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the best way to remember somethingi cry
every time you write me a letter-
in all my damaged glory,
still loved across miles of river and fields.
you are unyielding and unforgetting,
finding the words we never had
there are many moonlit stories
to recount and to expound upon in
i've got a burn on the toe of my shoe
from getting too near the fire with you-
the bruises on your skin
lasted for days;
the headband your sister gave me
and the way i cried
when it broke;
climbing up stairs, skewed like piano keys
in the winter air,
and entering your house, where you told me
to tug on my sleeve
because my battle wounds were exposed;
your dog curling up on your bed
to keep me company,
the way i was welcomed in your house,
getting drunk on vodka on new year's,
the first time you made me cum,
finding ourselves at a party
on the porch where we met-
i am amazed, astounded, awed.
you can love me even though my ear piercings are crooked,
a broken smile on my teeth
for every time you ran away, afraid;
christmas is not only in decemberyou sleep through so much sun
that it is the moon
who rises for you.
born in the russian springtime
with cyrillic letters on your tongue,
you are endless.
you are a ring,
curved to infinity
your hands belong in mine,
or else on my hips.
curve me into the shape
of an s,
narrow me in the centre
to give room to your arms-
they belong around me.
you are a gift;
when i fall asleep
on the opposite edge of the bed from you
and wake curled to your chest,
it is christmas every time.
from the eyes of a loverit's easier to write about yourself
from the eyes of your lover
over the beauty of eyes that turn into the golden hour
or smile lines you hope mean many more to come.
it's easier to let yourself be loved
when someone tells you, no, shows you
everyday with every breath they take every second
that you are born from immaculate conception,
borne from the ashes of something that needed to shed its skin
to let the love come in.
i guess it's not too much of a secret
that i'm not easy to love-
wires stick to my skin
and i bury them back in-
but god, when i let him in-
god, i know i've done something right.
he makes me feel less alone
when i don't want to breathe;
every cup of tea he brings me
has just the right amount of sweetness
without having a grain of sugar;
he kisses my cheek
and the butterflies in my belly
like i've never been kissed in my life.
i hope you find love
that makes being who you are
a little bit easier,
i hope you find love
that gives you hope
that you m
you arei want a city ruined
every time you love me.
i want to show how loudly i shake,
enough to break
faults and how it will never be yours,
and bring down skylines
when you aren't here.
there are seven weeks until my blood runs blank,
but it is so full tonight
it could drown a man.
i hope it drowns you,
the way it carries the only beautiful thing about me
my heart, my love.
it's time you pull together
your telephone wires and breathe stars
back into my body-
it was so dark without you.
there was no moon,
just the kind of black
you know could be no emptier.
i am effulgent again
with the ways i've needed to feel,
i am bursting with fire
instead of hurting, i heal,
and i'm still bright enough
to be burning like god speaks.
i myself speak too loud.
it's what happens at night when i let you love me
and my body writhes with glee
over something it has never known.
i'm afraid to wake the neighbours, or the sisters i'm loving as my own.
when i'm embarrassed by myself,
i won't ask you to hold
i don't want to be a body anymorei don’t want to be a body anymore
i don’t want to be skin
bone covered in things
that had been missing for years;
i don’t feel like myself anymore.
i am a stranger in my own skin
& i don’t want to wear it
a moment longer than i must.
the need to take a pair of scissors
& needle to it,
to tailor it smaller,
to fit the shrinking person inside
grows with every breath.
i don’t want to be
heaven and hell look the same from undergroundi scratch my skin til it looks like it's burnt off. i don't eat til i am begged and pleaded and my lover won't eat because of my sadness. it's okay because it's how i cope. it's okay because i might be dying but it soothes me. i never mind.
i used to fall in love with happiness and hope but lately it's lost its charm. so now the prince rides in on his white horse in the form of fingers in my throat and handfuls of pills and hours and hours of overdosed, sleepless bliss. sometimes i think this is heaven.
i feel myself burning. i'm drowning. i promise myself this is paradise but every time i wake, my stomach turns because i see no angels, only wingless bodies and darkness.
not always miserablethe last time you kissed me
was two augusts ago.
the boston harbour was bluer than
the eyes you so loved
looking back at yours when we said
i never meant goodbye.
take my lips
their feel, their taste
and press them to your own
i love you and will not
take you for granted.
i am so happy to be
in and on itself.
but time does not forget.
i remember the first time you kissed me
and how much i trembled,
my first kiss and you told me i could do better
so i melted
my face in your hand,
and let our skin stitch to the other
with the beads of excitement
that rolled down our fingers.
i know from the thick of my marrow
that the weight of your arm
(the first time)
was so immense, it should have taken
fifteen men to move it, tree-like,
to around my shoulder;
i remember the heat of your nerves
and the vibrations of mine,
getting to know one another.
(i think they fell in love, too.)
write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them
it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be
you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort
comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
and hear every sound you can
because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
I have been too sad to tell you.I have been too sad
to tell you that I love you
when I am tearing my hair out
and smashing my bones on the floor
to make myself whole.
