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Sitting With Tight-Lipped Legs :iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 0 0
Literature
Four AM Answers
I don't need the sun:
I have the radiance of your smile
and the heat of your callused fingers
infused into my pores,
I get all the nutrients I need
just by brushing against your mouth,
inhaling the all-too familiar
cologne draped across your chest—
I've always burned too easily,
but you're standing in the shade.
I don't need the moon:
I have seen you shining
when darkness has pervaded every corner and
drawn its clammy talons across your wrists,
your heart glows, illuminating the towering
city sky-line,
roads light up and snow winks in even coats—
I didn't think this city could be beautiful,
but it's reflected in your eyes.
I don't need perfection:
I have the outline of your torso in a
pre-dawn filter, a mass of embers singeing my sheets,
keeping the cold confined to soft moans through
drafty windows,
the melody of your voice, deep and rich,
drenching my parched throat,
the raw, pleading look from beneath half-lowered lids
asking to pick apart the scars, find worth  in bloody hands
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 2 1
Literature
Three AM Questions
The books don't call this perfection.
We aren't wise, or careful, or crafty
with our plans,
you take my meagre offerings while I live
by the intake of each successive breath.
Your dreams rise like skyscrapers in a
pulsating city,
lit up by the sheer intensity of ambition,
farther than my feeble eyes can reach.
But they're born out of ash,
the wreckage and rubble of the past—
nobody said dreaming was easy.
I exist on the ethereal wisps of time,
vaguely aware of something brighter
beyond my foggy reaches—
wondering if too many hours spent in your arms
could infuse my skin with sun, or inevitably,
burn.
We could be as brief as the cigarettes
dangling from our lips,
blue trails of smoke twisting and
curling into each other before
disappearing completely.
We're getting by with the heat
of knee touching knee, hip
curving side, and the taste of
whiskey-beer soaked lips.
Still stuck in a world where
the clock isn't ticking, just sneering—
asking us to feel a little more
so alarms can sound, ba
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 2 1
Change is coming by PulseofExistence Change is coming :iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 4 1
Literature
How to Romance a Writer
We were
head over heels in love,
the better half
(of a twisted whole)
and you had me pegged
in your little black book
as a done-deal, a sure thing;
another notch in that worn leather belt,
another bleeding heart strung out
to dry,
on a page filled with all the sweet little nothings
you stole.
You buttered me up and lit the candle
at both ends with red hot words,
dripping from your mouth like the plague
and I could tell
you wanted to give a damn
picking out the parts you knew
like the back of your hand.
But writers always know
the difference
between the stuff that dreams are made of
and assholes full of shit.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 2
Literature
Exploration Bound
You are an infinite expanse of foreign land,
miles upon miles of rocks to uncover,
dirt paths to wear into the ground,
lush scenery to devour with hungry fingers—
and I'm a natural explorer,
coming out of retirement.
Let me pin-point the parts of you
most in need of affection, the broken tree branches
and muddy waters hiding in the background,
the polluted environment buried in deep roots—
and I'll show you my own trampled forest,
a kingdom devastated by circumstance.
I'll wrap you in a quilt of gentle words,
all the best adjectives written across your brow
fading back into my collarbone,
thoughts and limbs tangled in a mess
of simple happiness, smooth co-existence—
there isn't room for Shakespearian tragedy,
only honesty, stripped down to the skin.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
Part II: Stranger in the Space
Heartbeats slowed down and consecutively sped up;
shipped into big, eager hands,
hazardous label carelessly torn free as one swift finger
prods the recesses of muscle, artery and delicately strung vein with meticulous care
—a surgeon of the emotionally destitute.
"I've never seen so many walls. You're lucky
to be alive." I laughed; he didn't know about the space between
living and surviving—but he had dry palms, wide enough
to enclose me and invite sleep on the soft callus of his index.
He fumbled with the spongy lobe of my ear and explained the history
