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I've got a filthy mouth,
& a house of stars
thriving in my throat.

21 years
silent

& I still have yet to tame
this grounded constellation
I call my temple. -Slithering
tongue hissing too many
"fuck you's" against my teeth.

I fear I will write myself hollow-
or until my bones are corroded away

& I am nothing-
an insignificant nebula
orbiting the wrong atmosphere.

But, my veins bleed sweet ichor,

& words are only words, Mother.
"Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical." - Sophia Loren

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She is dream dust,
too bitter or wise
for her own good.

A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.

She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.

& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.

To me,
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos

& I orbit her.
I didn't like this piece at first, and then I did.
Now I don't even know any more.

Thoughts?

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Sutured together by artists,

devoured blasphemy-

hallowed out, & spit back up,


( you are afraid. )


Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;

god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves

grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.


( spread your legs. )


Red-inked and trembling,

prosetry masked as screams

knots into her anatomy.


Written for =dreamsinstatic's poetry contest: [link]

Chosen Prompt: A Debt of Bones

I really tried to step out of my comfort zone with this piece and write something darker. What do you guys think? Did I succeed?

How is the flow?
My word choice?
The length?

Your thoughts are greatly appreciated!

Edit: I took out the last line. I feel that this piece stands much better without it.

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these words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.


no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.


nothing moves her.


she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.  


"Write of me," he says, "right here."-

planting sun-stricken kisses  

along the hollow of her burning throat.


"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
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Your words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding on
the raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.

My ribs cracked from the blow.

But, I think sometimes
of how these were the ribs
that should have chased you away from me,
quietly wondering how you managed to
slither past this cage of bone and flesh
to engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.

You were sweat & spice & scars-

Your eyes,
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.

(I want my insides back.)

Collaboration with the wonderful ~SiennaRevolution
Go fav hers! ---> [link]
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i.   On some nights,
    street lights guide
    this lonely heart
    to her lonely bed.


ii.  In this universe of twilight skin
    & mismatched bones,
    I wonder just how many poems sleep
    beneath the inkwell of her eyes.


iii.  My body is a house of stars,
     and her palms are black holes
     sucking ( me ) into their vortex of



     nothing.


iv.   She says, "Please—my moon,
     please—give these bones a reason
     to stay."

    & I am whispering lovelies
    into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.


v.   "Goddess temple,
     sunset eyes, &
     my windowpane love-

     Let us eat the stars
     together."
If you follow me on tumblr, you might have seen the birth of this little gem. And I have to say--I am very impressed with myself. I've fallen in love.
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this is hard for the world around us to grasp:
these wildfires raging in our retinas
& the sins we wear like demonic similes
on our tongues- they are not enough.

& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.


but, tell me,
what is a young poet(ess) to do
with veins made of kite strings?
Haven't really been feeling myself as of late.
Words are hiding from me.

Featured: mandi7mm.deviantart.com/journa…
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"I wish my body to be a staircase

to heaven."  She said, "A conduit

of lonely Gods."—Swaying

pendulum hips, she, she

was made of stardust.- Scars sleeping

above a city of sweet bones, stirring

like sun-stricken scorpions during

hollow painkiller nights,

mistaking her redred burns

for Apollos kisses.

"Sadly, this body has whispered away
the last of my secrets."
Why do I insist on writing when I am sick?
I don't know either.
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We were opal Tuesdays,
mosaic butterflies
tattooed into the
rose garden curve
of my vertebrae,

gliding me through this wild youth.

But, like Icarus—
I was a sky conqueror
& these silk wings

touched the sun.

-

My inhalations are heavy,
like the earth he bruises
beneath his fingertips
as I chase silence.

"You've got a tongue
made for words." He says
against the arrogant thorns
of my briar spine.

"Learn to love yourself."

-

How do I say I love you
without saying I love you?

"I want to replace my heart with you."


-

You are spider silk woven
into my harvest moon
heartstrings, spider
limbs traveling this road map
of songbird sin.

You are not just in my head now,
you are dancing in the lingering stars
of my night-witch frame

& setting me on fire.


-

You're not bruised enough
they said,
to write poetry.

-

Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
Stream of consciousness.
Writing, no over-thinking it. Just writing.
I think I'm over my writers block, guys.
Because I can't seem to stop. :heart:

Each written in 5 minutes or less.
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You were a mid-morning train wreck,
the embodiment of poetry.

& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.

wishes are for the weak-
stand up,
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.

Anything.


I think I found God then,
lurking behind wanderlust eyes.
.
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