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and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
countless pairs
of shoes-
with those
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
and heels

I'm running into
parked cars
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
dashboards
listening to you
fight

I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
to hide-
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
of you

supplicationenter into the lands
you've been granted
access
but not freely;

a price you've paid
as a way was paved
passed my every memory.

barren rose bushes
reach out,
attempting to grasp
their last chance
at life.

scars beg for
remembrance as
arms push outwards

"Let them heal, please,"
you say.

I press into
your back
bringing my arms
into my breast
and try to silence
the dull pulse
in each gash.

I cannot see
what you see
in these lifeless
valleys
with clouds and thunder
threatening to drown
and evaporate every
topiary.

my only requisition
upon this journey's end -
that your eyes
are not scarred and scabbed,
becoming impossible to see
the roads l

Serendipity and SnowfallI am la vie en rose,
a newborn with as many mini bones in my body as possibilities.
Lovelily,
I am potential waiting to be tapped into.
I am a spectrum of light,
serenity in the symmetry of a snowflake.

I come veiled in lace from everlasting love's womb with my budding,
fresh,
goose-flesh tucked tenderly underneath.
I spread my spirit wide,
outstretching my feather-tips &,
supplicated by twizzles,
I catch my ballerina's foot & fly.
In these fleeting,
finite moments of ubermensch suspension in multiple salchows comes clairvoyance,
a kindness beyond the absolution of mundane minds.

With the key to perfection being repetition,
I pray you

December Buddha IIDecember cracks open like hazelnuts,
browned and dried from the November fires,
and brings with it the reminder to
live the forest that I am:
smoky and sprinkled with sage.

North Carolina Decembers are sunny enough—
they long for a quiet buddha-winter,
white and soft,
for someone to remind them that life
does not end with the New Year,
that time is a hazelnut, curling in on itself.
That it is my roots, a twining forest network
going on forever.

In the spring, I am not the forest fire.
I want a stream for floating hazelnuts
and will answer all your riddles with my cryptic
sage-answer: "time, time, time."

But I am no rain-bu

SunsetThis is the last poem I'll write for you.

Do you remember the day we met?
It was sunny that day--
the day when our worlds collided--
and I remember.

I remember in a way
that can only be described
as the tragic lovechild of
fondness and bitterness,
when two souls trudging
from to separate ends of
a storm
meet, by chance,
in the eye.

When our worlds collided
and turned into something
new--
a haze of infatuation and gratitude.
I remember.

This is the last breath I'll breathe for you.

Do you remember those nights?
Those nights in our own little world,
crushed together into some sort of
mismatched fairytale.
Those nights wh

gathering dragonfly wingsi.
she had wings of a dragonfly,
delicately pretty,
but she fluttered them in front of me,
a sad little smile on her face,
too often.

ii.
her veins were faultily broken –
because she couldn't even cut them right –
but i traced the scabs with my
lips,

even when she sharply inhaled
in pain.

iii.
oh, her eyes were intoxicating
but they revealed
so much less than her clothes when
pulled away and yanked down.

iv.
she never knew
the effect she had on me –

i never wanted

House of Invisible MenPrologue: - The White-Porched House -

White September, October, November,
A December in snow.
The autumn season is a harsh one
For us who haunt this shabby bachelor's apartment.
Time begins to dwell on these first flakes,
White as our faces,
Pale as my eyes.
The voices calling out from the porch,
David, Marcus, Michael,
Roommates, all of them
Joining house with one Steven Green.
Yet, despite the cold,
Despite the snow choking our window-framed faces
You wouldn't believe how much,
We didn't miss the rain.

1. - Faceless Man -

David was an engineer, a worker of diagrams
His hands winding a clock, always working late.
The pro

la fille aux cheveux de linwe are currently in A minor,
but watch out for the key change in
eight measures
(it will hit you like
a ton of bricks when you hear my
F's and C's go sharp - they will stab
you in the chest and twist into your
gut like a knife)
i am a pitterpattering bell chime
in the wind, echoing across the hall
and down the stairs to your seashell ears
and my fingers are aching as they fly
across the keys
   my lungs are squeezing out every
particle of air that can be salvaged from my body
but this is something like flying because
    they can hear me from three miles away
even though my voice is so small and there is
        nothing that could stop me from growing
   wings and leaving this place behind
(but sometimes i am grounded by the roars of the sea)

Steadfast EndeavorThe silent breath of paper walls narrate
The evenings worth naught but your husky hands,
These fingers carve on blood-red stone for late
Was love to try your hollow soul demand.

On cobwebbed rooftops slide the needle rain
To blind thine eyes as dull as blackened snow.
None languid more than chimes unstrung, contained
Beyond your weary feet where hatred grows.

I understand, far more than words defined
In every tongue, effete, but play this song,
No dance upon your lips is less divine
Than love to never change. Those scars begone.

