sick hydrangea and my bonesi bare my bones to the screeching moon.
twenty-nine days, and i claw again.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.
ribcage and spine: shadows soften too soon.
light, light, as i crawl through the glen.
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.
i gouge myself open to find the rune,
hacking, peeling, like do all wise men.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.
pooling skin-folds, i want them scattered, strewn.
this skin's all bark and oozing holes when
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.
bubble, swell; i can hear the snakes croon.
beauty of being lies beneath the vein.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.
crazed lust for hungered grace at night's high noon:
haunt me til all the blue months turn sane.
i bare my bones to the screeching moon;
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn bluescar-crossed2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,
like an ocean without waves).
she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
we barely even exist.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?summergirl2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
ii. you have grown
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
PersephoneI fed herPersephone2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.
With cracks in my heart
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.
Fragment #5There are sea shells in my earsFragment #511 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and they are dripping with the sound of the
sea; it whispers, let me be,
let me be.
BrokenThe lace of my skirt was only as perfectBroken2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as the flesh that it covered
my childhood stretched until the woman inside
could be seen, raw and bleeding
He left behind calloused fingerprints
on every seam that he tore
The lace of my skirt is only as perfect
as the attitude I put into every pleat
my fingers burnt flat with blistered scars that left me
negative, flawed and reviled
She left her signature on the stitches, scribbled
with needles and veins
The lace of my skirt will only be as perfect
as the stranger looking in the mirror
There's Something Wrong with Norman BatesLoving you was like seeing absent color,There's Something Wrong with Norman Bates2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the unforgiving grays of a poet's December,
waking from a nightmare to a sky devoid of
stars and the moon sunk in the ocean.
The moment I laid eyes on you was the epoch
of my detachment the collapse of all serenity.
You told me that your parents were dead and buried-
But sometimes they called your name from the wine cellar.
I begged you to haunt me when the lights were off;
"Ghosts won't bother other ghosts." I said
You went to the other side of the room and stared
at a fly dying on the windowsill. When the creature finally
stopped moving, you looked at me with empty eyes and said;
"They only talk to me during the day. Can't you hear them moaning?"
It was then that I knew you were something I could not save.
In our shower scene, I patiently waited for you behind the
curtain. I chose not to feel your blade slide under
my ribs, over and over again.
I knew it wasn't just blood that covered the ceramic floor.
It wasn't jus
a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.a ribcage drenched in dust3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what should i put in it?
i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but
you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.
you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak
and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bittersweet joy you get when
someone else puts your soul into words
and you realize you're not as alone as you thought.
i told you that if i had all that inside me,
i'd ache all the time
and you smiled a sad little smile,
because you already knew that ache.
because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.
i've got it, i said.
Gardening for dummiesHer head is a flowery poem,Gardening for dummies2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
filled with pots and weeds
and mother earth
dug deep in roots and taciturn.
Now no one will come near,
but she has thorns
and worm-filled words,
and a spade for planting
the lesser verse…
but the loneliness
beneath roots and words
and stanza stems
until it digs ant tunnels
InkYou found me asInk2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A mess of sharp corners
Someone had wadded me up
And shoved me in the corner,
Trying to forget about
Our shared past.
I guess you were curious
Enough to take a second look,
Smoothing out the worst of the
And speaking soothingly.
You said you could fix it.
And for a while, you did.
I became smoother,
And some of the rips knitted together.
I was still a bit smudged
By my past,
And had some sharp edges.
They made me
And I had a crazy personality,
An odd writing style,
And a habit of not looking
People in the
Those made me
Had other plans.
You made me blunt my corners,
Straighten my lines,
And rip clean my ragged edges.
You made me look at you,
And made me bleed down
To the horizontal blue lines
Of my soul.
Red ink washed the lines away
And grew formless in your hands.
I displeased you,
And you crumpled me up,
And shoved me in my old,
Why couldn't you realiz
pacificher longbow mouth is un-pacific2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strung; loose bottom
lip with a cocked
births into him like
you need to have a plan...so here's toyou need to have a plan...2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
soul-deep into the water and
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
ii. and other
wrists that roarmama sayswrists that roar3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
HubrisThe world is not a skeleton. It does not ache bone-deep with our atrocities, nor is it fragile and ready for the breaking. It knows nothing so human, except perhaps to forgive our pride. Let me explain:Hubris3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Young, I am a bright star with small, pudgy hands for guiltless flower-crushing. Before even that, I am a wispy squall for food, unused to knowing anything but myself, and warmth, and hunger.
The concept of a hero is a natural progression from understanding speech. I am Me. I am the one all the stories talk about, born special, to whom both innocence and wisdom are possible. I am so great a part of my own self that I do not know it can be detached.
I am eleven, narrow-boned and alone in the red earth, when I first feel it.