behind each raised rib of pink scattered throughout his arms—some still too fresh to touch.
I wanted him to stay healed. I had plenty of broken to pass around,
but stability came in short supply; little slivers in a bottle labelled "DO NOT SHARE"
better than slow-me-downs or lift-me-ups; better than xxx or moonshine;
better than all the soap and hot water in the world. Shadows pass behind his teeth
and make their way to the sharp edge o
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
In-Between Spaces
Heartbeats are callused fingers, compulsively tapping
on plain, white tables. They are flies trapped between
panes of chest, repeatedly slamming into thin glass barriers.
They are purposeless feet (without rest), always bouncing up
and down against red linoleum floors. They are not still,
or free, or aware of any options; pulse caught in the dull ache
of a seamless throb ringing out through bones—or is that just me?
Once, I locked eyes with a stranger, and the blood came
cascading down my arms, filling my ears until the only sound
was the dripping faucet heartbeats that won't be fixed.
No plumber or doctor would take on the job, "I'm afraid,
the pulse is just too erratic. You'll have to slow it down."
I was given a blue-plastic barrel, hollowed out with cotton interior,
a handful of slow-me-downs to whiten the paste in my mouth
and keep these hands from collapsing buildings, ringing necks.
All because this clump of hardened muscle doesn't know
when to shut the fuck up, because a shadow
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
Northern Storms
Storms set free on the rich, open plains of Northern Canada don't instantly lash out like their reckless children of the South. They come in stages, each step necessary for the enactment of violence. The clouds roll slowly over the sky and quickly fading sun, masking the azure face that arrogantly gloated all morning. The dense darkness and flat brooding foreheads swell up with dark grey fists and press down on the treetops. The forest line mingles with the ominous whips of black, their tendrils caressing the heads of weathered soldiers.
Thunder comes long before the rain. It needs to assert a foreboding presence and set the stage with sounds of displeasure. What begins as a throaty purr easily escalates to the groans of a dying man, on the brink of execution. Ducks swim in tight, little lines towards high ground and the muskrats burrow into the safety of the shoreline. Lightening refuses the mocking crack of recognition, streaking gracefully behind corn-covered hills, commanding enoug
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 2 1
Literature
The Pull of the Ocean
It's one of my bad days. That's all I keep hearing from the plain faced people shuffling in and out of my personal cell. The pictures adorned with handmade frames hang limply on the greying walls, but they don't stop me from digging my nails into the soft skin of my arms.  The unseeing eyes and sheepish smiles don't cause my heart to reach out with longing.  I don't know why. This gripping fear isn't natural, it isn't me. I don't see any threats in my immediate surroundings. Nobody is rushing towards me or dangling a pillow above my head—but I'm scared. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing sentinel, waiting for the charge and my hands shake visibly under the thin piece of cloth I wrap around myself.  I don't remember it being this cold.  And I can't remember my own name. My God—what's my name?
Anna is here. With just one look at her tender features, I have no difficulty recalling every major milestone in her life. Her first word turned out to be the dog's n
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
To the Person Who Stole My Brother
To The Person Who Stole My Brother
You entered through a crack in the window,
squirming with ease past the jagged shards
who recognized you
as one of their own.
Your long hair danced like snakes
with a smile that slithered slowly
into our home.
My brother's eyes gleamed
as you wrapped every coil around his body,
scales stretched tight
over your missing spine—
the bones of his face
threatened to pierce through
his skin.
And you washed your hands
in the puddle he became.
Without the soft tone in his voice,
the comfort in his eyes, the protection
in his arms. Without the child
I played with, the brother
who held my hand when the doctor dangled
his syringe over my bicep.
We are strangers walking on eggshells:
murmurs across the dinner table