When next you wake, beside you I'll remain,
Alone, you never shall be cold again.

fifty shades of sorryand all tomorrow will bring is yesterday's coffee and
the certainty that you'll never be good enough, never be
brave or strong or beloved because that's reserved for the
heroes, and all you can ever hope to be is the comic relief who
gets killed off in the first twenty chapters because no-one can
quite bring themselves to care.
not nice not pretty not smart; nothing to distinguish you from
the next lonely face in a line of those you have precious little
in common with because your tea's gone cold and it's windy outside
and you can issue fifty kinds of sorry to those you'll always
hurt but in the end, you're all alone, and you

white skiesthe devil hides inside the cool blue moon,
waiting for lily pads to float away into the suns,
churning water into raspberry-purple grass;

deep inside the sour-apple forest,
doves sleep on frosty branches and pathers wake
with stirring sighs;

here in the ocean of golden tree-nymphs,
the devil hides in the clear white sky

(he is who haunts and tears to shreds
the feathers of man and the voices of birds)

the boy with a sun for a heartI speak in tongues because I cannot breathe your air
Like the moon stripping glory from the sun
I can never give you what you're used to
Feeding on the soil at your feet
Hoping for a chance to kiss your knees

Will my rib cage full of sodden hoarding
Be worthy of your scintillation?
I'm a wooden house
Filled with plastic diamonds in the south
Burning in your gentle heat
Melting on my tarnished knees

SomaliaIf she could feed him her flesh
she would,
but the flies have
gotten to her first.
Sunken sockets
Brittle spine
too parched,
too starved,
much too tired to even try.
But she still does,
because he is
still here.

Hush.
She'd rather stay silent as
her guts become
self-cannibals.
Meanwhile,
her largest organ
raisins under the
scorching sun.

She's wandered,
much longer than what was
permissible.
And now,
she would give up her legs,
if only she
could lactate.

something in the oceanthere's something in the
ocean that demands a
eulogy, something loud
and commandeering.
bit by bit he is losing his
mind in this heat and the
weather fluctuations
have him tossing and
turning in the middle
of the night. he tells me

that the moon no longer
brings him good tidings
(he would never admit it
but the only news he
receives nowadays is
from the sun). he knows
he is the last of all the
ponds, pools, lagoons,
waterfalls and riverbanks,
and he also knows
that he can be easily
forgotten. at his request

i describe in vivid words
and colors his rippling tides,
roaring cries and shimmering
clear skin. he insists i

cariboumud had reached

the height of men stacked palm to palm

an uninhabitable monument

to the lichen that once laid claim as the seasonal

kings of proliferation

and since completely devoured

being the first

and only thing on the menu

doomed to the cyclical

irony of growing

on the bones of those it used to sustain

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Confessions about herragged, she wears her abuse
you can see it around her eyes
in her plastic smile
she plays her part so well
i'm surprised they haven't
made a lifetime network movie
out of her life story yet

give the people something
to cry their tears of sorrow at
lather her in all
your pitiful tears

that's the last thing she wants

pity

the only thing it's good for
is awkward conversations
which lead to downcast eyes

but she's already learned
the shape of her shoes
and she knows how they
curve up at the toe
when standing nervously
averting her eyes

she knows how they sit
so comfy on the concrete
while inside her arches ache
she knows

Burn OutMy salvation escapes from
the shower head and devours me.
It's determined to suffocate
the heat eminating from me.

Steam rises from my ashen skin.

I breathe in, trying to ease
my burning lungs, and I'm
met with a sharp sting.
My chest spasms as my
body aches for oxygen.
My diaphragm begins to scream
its protest to the cold I've
welcomed into this pyre.

I will suffocate your flames
before I let myself burn out.

What's yours is ours.

"Oh, you look just like her," they exclaim.
I smile politely with clenched jaw.
I fight the grip on my chest as best I can.
My throat burns as I swallow
everything I want to say.

And then I see it.

Those are my cheek bones.
Those are my eyes.
You even have my
unconfident smile.
That's my frizzy hair.
Those shoulders held
tight like mine.

But you -
are a stranger.

I wish your face
wasn't mine.

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caustic and cautious

by *Hfeather53, Nov 9, 2012, 9:14:37 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

tonight-
even she is jealous
of our passion
ripping apart the
earth with her
violent tears
attempting to thieve
our warmth with her
chills

she hollows old bones
like a drill
with a surgeon's
precision

tarry the night
tarry the day
our wake
is beyond the
storm

1,377

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caustic and cautiousby *Hfeather53

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~and they will envy us all the more when we walk hand in hand through the wreckage of these storms

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~XXFallbackXX Nov 23, 2012

haters gonna hate right?
Haha but seriously, this tells a story even though it's so short and settle. Great job once again

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*Hfeather53 Nov 23, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Indeed

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~Will7744 Nov 11, 2012 Professional Writer

like your tag line and this poem - normally I'd balk at the image of tears violently ripping the earth or the use of the word "tarry" at all, but somehow you manage to pull it off - second stanza is a cut stone - that's some voodoo you do

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*Hfeather53 Nov 11, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Yeah, I'm told i have a tendency to use cliche phrases... But when that's the best way i know to describe rain falling from the sky, freezing, and plowing into the ground... It was just that- violent.

Thanks so much for the feedback.

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~Naiah57 Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Absolutely love the images I get when reading this

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*Hfeather53 Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks so much!

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Mood: Love

~CephiraForest Nov 10, 2012

I love the sharp imagery of this

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*Hfeather53 Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you =]

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