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More from *ohsostarryeyed

we'll make it, world you are an amplifier,
a seashell in my ear,
a magnifying glass
angled to the angels
so that i might catch fire and
burn my way to beautiful,
the white ash
at the tip of your cigarette

this noise is both too much
and never enough.
i miss the leaves pressed
with tangles of my
heart between
book pages, hoping
the poetry would
slip its way into veins,
the leaves' or my own

and still i shudder
at the thought of
your transformation,
butterfly reversing to pupa
i miss your fragility,
the sea's air
beneath your wings,
and feel it in my bones
when my pulse slips
between them

and here,
i am still here
when you are sad
the therapy office. today you told me a million times
i was worth more than i thought,
the lines on my arms meant anxiety,
& drugs should ease me out.

you said my body was cold
& my head was achy,
& not to show my bones
through slinkier
sheaths of skin.

it was like you loved me,
only i knew better.

it was then
you told me my goals were
too lofty & i was driving myself
to sickness.

here is where i hoped
to prove you wrong,
to be thinner than the spaces
between a boy's fingers
(the spaces meant for me)
to be two numbers instead of
three,
to wear convex patterns
beneath my skin to tent it into
bone-tipped mountains.

what i mean i
it's just like music sternum
black
and blue

bruises
heavy hands
balled into
heavy fists
beating into
heavy hearts

it feels like
music,
exactly like
music
the rhythm,
the dirt
the way it
only sometimes
will hurt
but when it does

it
just
goes
numb.
rundown motel MY HEART CAN NEVER BE
A SUITABLE HOME FOR YOU.

THE WALLS ARE SUNKEN
LIKE BROKEN SHIPS OR
SKINNY CHEEKS;

THE HOLLOWS QUIVER
WITH THE BODIES OF
RATS AND INSECTS,
WAITING FOR THE FALSE SENSE
OF SECURITY PRECEDING
PRETTY SLEEP
TO SKIRT ACROSS YOUR
BROWS BEFORE THEY
FOLLOW SUIT.

(I MISS YOU.)

MY HEART IS FILTH.
MUCK AND MIRE SEEP THROUGH
ITS CRACKS.
IT IS NOT YOUR HOME.

WALLOWING SELF-MISERY
SWALLOWING YOUR SMILE,
WHERE IS OUR SUNSHINE
WHERE IS OUR BEAUTY
WHERE ARE YOU WHEN
WHERE AM I.

THE FIRE IS ROARING
LEONINE AND ALWAYS TOO,
TOO LOUD.

I NEVER ASKED YOU TO GO.

(I MISS YOU.)

I WILL NEVER NOT SHAKE
WHEN I HEAR YOU
bukowski i wanna be a real poet,
live by the rules of bukowski

& no mama,
i can't get out of bed
not before the sun
sits high in the noon's time

& no mama,
my grammar school rules
are gonna go to waste

& no mama,
i can't use tall letters
when henry chinaski himself
leaves everything
low,
feeling low,
lying low

i don't know any girls
named jane
i don't drink beer
or sleep with
innumerable women who
just fuck me & run

but i wanna be a
real poet
the kind who fights
wee people in bars & loses
and hurts when
the beautiful suicides
are the only ones we see

i'd drink my pains away
but the last thing i need is
another glass wide
mesentery. i get the same feeling looking
at you as i do dissecting cats
but it's ok
i know it just means
love.

i want to be more in love than
the man who first wrote about true love;

i want it to swallow my soul
and i don't want to mind;

i want it to kill me
because sometimes
i think i should be dead
and this would be a beautiful way to go -

dying for someone better
than myself, unselfish until
realised it's the most selfish
of selfish things,
to love & be loved.

it's sickening.

black-tar-lungs,
that kind of sickening.

emphysematic
paroxysms, that kind of sickening.

the shape of your lips,
in all their beauty:
that kind of

&

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orthography and the right to remain silent

by *ohsostarryeyed

i 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,
that i can forget you
and your unread literature
and unwritten poems
and scrapped promises,
for just long enough
that i can
catch
my breath
before
submerging myself
once more.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
little linguistics nerdism going on in the title,
lots of remembering and things i'd like to forget in the poem.
:icon:
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-02-21
orthography and the right to remain silent by *ohsostarryeyed ( Featured by $lightningmonkey )
love 0 0 joy 1 1 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconms-bipolor:
~Ms-Bipolor Mar 13, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I'm drowning in tears. I tottaly feel this right now

--
x Daydreams Often Lead To Disasters x
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Mar 19, 2012
:[ :heart:

--
i like to
put haikus where they
don't belong.
Reply
:iconhater12:
~hater12 Feb 24, 2012
I like the part about praying to the same god. It's kind of like a No matter how much I hate you, we aren't so different type of mindset, which is fairly new to me. Never read anything like it. :)

--
Somewhere between this and that and now and then,
here is there and nowhere becomes a state of mind.