And I have been too sad
to tell you that I love you
when you are keeping my hands
from pulling at my skin,
when you are holding my body down to the
safety of the floor with your arms wrapped
around my chest as though maybe they can
keep my sadness still.
But lover, I am not too sad
to write this poem backwards on
your face with my lips.
I hope that one
day you look in the mirror
and it's there, loving you
as much as I do.
not so picture perfect.when i was seventeen,
the world told me that it was at my feet,
& patiently waited for me to step foot in it
so it could take me as its own.
he told me that the world would
eat me alive
but have faith, he said,
get down on your knees & pray.
i guess god must have low self-esteem.
eighteen taught me
that love couldn't conquer all,
despite the faith it demanded
trust was wearing thin,
just like his excuses,
& i didn't know my role
in a world made for those
who knew their place.
when i was nineteen,
the future escaped me
& the present was a gift
that i did not ask for.
i was drained, exhausted,
& secluded in a cave
constructed from the remains of myself
that i salvaged from the world.
it was no wonder i was empty.
time was running out.
the book i was blindly writing
made little sense, & i was reading
braille on the skin of others.
the sand that weighed me down
shifted, until the glass cracked.
i guess time ran out.
twenty-one was rebirth,
She has the moon in her eyes.But, this body is a black hole,
a hollowed out womb-
and these palms are sandpaper
thin and bleeding a silent stigmata.
"Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,
too young to understand her own limbs-"
She folds back July's origami skin,
wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.
She is a raven heart, thumping wildly
against the whispers of vintage lips.
Her bed is empty,
but the sheets are red.
( 4/03/2014 )Oh,
little godless girl
you talk like
of your powerhouse
are showing through
you’re no nymph,
your own carbon
It’s been 64 hours
50 minutes, &
since this whole thing
& you’re already falling
You left your skilless
in the waste basket
by the bed,
in the alley.
You are your own
& by definition
your work deserves
NaPoWriMo: Day 8I was told
to slice through the thickest
of scar tissue this evening.
Let all my inner demons
fall to the floor
& write them out
in my own black blood.
It’s not red anymore,
even though needles
& the bruises
laid out like war-lands
on my arms
I don’t think it ever was,
My mind is a mess
of free versed insecurities,
cat’s eye marbles,
& untamed forest fires-
I still don’t have the nerve
to slice open my skin
& bleed for her.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
hollow love poemthis
is a hollow love poem.
i am writing it
for the kisses
we might have shared
not the ones we did.
that only ever tasted
like doubt and stolen alcohol)
i am writing it
for what might have been
not this lonely togetherness,
this mutual drowning in empty ink and scar tissue.
is a hollow love poem.
i feel it twisting my tongue
and i pretend
it could have meant something.
its stillborn words echo
with the meanings they could have had.
i think i could have loved you.
i think i could have kissed poetry into the arch of your neck
your sun-stained shoulder
i think i could have tangled myself in you
the way we tangled ourselves in your bedsheets
fingers twisted together beneath the covers
in sweet uncertain certainty
i think i could have lost myself in you for a while
gone wandering with you for a while
i think we could have counted the stars behind our eyelids
like the scars traced over my forearms--
is a hollow love poem.
even this will f
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
i am my motheri am my mother.
i carry empty bottles
for every feeling
i never wanted;
they clatter in my bag
and where they are tied
on my wrists and ankles.
the glass glitters
until dulled by the weights
and dim light of the heavy feelings
that fill them.
i am my mother.
i have felt things
on my skin i have tried
to cut away to no avail,
i have tried to smile
until it hurts my god it hurts
and my bones are fire
but you think i'm okay so i'm okay
i am my mother
because i will never be angry
when others smudge the mud
from their feet onto me,
i will never show a scowl or reddened face
for being treated like wasted space.
i will take every jibe with a nod
and half smile,
lips closed over broken teeth
to prevent the possibility of baring them,
presenting a threat,
projecting confidence instead of regret.
i will drag my weighty bottles
and break myself into shards
that cut me with every move
before i dare let them crack.
(mother, do not worry
i am fine.)
hello everyone weekly featureHello everyone!
Please check out these very amazing poetry fabulous works by our members!
They're doing very amazing job poetry and powerful writing skills of knowledge keep up good work
Nervous MovementYou're a dime a dozen in a sea of billions.
Individuality has no significance in numbers so vast.
And while this fact makes looking forward hard
we can't keep living in the past.
You're a nervous movement in a freeze frame scene.
Steady hands won't help hold up such a fragile act.
And while you take your time keeping character
you fake what you can't take back.
With nothing more than a thought we form our actions
and this is where we extinguish the lie they tried to invent.
The lie that we painted our lives without passion
well conclusions are useless with no attempt to commence.
You're a song I can't name stuck in my head.
I've listened to you before and probably will again.
And while I can hum the melody all day long waiting
for it to hit me I still won't know where you've been.
You're a gust that has never changed direction.
Nothing can touch you you're only felt as you brush skin.
And while you can't be stopped nothing lasts
nothing escapes time not even the wind.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More