[x]

denial can only stretch so farwhen asked if i am
in love, i shall say, no. well,
maybe a little.

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

scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
vast,
barren,
and sparse.

i begin losing my hair and
scattered grassroots
define me.

i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.

i miss having someone
to tell i love,

but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough

that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
there.

the saturday after your birthday is where i foundbefore you there was an incessant need to be touched
but for no longer than the time it took to touch, sweat, and moan
and never by the same hands twice;
for vacancies to be filled
and to never have an empty bed when sleep finally came.

when i found you it was dark and i was drunk.
it wasn't a story built for the centuries,
but we will be the lovers whose names are remembered for the years to come,
tied and woven in song and into the bodies of trees, we will be so in love
that the angels above will cry in jealousy because in my haze,
heavy and raw and with everything burning inside me, i'm afraid i fell in love that night.

being

alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.

there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.

the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.

i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will neve

my first drunk poemwriters 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

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

constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.

you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
anymore.

i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.

i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.

in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?

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

virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
curse-like,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.

and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot c

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.

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
to you;
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

if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself on
floors doesn't fix anything,
but it sure seems to.

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

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.

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a desperate bout of melodyas the sun melts into streaked paint,
as your hands trail listlessly along my spine,
as the paper frays like twine,
i can remember your heart.

the kind of beautiful
that only exists at night
fire of skin and prowling cats
friction of hot tires
and mattresses creaking
under the weight of the love
that is made over it.

and i,
well,
i,
i think
of your skin still
sticking to mine
like sugar in
sensuous
flames.

the heat is quick and
i'm morning sick,
i am your flower and
won't my petals please
fall away?

the wind
a sighing of a
heavy breast.

i will love you
in the morning when
the fog paints
windows with
hoary br

vanishing from view .collabi am missing something,
i am that old woman with her
car keys forever on the
back of her mind because that
is the closest to the front
she can manage
anymore.

i've forgotten who i used to be.
shallow screaming dins the room,
shakes the walls, as i try to cling
to something real, not this made-up
world where the ocean is suddenly
the sky, raining salt
upon open wounds.

the static is like poetry over
empty air, radios humming to
the tune of nothing but your
airplane parts and rioting
heart.

i am the grass beneath your feet
that you trample. i want nothing
to do with this cardboard city
full of ghosts and ashes. i need to l

rememberevery time i enter my room, i have to tell myself who i am.

i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i suck at calculus.
i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am in love.
i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i can't wait til the day is over.
i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am sick of being alone.
i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i am the fattest fuck on the planet.
i am melissa, i am eighteen years old, and i hate everything about myself to the best of my knowledge.

every time i enter my room, i have to tell myself who i am.

just in case one day,
the person who enters it
isn't the same person as

a new heartbeatyou would have told her that she was the most beautiful idea in the world if it meant getting in her pants. please, close your mouth: it's unbecoming to gape so openly. this isn't disgusting, this isn't piggish. this is called human nature. you are a filthy, instinctual body following your hormones instead of heart. if you say otherwise, you're a liar. if you agree, you're a liar anyway.

let's backtrack. the music is so loud, you can feel it in your teeth. the bass is thumping hard enough that it's resetting your heartbeat. your bones turn to s

extinction"when's the right age to start having sex?"

"never."

"never?"

"never."

"but we need to reproduce to stay alive!"

"yes."

"so when?"

"never."

'then what happens to us?"

'we die."

bruises that won't healthe days i will not think of you most
are the days i am in therapy.
i hate walking through the doors in
sadness so full that my heart
is begging to burst.

i won't say i've missed you,
but i have. your number is dead
in my phone, & i long for the
music of change echoing from
your heart to your

jean pockets. i don't mean to
apologise, it's only a habit,
just like your nightly smoke fix.

do you remember singing 'no surprises'
to me over the phone,
laughing as your thumbs stumble
over errant strings?

every strum feels like my heart,
i hope you know
the rumble in your throat
becomes its beat.

you are so hard to look at
and e

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sleeping dogs

by *ohsostarryeyed, Nov 25, 2012, 10:51:03 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

let sleeping dogs lie-
do not reach out &
touch his dreaming face,
do not lean close to kiss
his shuttered eyelids;

wait for him to wake &
let time pass
until it is time to love him.

let him rest his weary head
on the arms he wears at home,
cold boston winds
telling him when the
next train comes;
& when he must sleep
in a rusting missouri,
wish him the sweetest dreams.

let sleeping dogs lie
& drift between sleep & awake,
missouri & boston & virginia.
let him sleep unencumbered
& be there endlessly
until it is time to love him.

sleeping dogsby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *ohsostarryeyed

written on a train, on the back of a train ticket, with the boy half-asleep in front of me and the windows too reflective to see outside race by

11:50PM - 11/22/12 - en route to franklin

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Mood: Joy

~katr14 Jan 20, 2013 Student General Artist

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*ohsostarryeyed Jan 29, 2013

thank you very much <3

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Mood: Joy

~katr14 Jan 30, 2013 Student General Artist

You are welcome!

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~peridot-magelette Dec 26, 2012

This is beautiful. I sort of know the feeling.

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*ohsostarryeyed Jan 28, 2013

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~peridot-magelette Feb 12, 2013

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~DEAD-OnTheInside Dec 4, 2012

'let him rest is weary head
on the arms he wears at home,'

his

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*ohsostarryeyed Dec 17, 2012

oops, thanks!

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~DamagedHomewrecker Nov 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

this is so soft and delicate and absolutely gorgeous.

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*ohsostarryeyed Dec 17, 2012

aw, thank you!

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