deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy Art Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
[x]
first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend

&soon
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world

&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away

but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more tim
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
an
a lack of language, in coloursyou tell me you miss me
and that i am more beautiful
than any girl in georgia
or even barcelona.

everything is fitting like magic
between fingers when they
finally, finally
touch,

and i swear for the past three nights,
that's all i've dreamt.

give me acrylics
and i still can't make you see
the exact shade of warm
you are to me.

give me the ocean
and there are not enough waves
in its body
to show just the way i feel
when our own vessels move together.

seven months since we last said goodbye,
since we last said hello-
i could fill libraries
with reasons
to love you.

what i really want to ask
is if you think you can
things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
not yet.

and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
oh,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.

and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
your arms,
eternally.
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the
spoiled little girli have turned my body
into a void
so that i can love
with it
instead of my heart.
i feel nothing
so i feel nothing
for you,
but your skin has not
met mine
in a week
and it has me
worried.

this one
loves completely vanilla,
though there once were poems
of red clay and sun;
this one
kisses with no ridges
and i cannot seem to
find a way to stay captivated;
this one
touches when i cannot remember,
so i run
when i see the silhouette of his face,
giving flashes
like nightlights or fireflies
of a dark room
i seem to have almost
forgotten.

i think you have spoiled me terribly
because i feel nothing
worth feeling
and k
the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
flightless birds
forming words
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
and sometimes
they just refused to try

the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
was knowledge-
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
captive
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart

i must be committing
some atrocities
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
a limit
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;

we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead

but throug
denial can only stretch so farwhen asked if i am
in love, i shall say, no. well,
maybe a little.
a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,
dear little girl,
dear melissa,
dear sweet, innocent, beautiful melissa,

there is none of this that you would choose for yourself; there is none of this that you would see coming.  a beautiful infant, born bright yellow like your favourite dress when you were three, you were perfect.  you wore jaundice like a mink stole, blocked tear ducts like cat-eyed glasses.  you cried because you were unafraid to show others how you felt: you were not scared to let them care.

strangers paused your parents on the street to peer inside of your stroller, marvelling at the porcelain doll within; the big blue eyes, reflecting the sky in grand
barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;

you,
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
sleepless nights
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;

and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.

yo
indian summersleepy
sleepless
nights
take their toll
and i start wondering if you're drinking
and feeling stars sink from the sky
to merge with the waves of your stomach
undulations with sparkles of poison
and i wonder
if you're warmer, like copper
or if your arm is snaked
all ribbons
around another girl's waist
or if your teeth
white moonlight
glitter the way they do
when you're sober
and smiling at me
from sleep
or if you even
think
of me,
just for
a
moment

it's hard
to pull away
when every night,
you fold me,
copied paper,
in your arms
until the morning
separates us
again

i will always
pause
in the moments
you say,
before georgia takes you again
go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.

look-
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories.  i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be.  but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.

i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt.  i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.

instead,
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
apart.

i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
of imagination
seep out of its balloon.

put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;

i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-

i want you to write me words
a thorough submissioni have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my hesitations are little more
than bad habits,
filed somewhere between
biting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.

the expectation of the winds
blowing softer til they ceased
ended with your mouth on mine;
the nerves fraying from fear
have been tended to with needle and thread;
and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touch
feels warmer as it inches
like your hands
up my ankles to my bare knees.

i have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my stomach turns the ocean calm
when i think of the messes i'll make,
and the sewing you will stitch.
and i'm terrified
like ni
Browse More Like This
Download File
HTML, 1.2 KB more ▶

More from *ohsostarryeyed

centre for psychological healthit is three days
until march falls again,
false promises of spring
kissing the air
until it begins again
for winter;

three hours
until i feel my heartbeat
find its way
into the oceans
my blood spills,
poetry,
across porcelain
and skin
mirroring it;

three minutes
until i shift,
unbearable,
in a crimson chair
that begs for me releasing;

three seconds
until i swallow,
a bird,
sticking bones,
and pray for a
tooth of glass,
a jaw of metal, of
sharp,
kiss me,
an instant,
the way
you
once did.
the look to letting you goi hope i ruined
your day
like a smudge
of ink-

i like reminding you
of the things
i am sure you proudly
keep hidden,
beneath shrouds
of black,
like clouds
and that
ache my heart,
so loud
when i try
to sleep.

