[x]

phoenixthe paper is wet enough
that the ink bleeds,
words like blood
& blood like words,
it's called feeling
what you're doing.
it's called living
while you're alive.

i want to light
things on fire,
burning cities
back to the ash
they once were,

fledgling phoenix
and dresden
bombings coloring
hot skies
of black, like
taking photos of my
bruised shins &
dripping hair.

i won't give this sadness
the dignity of recognition.
it isn't here if i don't say it is.
i am wallowing in air,
not misery;
swallows sing songs,
not sorrows.

the snow is falling
and i am outside, bare skin
to the sky,
and i am waiting
for enough to

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

night fading to darklet's talk about stars and sex and love and sadness,
drugs and poetry and how they're the same,
bones and madness and mischief and grief,
and how we're all reduced to them someday,
and ways that i can make you stay.

(i whispered that i love you
more than earth to you
when i meant it but could not say it.
you were asleep.)

you did a good job loving me while it lasted.

you left me as sadness, filled with smoke and a burning desire
to light a mentholated cigarette and bathe in rosewater.
i look like i belong on the wall of bones without you.
i will be there one day, i know i will die,
i just look like i'm dead before i stop breat

eric and wanda's relationshiphis heels are rubbed raw to a shining pink, an inch away from free bleeding. his name is eric and his shoes are too small. his name is eric and his arms are more like a bulletin board than limbs. his name is eric and the last time he had a roof to live under, he was fourteen and shooting up for the first time.

the boy looks rough.

his mother left when he was sixteen, fed up with the hell he brought into the house -- the singed toilet bowl; the shaved cat; the hypodermic needles.

eric says his father left when he was eight. by "left", eric means he found him staining the bath tub crimson with his wrists. it took two weeks and four bott

waldeni 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 ar

police investigation"i've been thinking, what happens if i get killed."

"you...die, you know?"

"yeah, yeah. i mean, i'd take my last gasping breath, pull in all this oxygen that will never hit my blood as it leaves my body, taking life with every thump of my heart, but what happens after."

"d'you mean like heaven and hell, or what?"

"no...see, i'm scared the police will see my messy room and my mom will read my diaries and cry because i've been sad more than i've been happy. i don't want that."

"you're human. that's part of being human. you're sad so much so you can really hang on to that happy feeling when you get it."

"but you never can get it enough

hinc illae lachrimaeyou've got wrists of an angel
bent back far enough
to welcome a silver kiss
to fall like dust
the ash of a human once born.
it's enough to
fall in love with fervor
a fever strung like faerie lights
between my knees.

you're used to resting elbows
on the shelves of my hips,
you're used to resting teeth
on the ledge of my lips,
to use me like a bed
instead of a person,
something to lean into.

i want something harder.

the first kiss of alcohol
pressing its tongue
onto an empty stomach.

the gasp of a freshly opened wound.

i don't need your pain
to make me feel worth it.
i have a favorite scar
and it is not from you.
i do

kill_joyshe wears windows on her wrists to hide that hard-earned necklace of bone and cover every angle kissed by an angel on her wretched, ruined, beautiful body.

she is afraid for her soul.

the monsters at night breathe life into her sorry bones, that thin ribbed frame
a skeleton with fingers, a gun with skin.

you tell her, i need you to make me feel better about myself. she says, i could never kill myself til i was something perfect.

you are a match made in heaven: dead.

you spend hours drawing her -- you're an artist, you tell her. really, the only art you know is the lines of her spine, the hollows between her ribs, the lone, thick flesh

i could breathe fireshe was a marvel,
a monster
something so complex
that there is no design
intricate enough to
symbolize the contradictions
she embodied,
of her body

i felled her,
i felt her

a writhing embrace,
she was a bird
a warming feather,

she was a breath
fresh air on a stagnant day,
a beauty unlike rose petals,
more like sandstone
as i watched the moon
give birth to the fire
of her skin.

how to be poeticlook at the spaces between words
(on paper, in speech, in gaps of bone)
and forget the rest. know the pauses are a thousand times more
important.

break a few hearts, but break your own more.
this should be irreparable if done right.
(expectations tend to work beautifully for this.)

find beauty in the ugly, and ugly in the beauty.
realize it is a double-edged sword and you are somehow on both ends.

look at birds and imagine them as lips.
look at bodies and imagine they are perfect,
objects they are not, magnets and clocks, animals and weapons.

know that breath is not colorful or clean,
rather it emits something that k

modern holocaustit feels a little silly,
doesn't it,
to be so scared when surrounded
by hundreds of other people -
men, women, children,
pressing your body
into the contours
of their own -
just as afraid
as you?

in your hand,
you're holding
a slip of paper.

it's less of a ticket,
and more of a death sentence,
but we don't like to think of it
that way.

with our imaginations,
we can pretend it's a
one-way flight in a jet plane
to some place romantic,
or at least somewhere
we won't be
hurt
anymore.

alive, feelit starts with a death rattle
in the dead of night,
with a silencer
over your dog's muzzle,
with a gunshot
when you know you're
shooting stars-
it starts
like this:

picture yourself standing in front
of an empty picture frame
forever, you're a photograph.
you don't move.
you're stagnancy
in the shape of a human being.

picture yourself naked
standing on the bridge between your house and hers,
watching waves undulating like sweaty bodies beneath you.

picture yourself dead.
i bet it's the same as you are now:
working your white-collar job,
forty hours a week, eight hours a day,
you're the boss' bitch.
you do as you're told

eric and valerie and loveher name is ellie this week. last week it was jane. the week before, julie. kate. breanne. cindy. anna. vicky. dina. leslie. talia. rebecca.

they all blended together -- eric loved a rainbow of women. their skin was tan but not deep, and not cream. their eyes were not blue but not brown. their teeth were not straight but not crooked, not white but not yellowed. they were indistinguishable and insignificant.

except valerie. the closest eric came to loving was valerie. she was beautiful. that's why he couldn't love her.

he ran.

his heels caught fire as he cast a shadow along the west coast. he was a cloud of smoke and her

sympathyyou get the sympathetic ear on the phone
nodding when you can't hear it
and just saying it's alright
it's all right
and you know it's not.
and you hear it loudest
when sometimes
all you need to hear
is i understand you
when the water
from the lake
is heaving into your lungs
because it understands you too
and all it wants
is you to know that
even if it kills you
all it wants
is for you to know
you're not alone
and if that takes having your life flash before your eyes
and your lungs to ache like you're breathing fire
then so be it
because it's just that important
not your shoes
not your car
but knowing
just knowing
yo

blacklight and self esteemi am here,
drinking hazelnut coffee
with no calories,
and contemplating how
i will make a mess of myself
and whatever it is i've been
working for

i am meant to be
thin-boned, a waspish
wineglass with fragile wings,
lost in selfish blacklight
and self esteem.

i apologize for not being
ready to lose my bones
like losing god.
i am not ready to submit
my soul to the hounds of hell.

let me tell you again
how i am sorry.

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skinless boy pt. 2on thursdays i go to therapy. i talk about symptoms instead of sources, i talk about numbers instead of names. id call it a defense mechanism, and id rather talk about maslows hierarchy of needs than my own.

you have never come up.

her name is nicole. ill tell her that i dont care if my doctor is considering locking me in the hospital, i still want to be skinny, but telling her about you is an uncrossable line. youre a figment of my imagination and you just so happen to break my heart with every pill you swallow.

the doldrums to the progressions.

caffeine.

alcohol.

tobacco.

marijuana.

ketamines.

ecstasy.

where is your fucking so

skinless boy pt. 1do you want to hear from me? i have letters to send you. i dont have your address. i dont have your goddamn phone number. youre not fucking real to me anymore. youre empty space and you went and forgot me, pretty boy. you dont know what it feels like, pretty boy. i just sit there, cradling my tea in my knees, shaking and spilling chai and sugar over naked skin. it hurts, but so does everything. you give me nothing so i just think and bleed and love how cars crash and panicked mothers mutter, is everyone okay? is everyone okay? because forever, this is 'no.' we are children of mud and how the fuck can we be okay when we are drying u

nightlife.the heat rises and sets
under the black elm silhouettes
it is you
and it is me
and we are painting ourselves
against the sky.
the days rain melts
itself from greyed rooftops
and drips like the songs
of summer and ice.

night is only so dark with
writhing demons in its
cyclic rise and fall
when the stars are afraid to
open their eyes, to
look down at the sadness
the world has become;

it is hot like infection as
the poems stutter against
sad and empty bones,
sad and empty homes,
the nests of mother robins
barren too early in
the warmth.

i promise you,
under the bowing bodies
of the elms,
in the way that i feel
small

submission.shadows only become people
when you are alone.

look -

i am lying here,
trying so hard to
be something.

this bed is coloured in
mourning light, pale blue
sheets rumpled from distressed
hours spent between
achingly awake &
restlessly unconscious.
i want to write but i
cant put you in words
when i cant even
put you in your place.

i look at my hands.
they will never become yours
& i will make myself
sick before i believe that.
the human in me is still
drowning butterflies in its
sadness, but the headlights
freeze & im just
a deer locked in your
afterglow again.

orion & broken chemical boundaries
only soften around

spineless.sometimes i put my hand
to my back and trace my spine
just to make sure its still there.

i will never grow up,
never be beautiful enough,
never pull that haze of
green smoke into or away
from my chest.
that is your home,
and i regret to say that
i have lost your eviction
notice.

im terribly sorry for the
way you still make me bleed
silent screams biting
their way over my tongue;
im terribly sorry,
but how the fuck can i
stop loving you when i cant
forget you long enough to look
in the mirror and see you in the
glass.

you tell me in no (un)certain words
that i am not anything to you,
and i just nod and smile,
just clu

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with love.

by *ohsostarryeyed, Feb 7, 2011, 1:38:43 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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 our bodies.

with love.by *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2011-2013 *ohsostarryeyed

this felt warm to write

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~ConvictionbyLarm Jul 12, 2012 Student General Artist

every tear it's worth to cry about this pieces because it's sooo beautiful… there is no word to discribe it

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*ohsostarryeyed Aug 23, 2012

you are so wonderful

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Mood: Love

~Gothicangel93 Apr 19, 2012 Writer

_{Oh this is so beautiful!}

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*ohsostarryeyed Apr 25, 2012

thank you, love!

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~Gothicangel93 Apr 26, 2012 Writer

Aww you're welcome!

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~storyofmylife054 Jun 3, 2011

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`YouInventedMe Apr 15, 2011 Writer

quite a trip

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*ohsostarryeyed Apr 16, 2011

i hope it was an alright trip, then!

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Mood: Love

~darkfurmanbeast Mar 25, 2011

I can see it as I read it. one of the most beautiful things I've ever read

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*ohsostarryeyed Mar 25, 2011

oh my goodness, thank you so much!

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