A seagull slews out of the bright sky and pegs its beak to the stones, draws it up wriggling. I watch its gullet bob. My hand floats up to mirror the lines of its head against the air. There is a cry, and its eye is a pond of yellow fire staring at me, the air a storm
youi dug him out of my ribcage &you2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drowned in bleach and flames
to rid myself of
the dreaded devil's hat
that seeped from my pores
this wasn't about him.
this was about erasing the blemishes
and making my own
but you said my new freckles
spelled out your name with
across my shoulders
and i began to question
how you would sound
around such a shoulder
i have only ever been the gasping
not the gasped
eloge [la jeunesse d'une cousine]1.eloge [la jeunesse d'une cousine]6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i was nine and you'd just
taken a third year when our
grandfather taught you how to box
on the overwaxed hardwood in his
kitchen; i was reading you some book
about a purple lizard; he put his teeth
on the table, crouched
and said: "hit me
on the mouth"
[you would have cracked his teeth if
they weren't removed, you were
a loaf of heavy bread made with
too much shortening and not enough restraint]
laughing you punched him again—
in the gut this time—but
after he chastised your form
you spent the balance of the month of august
practicing instead on my arms
you came of age in a trailer park
full of nostalgia for the 1970s and i
grew up in a yellow house
in the middle of a gothic suburbia:
neither would serve us
long, we said.
you had an enviable stoicness and i had
gutrot the day of our grandfather's interment:
you gave me tissues, told me
we would go on enduring, asked me
for a cigarette and then
spent twenty minutes vomiting on the carpet
of my car between puffs
starspunobserving the romanticismstarspun2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
voidfriendi.voidfriend2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a scape claimed
no matter how sharp
or the orbits
aligned by her will,
or the scope
of the aperture
to be ignited.
she can't fight it.
cracks in the visor
and pressure leaks.
asking her hand
and her peace
as the tip
of her tongue
starts to freeze.
like a shard
"if i have to be breathless,"
she finally states,
"i'd prefer it to be by the trident."
A walk in the parkIt's midnight and I feel like wilted lavender.A walk in the park4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I can't even seem to bear my own weight anymore.
I've realized people are a walk in the park.
It's the same thing over and over again
and even though you may want to sit on that bench forever,
drinking in the colors of the sky above you as if you were sucking lemonade through a straw,
Eventually golden clouds of ivory will turn into shades of grey
and there will be nothing left for you to do but to go back to the only thing you know,
As much as it crushes me to know this,
I can't deny that people aren't sidewalks.
It's not their job to keep you grounded and to lead you on the path you seek.
No, people aren't permanent like the cement.
They are simply a walk in the park,
and eventually the walk must end.
Sacchariferousfor the AdmiralSacchariferous3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
my dandelions speak of
the kitchen, brimming
with sun-streaked sugar
and mended-over smiles.
floured fingerprints cloud the sky,
but every broken egg is one more yellow flower.
in sweetgrass and flowers
i find white-leaf bandages for cracked shells. coils of
fill the bowl to the brim-
the world is a clean smile
wrapped in sugar.
everything here is white and pale as sugar
gathered to mend your flowered
i wish you'd swallow always fields of
dandelions that brim
with every clean, clear sky.
i'll measure out the sky
in cups of sugar.
fogged upon the rim
of the flour bowl- your fingerprints in flowers.
i'll mix in as many gifts of
sun as you ask, feeling small
in the face of your bandaged smile.
willow leaves and tallgrass skies
tickle white-sun wounds of
cracked-egg dandelions coiled in sugar
caves. bandage bowls with flowers
and their fractured rims
will hold happiness to the brim.
i can't help but smile
when you wrap flowers
in the sky.
my eyes, filled w
hyperdontiasometimes it feels as ifhyperdontia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
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 ferry to my
but in the morning, they return -
one by one into my mouth,
daring me to speak them,
daring me to sing,
daring me to find someone who will listen.
it feels as if
I have too many stories,
too many secrets,
too many sins and not enough space
for the words to fly out of my mouth
and into the world -
Crossing ArielYour wedding;Crossing Ariel2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you spoke your way toward it
one prospect at a time;
having not been
the cripple or whore,
you settled for
singularity, no future or past,
just announcement and umbra, joy in shade,
soft smiting breath.
How though did you put your children away?
squinting toward dawn.
If your days had been counted
perhaps you would have gone off
fatter, sated as a rook scavenging
in the quiet
instead of blindly staring out bread crumbs
like a gassed canary.
The shine of your boy's hungry mouth
did not dissuade your long whim;
to any call of loneliness
the answer was a towel,
clean and wet
and a ration of cold milk.
Did any irony strike you
like a bell hammer?
Aimlessly you once doodled
no small feet wiggling
toe-ward to fill them.
Gentle prophecy of
immortal effigy for the beauty of drowning.
The flaxen-haired siren
counting out pins from her hair,
swallowing them slowly to armor her heart,
a myth of eaters
and sadness consumed
forest firesmy signature scrawled across allforest fires2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your sentences like a stain of apologies:
i'm sorry for anchoring you to my hip
like a one-sided promise, like a flood of insincerity.
i'm sorry for collecting you like a well of wishes,
for whispering you into every crack in these walls.
i do not have the depth to tether our limbs
with the tautness of our smiles, but i will
balance you on the edges of my knees until
you slip away.
i have been kneeling with my arms outstretched
but the divinity of your touch
never graced my expectant stance.
our bones built forest fires together,
but it was always my tears putting them out.
InfernoSeptember is a sultry tangleInferno2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of curly hair and corduroy jackets stretched
over broad shoulders that I've been leaning on,
He won't press for answers
and I won't trouble him with my problems.
So he complains about the weather
he's never gotten used to these sticky, southern delta summers
while I hold the door
and press the call button.
The half-lit elevator drops us off above Dante's first layer.
I feel sorry for anyone beneath,
but I've indulgences to buy
and my own hell to return to.
But there's a light in my pocket
abandon not all hope,