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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 like poemI want to write a love poem,
but I only want to be in love
if I have someone there with me.

instead,
I romanticise the efforts
of pressing pen to paper,
painting pages personal
and colouring them
the same green as your eyes-

your eyes.
that's something that never
strikes me as common,
as something permanent
like concrete,
or a given
like a constant variable.

to wake up,
and see the lids like curtains,
thick and deep like night,
over them,
I feel like I am a film photograph.

and when they open,
sealed with sleep
and more honest than ever
before a single wall can be erected,
I see a poem
as I begin to swim,
and foreve
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
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
worcester union stationthe train takes me from you
at a white marble station,
too clean for the city,
too cold for the warmth
you left with me

crocus blue
blooms on your skin
i am sorry
but treasure my scrapes
and bruises,
it is still like having you
with me
instead of miles west
til we can become knots
in the ropes of each other's
bodies, a hopelessly hopeful
entanglement of more
than just skin

this is something
i fear with open arms
and will it closer
to my heart;
an emotion becoming
a corporeal entity
and something
i forgot like flowers
would come again

the beauty of sharing space
with another
is how unlonely it is;
i like to have
kelsey's valentine's day poemi don't see the point
of writing you something
beautiful
when anything we have made
beautiful
has fallen
like ice from the sky.

instead of beautiful
rivulets of crystal from the clouds,
they became knives;
words once gorgeous
ravaged my skin,
a razorblade.
every photograph
of us
together,
your head on my lap
and my lips on yours,
something that took effort
and time and care
that you no longer have,
something that took awhile
but eventually grew on me
as one of my favourite pictures,
as something solid,
proof of us,
this photograph,
any photograph
of you and i together,
now an image of something
we've left behin
in four weeks,i cannot wait to fall asleep
peacefully and soundly
with your skin,
tall and warm
beside me.

we will slumber and dream
two, separately,
and awake in each other's arms.

you will come home
in four weeks.
the flights will taper away,
and you will leave behind
barcelona
munich
london
basel
rome

and remember, please,
that i am what waits
those thousands of miles
ahead of you.

i want you to buy me flowers
so i can feel guilty over you
having spent money on me
but feel beautiful
because of how beautiful
the petals are
and the hands that gave them
to me.

i want to put us in photographs
so that i can remember
the way tha
mother.i'm not exactly a person-
more like a body
filled up with
things i never should've known
and things i never could've said.
and i wonder what you'd do
if i could.

so i tell strangers, i tell you,
because i'll never have to
look you in the face
or see your eyes hide
behind walls that never had to be built-
there are bodies buried in those, you know.
i never wanted any of that.

the way i never wanted to be the girl
who ran away from womanhood as it approached,
because adolescence was so much sweeter
at four feet tall.
i sprouted breasts in panic.
my limbs stretched and the pains at night
weren't just from growing pains- they
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
something i should've written a year agoare you happy?
you hear that, but you don't actually ask yourself if you're happy.
you assume you are,
you expect yourself to be, you should be,
it's not important enough to think about-
because what if you aren't?

it's last summer again.
you've locked yourself out of your car
and we're sitting with our knees crossed
on the pavement in front of kate's house.
somewhere, you can hear fireworks,
but you know they're illegal because the town is too broke
to put on a show this year.
you know no one minded.

look at me now-
what if you're miserable?

july cruises in like a convertible or some equally hot shit.
standing by the sea
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
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
blue morningsholding out
impossibly bated breath
blue like the morning
as it touches the canvas
of your sheets,
billows of cloud
tucked over
skin-
this is not what
i asked for.

i never said
i needed more
than a hand to hold,
any promise
for you to touch my heart;
instead,
you lent me your body
and a person
who cared
much more than is sure
as the stars.

i wish
(as though the certainty
of those celestial jewels
were concrete)
that you were less afraid.
your fear,
burning like a forest fire,
sinks its teeth
into your copper skin,
reflective and deep;
you touch me too tenderly
for me to believe
that i am just an embellished ve
a note in my pockethow
do i go
about releasing
a thin mark,
an invisible fishing line,
from a heart
so unknowingly caught

he calls me little
until i feel
my most near to human,
a drum in my stomach
with a tightening skin;

my heart does not
follow his song,
but i feel his fingers
tangle its veins
with every mention
of smallness.

i am the telephone wire
strung between
these brick buildings,
connecting
without intention
the two spheres
of our lives.

i stretch my fingers
to snap it,
yet fear the whiplash
of (e)motion
that may or may not
sink me to my knees.

instead,
i burn a small effigy,
pinecones singeing
as makeshift hands,
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,
Browse More Like This

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it would make you look happier.
your neighbours would stop calling
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perceived suicide attempts, god, is
it pills, is it alcohol, it changes
every week.

the cruisers with flashing lights
that send electrical fires down your spine
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theyll stop rolling by.  

the men with copper buttons,
theyll stop banging on your door,
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alright? are you alright? we are here to
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whats funny is that they never do help.
you let them in, make them tea, and watch their
eyes comb over every inch of you
loud and closei want to write you a letter -
you know the kind, the ones you see after a funeral,
the ones that say too much because no one knows the
difference between too much and not enough,
the ones that only surface because their authors
have solid confidence that their recipients will never see them.

the thing is, that won't be happening.

you won't die, and i know this because i am never wrong,
and when i set my mind on something, i'm not letting go.  
my point: this is your posthumous,
prehumous,
maybe just humous
letter from me to you, and i'd ask you what you think of it,
only i'm not sure if that's the protocol
(or proper

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the reformation

:iconohsostarryeyed:

you are punctuating.
i find that there's no reason
in starting this slow-
we worked on a schedule,
times and intervals,
maybe a little quicker
than nature would have had,
but regardless of meter,
we still made poetry.

distance and time-
two forces of destruction
that amalgamate
into creation.
with the crosses in our fingers
and the crosses in our hearts,
the needles have bent out of our arms
and sewn us back together.

every breath reminds me of everything
i brutally beat from my mind.
i forgot how
you wore your hat
loosely on your head,
and how you smiled
with your whole face.

and every time i pass the tea shop
we went to in the mall,
because you knew how much
i loved tea,
i feel my heart bend into
and out of shape

move me.
i am a dandelion seed.
i will travel yards and yards,
tributaries and rivers,
to meet you
and plant myself
in your skin.
and every time we talk,
every hum of voice,
rich and warm like
reassurance,
i fall a little more
in love
with you.

558

47 20 6
:iconohsostarryeyed:

the reformationby *ohsostarryeyed

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we broke up on wednesday. it stung and confused me and all it ended up doing was proving to me i'm not over my ex. i told my ex this. we are now reconsidering for real and working this out as realistically as possible. this is how i am now.
©2012-2013 *ohsostarryeyed
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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June 22, 2012
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:icontiajones:
~tiajones Sep 13, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
<3
"move me.
i am a dandelion seed.
i will travel yards and yards,
tributaries and rivers,
to meet you
and plant myself
in your skin."
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Oct 7, 2012
:glomp:
Reply
:icontiajones:
~tiajones Oct 7, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
:hug: [:
Reply
:icongothicangel93:
~Gothicangel93 Jul 6, 2012   Writer
i am a dandelion seed.
i will travel yards and yards,
tributaries and rivers,
to meet you
and plant myself
in your skin.
and every time we talk,
every hum of voice,
rich and warm like
reassurance,
i fall a little more
in love
with you.

:heart: I absolutely love this ending! So beautiful!
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jul 24, 2012
thank you!!
Reply
:icongothicangel93:
~Gothicangel93 Jul 25, 2012   Writer
You're welcome. =)
Reply
:iconangelalala923:
~Angelalala923 Jun 28, 2012  Student Interface Designer
I love the last stanza-it could be a poem in itself! (:
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jun 30, 2012
thank you so much!
Reply
:iconbefera:
*Befera Jun 24, 2012  Student General Artist
this one is really amazing too. i hope things can work out with your ex.

"with the crosses in our fingers
and the crosses in our hearts,
the needles have bent out of our arms
and sewn us back together."

^my favorite part <3
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Aug 23, 2012
thank you so much, dearest. (two months too late, i apologise.)
Reply
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