i have
bookmarked my skin
where you last
touched me
so that i may
open the pages
and read us
again
when i feel a little
less sick.

all i want is to look across
a span of space-
a floor, a bed,
the breath between
a face-
and see another
holding me like light
within warm eyes.

it is likely
we will not make it
through the night;
in this case,
i hope that,
with my last,
fast breath,
i learn to love
wasting usi want you, ok
i want you to be on your knees
all scraped and red and raw
like you're a child again
because that's all you ever
were
i want you to be aching
the way i've been aching
since the last rays of summer
said goodbye to us,
goodbye to us
and i want you to never forget
that just because
you don't remember my birthday,
that doesn't mean
you'll ever,
ever
forget the feel of my skin
on yours
for the first time
and that someday
this memory will stop hurting.
it never will,
and i promise you this:
every time it crosses your mind-
while you wait at the bus stop,
during a chemistry exam,
the next time a girl touche
orthography and the right to remain silenti know just how i left you,
and i pray to god,
the same one you do each day,
that you're still as
sore,
stubborn,
and stuck
as you were
when you fled
like floodwater
to georgia.

the pile of unread books
still sit on the righthand side
of the coffee table.

i think,
but i can't be sure.

maybe they're on the left;
or even worse,
maybe they're on the shelf
over your television.

i don't know how fast
you've been sitting here
or how long you've been moving,
but i have places to go
and people to be,
warming the ache
like ringworm
in my stomach.

it's times like these
i pray to the god,
the same one you do each day,
th
go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.

look-
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories.  i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be.  but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.

i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt.  i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

September 9, 2012
1.2 KB
Sta.sh
Link
Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 10
Favourites: 67 [who?]


Views: 608 (0 today)
Downloads: 4 (0 today)
[x]

my first drunk poem

:iconohsostarryeyed:

writers write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds

my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.

i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and trepidation
and loneliness
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
well i certainly wish this was better

also i was way drunker earlier but i'm still drunk and should be going to sleep but how the fuck do you sleep when you're drunk

i kind of feel shitty but i'll get over it

i just want to make love and be told i'm loved and just be held and feel okay but i don't and i want to cry instead but i can't

why am i so abnormal
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
:iconcrashmypartyhard:
~crashmypartyhard Sep 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I like this. This seems like it came from deep inside or somewhere personal,but it's good because no one really knows exactly what it means or might have meant except for you :)
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
just so many feelings yo haha thank you!
Reply
:iconcrashmypartyhard:
~crashmypartyhard Oct 7, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
np!
Reply
:icond3adp03t:
~D3adP03t Sep 9, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
you write beautifully. I envy your skill and talent, yet I know that this must've been written from somewhere very hurt, and I cannot say I envy that, or attempt to understand where you are coming from.
Your poetry is beautiful, and that makes you beautiful. I hope these kind words from a stranger brighten your day just a little.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
you are so lovely, thank you <3333
Reply
:iconcrystaltearz55:
~CrystalTearz55 Sep 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
I can't even hold a pencil drunk, let alone write something as amazing as this, beautifully written (espicially while being drunk...)
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
haha i don't know if i can either, i just typed it!
Reply
:iconamontadillo:
~Amontadillo Sep 9, 2012  Student Writer
How to sleep when drunk? Drink more, feel sleepy.



Nice writing, somewhat charming, somewhat humorous.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
i just get so wound up and notfeelingshitty when i drink haha i don't sleep very much when i drink. thank you!
Reply
:iconamontadillo:
~Amontadillo Oct 8, 2012  Student Writer
I don't get sleepy when I drink, either, really, but it's different for most others, so I thought I 'd say it :P :D
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
©2013 deviantART. All rights reserved
About Us | Contact Us | Developers | Careers | Site Tour | Help & FAQ Advertise | Premium Membership Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy