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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
late-night poetyou think it's funny how people
will keep laughing and talking
about themselves when the world
is falling down around you.

they don't even notice.
everyone is their imagined audience,
but really, the chairs are empty.  
we're all one man shows.

it's called egocentrism.
it means we all think we're the only things
worth notice. it means there is no one
but me.

that's when reality -
a sickening,
crunching
car crash;
white-hot metal;
whirring rims undressed
from tires -
hits.

that's when you realise
you're less important
than anyone else on the planet.
that's when you sink to your bedroom floor,
and cry until the rug i
with love.my throat thickens
to echo the songs of sparrows
the shape of your lips
whispered through mine.

when i lift your shirt,
i see the mountains
traipsing over your heart,
i see the valleys
as i trace your stomach.

i am an adventurer,
crossing the fragile east indies,
the spartan deserts of upper africa,
looking for exploration.

my hands are my ships, your skin my ocean.

your waist breaks into your hip,
the shore of foreign lands,
cresting wave and falling tide.

drinking cups of stars,
we are thin nylon skin,
abashed teenage heat
erupting from our cores
and every orifice
as we proclaim our love
for the moon,
from o
4th january 2011everything
feels real
and full
and beautiful,
so wholly

o
   k.

i am on fire.

my belly hurts
from not asking you
ten thousand questions --

the places you went,
the friends you knew,
the girls you met,
the love you made --

i want to know
who you've been
since we last
met.
i am wasted , loveit isn't that i'm not enough
it's that i'm too much
rolling hills, salient where
silence should be,
valleys deep like gorges
and rocky like crags.

if i whittle my waist
to a point,
a narrow tip sharp
and lusting for blood,
would i be worthy?
would my heart expound
and writhe in revelations,
would we become the married summer
with starry thieves masking our
love?

this is when i hurl myself into
desperate blue strobes
and feel the bass line drilling the
too-hidden, secret and avian
bones with the bird behind their
cage. this is when i feel hot
hands pressing over cold hips,
when i feel warm for the first time
in what's
cities and self esteemit is in this new place,
a world so strange
it's like looking at your face
in the black mirror of night,
that i realize
everyone is somebody's someone,

and i wish i could call you mine.

your body is a poem,
made up of lines
that curve
and reflect light
and hold significance;

and the number of freckles
is astounding!,
like new initials
carved into elms and birches
by junior high sweethearts
in the 1970s.

the way your jaw sets a frame
to the birds of your lips,
the cage to contain the canary-
it is a sonnet
wrapped in enough skin
to keep us both warm:

you bring me so beautifully
close to feeling.

in a city as big
existentialism and baseballi want to paint my walls
a hard-boned blue
i want nothing more than
to curl up with you,
my little spire of smoke
six feet tall.

i love the sound
our lips make together
the way you stop to laugh
every now and then
and how you stu
            mble
over my body
as we both explore
new lands
with unsure hands.

i am always afraid
and always want more.
i want you to tell me
that we have twenty minutes to kill
before your friends show up
so why don't we kill the time
with no space between us
instead of hand grenades?
glass cannoni know what death feels like:
rage in the wind,
coloured grey with smoke
and a face like thunder.

you hung yourself
with your beautiful innards.
god, look at them glisten.
god, look at them shiver.
god, look at you,
your face fading to white
until you look as empty
as you had told me you
were.

now you weren't anything.
now you were dead.
and all i can see --
when i close my eyes,
when i fall asleep --
are the beautiful pink ropes
shimmering in hot fluorescent light
that turned you into an angel
as you dangled above my floor.
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."
from edear,

i am not miserable, i am sad- for the beauty in the world, for the poisoned lungs and minds fluttering like one-winged butterflies in dizzying circles in this world.

i am listening to your music.  you sound so sad- you sound like me.  i want to hold you in the fold of my arm, a pen for a sheep, a comfort, protection from the world so sharp on your skin.  i could write you a hundred letters, but it would be much clearer to show you if i could hold you in my body of glass, knowing i'm holding the only thing worth saving.

with you, i am not infatuated with thinness any more than i am with money.  it would be nice to have both, but it di
sweet and lowall it is
is some sort of
hollow promise.

let me help you,
i can make you
happy,
i can make you
hurt,
i can make you
thin
beyond your wildest dreams.

just let me be
close
to you,
let me be your eyes
for tonight --
i will be the stars
in your sky,
the grace and bones
of underwater
black-
outs.

you never told me
of the cold,
the snow in my chest,
the fear in my heart,
the hurt in my blood.
you never told me
how hard it was
to share my
body
with a monster.
you never told me
how it felt
to lose my
mind to a gaunt
skeleton
with ever-hungry eyes.
you never told me
i was beautiful
enough,
smart enough,
good
day fivesand in my teeth,
i am swaddled
in a red plaid blanket
warm on the beach,
a baby of april.

you are a microwave,
burning the cold
right out of my core,
crashing waves
and ufo's.

the feel of your lips
on mine
is still enough to
rattle life
into the long-still heart
sleeping in my chest.
deari am not meant
to feel this much
for you, dear;

i am not meant
to call you dear,
either;

and mostly,
most importantly,
i am not meant
to write for you.

when i write
for someone,
it means i
think often
of them.

i am not stupid,
i know that
i am not meant
to think of you,
and certainly
   not often.

i am not meant
to feel for you,
to fall asleep
with a flush
on my face
as your name
and sharp images
of your skin --
red thoughts --
stream

like
     water

through
my
    head.
soviet love songbreath like a sliver of sky,
bones to glitter,
constellations of bodies,
night darkness and dreams --
i want this like an explosion.

it's called i love you forever;
it's called i feel like death itself.
we look forward to the fireworks
as they scream until they burst,
a bright ending to their lives,
a shower of shimmering ash
all that's left of their bodies
into grassed graveyards.

i want everything
to remind you of me --
every girl you kiss
to taste like me
beneath your lips;
the slips of tongue
brushing over my teeth,
the storm clouds like
the way i cried.

i love you but it is time to wake up.

i love you like my hair
moth househappiness,
elusive
like a moth,
paper thin
and breathing heart,

skin with lilting
powders,

flight under blood.

your breath is painted
against the sky
and i am travelling
in spirals
with it
to the stars.

behind my lips
lies a sun
in full bloom.

we are static,
side by side and
song-hearted.
i feel the sun
peaking from its curtains,
i feel warm
creating photographs
of my body in your arms.

happiness,
elusive
like a moth:

i have caught it.
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t

Featured in Groups

:iconthewrittenart:
×

walden

:iconohsostarryeyed:

i feel that
beauty is a shadow,
blood is liquid memory,
wind is ancestral whispering,
and love is why i am here.
you are why i am here.

sitting in this apartment,
six other girls in blue cushioned chairs
set around stone colored, plastic tables
and talking about cognitive distortions.

self hate runs rampant,
every wrong sized body
a testament to the understanding
that this is a truism
in our hands and bones.
we are too wrong to keep on
as we are.

i pretend i do not hear you.
i will sit here, with six other girls
in blue cushioned chairs,
and eat my turkey sandwich
with mayo and a tangerine.
you are why i am here.

you are a silver shadow,
a left-sided eastern wind
running over the ocean.
so we sit and talk about our feelings.
you have never come up.


you are why i am here.
33 Comments

1,908

95 33 21
:iconohsostarryeyed:

waldenby *ohsostarryeyed

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last poem of program, woo!


featured!
[link]
©2011-2013 *ohsostarryeyed
Category: Scraps

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Submitted on
February 3, 2011
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:iconbritsmc13:
*BritsMc13 Apr 13, 2011
I like the first stanza, but I feel after that it loses its charm and feel.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Apr 13, 2011
i probably lost focus ;P
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
`YouInventedMe Apr 10, 2011   Writer
marvelous opening stanza
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Apr 13, 2011
thank you!
i miss you, sir!
Reply
:iconyouinventedme:
`YouInventedMe Apr 13, 2011   Writer
I'm still here. about 2,000 deviations left 'til I'm caught up.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Apr 14, 2011
that is madness!
Reply
:iconhappysmittenemokid:
~happySMITTENemoKID Mar 29, 2011  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
im glad you got help :)
Reply
:iconhayleighelizabeth:
~HayleighElizabeth Feb 15, 2011
Hey this was featured Here
Have a great day.
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Feb 15, 2011
thank you!!
Reply
:iconmedailon:
~medailon Feb 11, 2011  Student Traditional Artist
like whispering into my ear. i love it.
Reply
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