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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
personificationi am a whisper no one else can hear.
yes, your butt looks huge,
yes, he will leave you
if you tell him how you really feel,
and no, you are never enough.

just because only you can hear me,
it doesn't mean i am any less real.
i will tint everything you see
like a pair of cheap sunglasses
with one lens opaque
so that you cannot see anything clearly
and your perception is skewed.

i am in the pilot's seat
and you will be mine
the second you let your guard down.

your heartstrings will connect my piano strings
as i hammer them down and knot with pain;
i will break you to your knees
and hit them to the pavement
like a child in the
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
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
i take anxiety medication for recreationit's about time
to write a story
about a failed
love affair-
of the heart, or
of the skin, or
of the mind-
dissipated, nonetheless.

the plot line would
enumerate the ways
in which the girl
torments herself
with theories and hypotheticals,
what-ifs and maybes;
worst of all are
what-could-have-beens.

the girl would never
tell you, the audience,
you, the reader,
you the listener
(you, asleep in your seat,
you, failing to read between the lines,
you, hands over your ears)
any of this.

she would not even pretend
that there was a struggle,
internal seeking desperately
to make it out,
and would leave
in peace,
able to s
before georgia takes you again
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
(change yourself,
find it in your
heart
to feel a little something
for me)
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
my mouth;

uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.

i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.

i have so much to
show you,
i could give you so much
to feel,
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
and there,
you stay.

one day,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
one day,
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shar
what was once our home is now our horror.when i'm not talking to you
i feel like vomiting,
walking behind a boy
who wore the same cologne
as you.

i can't cancel us-
we aren't a subscription-
before we have been
worn through
like soles of
old shoes.

and i think you
know that,
too.

the silence,
as heavy as it is,
is nothing
compared to the weight
of our hearts.

i don't know
if we'll ever
let this go;

but before we're done,
i need you
to look at me
full on,
the way you would
a mirror,
and not a naked girl
undressing in front
of you
for the last time.
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
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
innocent-looking girl.
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
thong underwear,
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.

it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.

so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without crac
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
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.

i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.

but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...

but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.

and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this cr
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,
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
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write what hurts

:iconohsostarryeyed:

i'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
and hear every sound you can

because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
too much.
:iconohsostarryeyed:
i don't know i feel frenzied maybe i'll take that neurontin i did just take it like four hours ago but i'm supposed to take it twice a day so whatever now's as good a time as any

"write hard and clear about what hurts." --ernest hemingway, my dearest
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:iconprincessgetho:
~Princessgetho Jun 30, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
I love how you're just so poetic! >W< Makes me feel the emotion of the poem just like if I were to listen to music. Because what ever I listen to, influences my mood.
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:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Aug 23, 2012
you're lovely <33
Reply
:iconprincessgetho:
~Princessgetho Aug 23, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
Awe. Thank you. Honestly, though. I think your poetry is so admirable and marvelous. I want to start writing some detail, awe-inspiring poetry like you.
You really should never ever stop. I'm totally a fan <3
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:iconkaname-chan:
~kaname-chan Jun 17, 2012
As I read this, I was thinking to myself about how much truth there is to this. It makes sense. Well done
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:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jun 23, 2012
:heart:!
Reply
:iconkaname-chan:
~kaname-chan Jun 23, 2012
:)
Reply
:iconsuspithra:
Mood: Unhappy ~Suspithra Jun 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
<3
Reply
:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jun 15, 2012
<3
Reply
:iconconvictionbylarm:
Mood: Passionate ~ConvictionbyLarm Jun 13, 2012  Student General Artist
Wow, you know it's wonderful, when somebodyelse finds words for a thing which seems impossible to discribe. Maybe it's a thin line between accepting things, we can't change and working in progress on other things, we can change. But having the wisdom to seperate both, might be difficult.

I love it
Thanke you <3 :)
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:iconohsostarryeyed:
*ohsostarryeyed Jun 30, 2012
thank you so much :hug:
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