  Student Writer
It's possible that we sometimes strive too hard for symbolism in our work as well. I know I do ^^;

:D
Reply
:icontubefed:
~tubefed Mar 4, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Sometimes we overanalyze things; sometimes we push it too hard. It's a difficult balance--like every poetry book on your head. T-T
Reply
:icon4sauce4:
*4sauce4 Mar 4, 2013  Student Writer
Also true. Nice analogy :)
Reply
:icontubefed:
~tubefed Mar 4, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks. :la:
Reply
:iconslowslicksnails:
=slowslicksnails Feb 27, 2013  Student Writer
I am waiting for the day you get a Daily Deviation. You are one of the few poets on this site I really think deserve that. :la:
Reply
:icontubefed:
~tubefed Feb 27, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:blush: Oh, stop it. I would love a DD, although they're lots of poets who deserve them. I wouldn't mind one at all, though~ XD
Reply
:iconslowslicksnails:
=slowslicksnails Feb 27, 2013  Student Writer
No, you deserve it, honestly! I guess so, but the ones I've came across I've only found about five I think that really deserve it more than anyone else on this site. :nod:
Reply
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