--- Purposely Drifting- PhilosophyCookie

I don't support gay "rights" and believe homoosexuality is wrong.
Get at me, son. Let's BRAWL.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Feb 26, 2012
thank you kindly :heart:

--
i like to
put haikus where they
don't belong.
Reply
:iconvadin-blackwind:
~Vadin-Blackwind Feb 22, 2012  Student Writer
Beautiful work. I really enjoyed it. :)
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Feb 23, 2012
thank you!!

--
i like to
put haikus where they
don't belong.
Reply
:iconvadin-blackwind:
~Vadin-Blackwind Feb 24, 2012  Student Writer
You're very welcome. (:
Reply
:iconwarpedpurity:
~WarpedPurity Feb 21, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
you totally deserve this. congrats mel! :D
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Feb 22, 2012
bawwww, thank you! :heart:

--
i like to
put haikus where they
don't belong.
Reply
:iconwarpedpurity:
~WarpedPurity Feb 22, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
<3
Reply
:icon:
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love, in short it's something
you'll realise
like an electrical fire
and my god,
it will hurt
and you will smile
because it hurt
and that means
it wasn't all
a dream.love, in short by *ohsostarryeyed
the first two months i'm silent because
i'd be talking
a mile a minute
(closing this distance)
and imagining you
and me
too colourfully
for now

we spent the afternoon
lying on my floor
and i love how
(how irrationally)
our hands can never
keep to themselves

my stomach bears my name
in a terrible yellowed lime lacquer
in your terrible scrawl
and i'm happy to have it
my knee smiles with its red mouth
a scrape from the boulders
we piloted ourselves like airplanes
deep across seas
before the rain set in too heavily
my thigh is a volcano
erupting soon with bruises
shaped like your fingers
and my elbow blossoms
like a hot flower
from my bedthe first two months by *ohsostarryeyed
take it or leave it you left my house three hours ago,
safely made home a few after
i am fearful for sleeping, tonight,
and smelling you against my pillow
yet with no reassuring shoulders,
bound tight like books,
coinciding.

i sit with my back,
the mountaintops of my spine,
against the softer wall
(malleable wood
in place of
unyielding white brick),
sessile and cautious in my breath.

i am cutting strings of disbelief
set free, winding,
knowing more truth inside my bones
at this hour
than i had the night before.
i am fearful for us, soon,
and no road stays the same width
and angle, like angels and their wings,
forever.

this feels nothing shtake it or leave it by *ohsostarryeyed
honey and the moon i sit quietly against the wall and do nothing.  it's enough to imagine what we could be, a story that would unfold from its binding until it was worn from frequent visits, held dear to the hearts of moony lovers, deep in the throes of beauty.

there's a simple joy in knowing you're not alone- the wind sounds differently at night when it doesn't brush against the bones of your back, reminding you that there is no other body to protect from that chill.  these winds bring no consolation against the isolation of constellations, millions upon millions of miles away from the closest contact, that it is not the lonely voice of a romantic hoping to fhoney and the moon by *ohsostarryeyed
on moving past the past the beauty in the honesty
the beauty in the pain
of the moment you pray
someone will be bold
like the strongest coffee
and tell you, verbatim,
you're not what i wanted.

the hurt will be
like a wasp's sting,
but the relief
of knowing you are not
worthwhile,
replacing the
second guesses
(and third and fourth and fifth...)
with understanding,
settles on your shoulders
like a breath of a summer
from your childhood.

o, to the heavens! it is not
what you wanted,
but the controlled relinquishment
is soothing like a mother's touch.
it draws sadness like
charcoal smears down the sides
of your face and the surface,
a canvason moving past the past by *ohsostarryeyed
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