pace like starving wolves between us
anticipating one tripped-up word.
We are enemy soldiers:
tossing loaded comments over the walls
bracing fast for the explosion.
Crisp, white linens peppered
with the blood of naive siblings.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 2 1
Literature
Imitation of Acceptances
I accept your 14 days of binge-drinking. I accept your 7 hangovers. I accept your 4 drinks with patience, I sip them slowly and pour three-halves into plastic tulips that need this whiskey even less than I, while you slam tiny glasses on sticky surfaces and forget to check the time, I vanish.
& the fourth one, it goes down without the fire that keeps your belly warm and safe from the knot clawing its way up your throat.
Vodka, whiskey, tequila, rum.
The bottles with their gloating eyes and arrogant smirks,
the labels brown and peeling, become the friends
that never leave.
& never grow up.
I accept your 14 days of binge-drinking. The bloody eyes emerging from your worn skull. The shaking fingers, incapable of lighting a smoke. Death is here. Death is dyeing your teeth brown and staining your cuffs when you wipe your mouth at the end of the night, now the mornings
are screaming, the sun is boiling hot and your head
is clutched between two bleeding fists, who are stiff
with broken knuckle
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
Obsidian Fingerprints
clustered in ragged heaps—
a starless night against
flashes of white—
gripping bones until they snap,
straining jaw muscles
raised an inch above the skin and
wiring the mouth shut with the shriek
of metal on metal
so deafening
you don't hear the break
only the soft tattoo of rain
as you beg for
clean hands, fingernails free of dirt,
release from the muddy ground—
one more hit and I promise
you'll forget
carry on, bare your reflection
red and raw
against the iniquitous blemish
and forget—
let the water run in clear rivulets
down your blue-black back,
drain without streaking the porcelain tub and
forget.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
214
Not houses standing
in even rows
red and gold lit windows
winking in the dark.
Not walls papered with
glossy eyed faces-
the whispers of poetry.
Not voices singing softly
from beneath closed doors
shrieking out of tune strings.
But mounds of unconsecrated earth,
piles of gravel, mountains of sand,
a dirty river curving its slender body
around the city's back,
dead trees leaning on each other
in the battle-worn fields behind Sandwich Towne.
But white and off-white
unwashed space where there should
be touches of blue, green, and gold,
entire sections of naked surface
shrouded.
But the murmur of a television
entertaining an empty room
or a sleeping figure,
the muffled thud of heavy footsteps,
doors creaking on rusted hinges and slamming
down the hall.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
Ode to Rose
For me, you turned your home into
a temple, a shining beacon of
honest compassion,
a refuge where I could nurse wounds
with laughter and fill holes with trust;
you pulled me from the wreckage
of a discarded family into the
remains you held with so much pride.
I waited for raised voices and
bitter retorts, but heard only
the amusements of a sweet child,
the playful barking of welcoming dogs.
I searched the place for anger,
rifled through drawers of forgotten pens
and overturned all the cushions,
but between the cracks in every paint flake,
I found only understanding.
I have filled a cargo ship
with all my gratitude and sent it
down the river for you,
to always be reminded that
your presence in this world
is much greater than my arms
can hold.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1
Literature
In Nineteen Years
Only this cottage, this lake,
this secluded piece of the world
has stayed timeless;
looking into
the wave's constant folds,
admiring the same picture
which brought a smile
to my twelve year old face.
Slanting, wood paneled walls
and droopy, creaking floorboards—
more familiar than pea soup—
doors having long outgrown
their frames,
hang crookedly without
ever closing.
The dock, anchored and uncertain
withstands blistering
July rays, pounds of densely packed
January snow, a multitude of
shoeless toes—
without complaint,
without crumbling.
While trees have
been wrestling towards the sky,
to me,
they've always stayed a hundred feet tall,
beneath the canopy of blue pines
and lake fed oaks,
even the shadows
have not changed.
:iconPulseofExistence:PulseofExistence
:iconpulseofexistence:PulseofExistence 1 1

Favourites

Literature
Poetry,
She is stardust leaving sweet bones
in her wake.  A trail of poetic destruction
conceived in verse--answering questions
with kisses.  There is a hunger in her
freckled constellations, like spider webs
woven together with golden thread.
Like the wild roses she braids in her hair:
She walks backboned and head held high;
the strongest of letters on a page
left to rest in your mouth.
:iconDearPoetry:DearPoetry
:icondearpoetry:DearPoetry 410 160
Literature
Trails
I liked the way
the trails narrowed
& slashed
into the steep hillsides
Walking across them
was like
touching
the inside of your wrist
where a hair tie
had gently scarred the flesh
.
I approached the trailmap
from one path
& someone else came up
from another
Out of all the trails,
hours, & people
we arrived at the map
at the same time -
The law of gravity
dictates
that where objects
can converge
they
shall
So hello
there
after
you
.
I saved my food
for the beach overlook -
a tall bench
screened by young pines
Behind their shade
inside their sharp smell
I rested
& ate
The blinding gold
sun came off the water
& the wind lisped
through the branches
kissing
the green needles
before coming
to kiss me too.
.
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost
:iconantonfrost:antonfrost 39 28
Literature
this is harder than ''i'm sorry''
I know I'm the last person you'd expect to hear from
but the way you used to say my name is impossible to forget:
like a secret. Like a lifeline. Like I was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.
And I know we drifted apart. I pushed you out to sea without a thought of where the swells would take you, or what monsters the waves would wash up on your shorelines.
But I swear, I'm not the person I was. And I don't think you're the girl you were.
I think you liked yourself better when you were seen through my eyes, when every conversation was a love note I wrote you with my voice. You used to find yourself so much more exciting, but to me, you were goddamn electric.
Now I'm not asking you to come back into my arms or my heart or my sheets, but I'm begging you to come back into my life. My sentences were more eloquent and my words were much more confident when I knew you were in my audience. It's a sickness, this thing that pushes my pen to paper, that implores me to write, but
:iconSocraticSynapses:SocraticSynapses
:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 32 9
Literature
an acerose tongue
i tour your body with the tip of my tongue,
pink flesh is the alter of my fingerprints
and above: salty and godless and as
obedient as sun, its slaving and sleeping
as the waves pull it home.
the tip-top lemon drop of my tongue swims
in schools of hip freckles and bones.
the small of my lip hearing better
than ears: these tales filling
my prayers to their slaving, waving, winds.
the rivalry of my tongue and my mouth and your
hips is rich in the kiss of such a loud
godless
eclipse.
:iconnighttimebeautiful:nighttimebeautiful
:iconnighttimebeautiful:nighttimebeautiful 10 10
Literature
If you could see inside my mind, you would hate me
Most mornings, I wake up alone. My bed is empty, long enough that the sweet scent of clean hair and warm skin has gone, leaving me with a slowly rotating ceiling fan and the echo of ticking clocks. She is already gone, and I have no where to be but alone. It is winter here, in the state that refuses to die. Winter in Detroit is like a test from God, seeing how much hell you can handle, how much disappointment can you take. Eventually, you learn to swallow that shame with the rest of it. Winter light is a stark painful thing that creeps it's icy fingers through my blinds and bleaches my yellow walls the color of corpses. Every color slowly bleeds out until I can't recognize my self any more.
Most mornings, I lay in bed far too long, trying to find the constellations hidden in my ceiling. One day, these constellations will spell out stories and I will know where to go, what to say, how to feel. My feet touch the ground, slowly, testing. The carpet hurts my bare feet but I walk on. A new
:iconsirenseranade11:sirenseranade11
:iconsirenseranade11:sirenseranade11 15 2
Literature
Something like fate, they said
I never did like the way you would swing your car around those curves by my house when you drove me home in the middle of the night. I was never one to be cautious, but with you I felt like the world was rushing away and we were just speeding to keep up.
I don't like to say "we", you know, I don't like to say "us". But most times, I don't know what to say; that boy and I, that thief and I, that breaker of promises, that killer of dreams, that boy outside my window when I'm trying to stay sane.
(I hate you, I think, I really do.)
You were all stubble and long legs and hands like the moon, and my bruises fit your finger prints like a glove. I was too young for you then, I'm too young now, and you were too raw and worn and burned beyond recognition, a dragon I was never meant to see. But as your odometer pushed eighty and your fingers pushed through my spine, you said rules didn't apply to you, you were the dark clouds that watched the sun pass, you were what god wished he was. You put th
:iconsirenseranade11:sirenseranade11
:iconsirenseranade11:sirenseranade11 66 29
Literature
Persephone.
I'll curl my words like ivy
—craft and graft—
crawl through the cracks of my attic walls
and fall into significance outside
myself.
If I am the sum of all my parts,
then let my whole extend into the sun
—and burn.
I've learned
that there will be hell to pay
for pride.
:iconiHedge:iHedge
:iconihedge:iHedge 291 106

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Watch the men

with eyes expanding

falling from their sockets

        trickling

                    down

                                breasts of women

men who’ve never been fed,

men who’ve never had power,

men who’ve never known the difference,

excuses in shoddy brick stacks

     protecting them

from us

with our soft, bare shoulders

(shining beneath faulty streetlights)

beg     to     grasp

our never-ending

legs with unseen scars

waxed                     polished

waiting to                         be bent

stretched                                 twisted

Obviously desperate for attention:

daddy-issues and mommy-issues

tangled in the silk threading

         of your too-tight club top

                                     skin burning beneath the fabric,

pasted on leather shorts

cinched red waist

short-blade heels

men brought to the edge

                                                                                                         jerked harshly back

                                                                                         without

the promise

       your hips made,

a contract

                                                                                    chiseled in

                                                                              exposed flesh—

but the little bitch didn’t see it through.

These are good kids,

boys with high GPAS,

                 higher salaries

rows of pressed, collared shirts

hanging

           in tidy

                     closets

white, spotless tennis shoes

not a drop

            of blood

                     (or dirt)

Not a drop

     of blame.

                        She puckered

                        eight year old innocence

                        fast ripened buds

                        sweeter than aged nectar

                                    easily reached

                                    easily touched

                                    easily plucked

                        cable-knit unicorns can’t hide that frame

                        shooting up through cracks in dry earth

                        muddy the ground and

                sink a little deeper

Not a drop

            of shame.

Sitting With Tight-Lipped Legs
Pulled this from the archives of my university creative writing days. I used to have so much fun experimenting with spaces. 
Loading...
I'm not going to apologize this time. It's been years and years of radio silence.  I've been living, experiencing, growing as both an adult and a writer.  And I'm finally learning to balance those two selves. So if you see some materials pop up over the next couple of weeks, don't say I didn't warn ya. 😉
42 deviations

deviantID

PulseofExistence
Jordan
Artist | Student | Literature
Canada
"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold."- Zelda Fitzgerald

Current Residence: Ontario, Canada.
Favourite genre of music: Progressive rock, acoustic, classic rock
MP3 player of choice: iPod.
Personal Quote: Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."
Interests
I'm not going to apologize this time. It's been years and years of radio silence.  I've been living, experiencing, growing as both an adult and a writer.  And I'm finally learning to balance those two selves. So if you see some materials pop up over the next couple of weeks, don't say I didn't warn ya. 😉

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:icondragonschest:
DragonsChest Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2018  Professional Writer
Happy Birthday...
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday? :)
Reply
:icondragonschest:
DragonsChest Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2012  Professional Writer
Happy Birthday Jay... :party:
Reply
:iconalisette:
alisette Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday! :glomp: :party:
Reply
:iconuncertainsound:
UncertainSound Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy 3rd DeviantArt birthday!
Reply
:iconsweetblackrose13:
SweetBlackRose13 Featured By Owner Feb 5, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
:heart: for the faves :)
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I hate that I missed your birthday. :( :hug:
Reply
:iconpulseofexistence:
PulseofExistence Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2011  Student Writer
Bah, no worries Sir. :)
Reply
:iconzexypinecones:
ZexyPineCones Featured By Owner Feb 2, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I shall try harder next year. :) :) :)
Reply
:iconsweetblackrose13:
SweetBlackRose13 Featured By Owner Dec 27, 2010  Hobbyist Writer
You know, I was looking through a whole bunch of new poems by a whole bunch of new people, and there are so many that are so beautiful - but they're so melancholy. They were starting to get to me. So, I looked around for a star and started wishing really hard that you could come around and write something colorful for me, to make me smile real wide without even trying.
Reply
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