[x]

first.i'm a girl and you're a sunrise, letting me watch you burn across the sky. i'm not pretty enough to be you, not smart enough to catch you when you fall. i dig my fingernails into your palm, not wanting to let you go. you know how it is. you're a boy, and i'm something that could have been.

you curl your fingers over the frets. we could've been something great. my guitar's hanging next to the television. i wonder if you sold yours. was it too painful? there's still static, smoke curling across a frigid landscape. i used to write songs, you know. don't get too confident; they weren't all about you.

gosh. it seems like eons ago. autumn nights

ClementineMy fingernails mangle
the mottled wax
shell. Citrine sap
caresses each bulge
as I lick away
mattress-foam veins.
My teeth pop polyps
and shred cellophane skin.

If only everything
could be this sweet.

graphing a parabola.a mathematical breakthrough: you + me = i
for imaginary; let's get real because
the curve of your quadratic smile, a [subset] of my happiness,
touches the y-axis at the vertex of my heart.

factor the radicals and
solve your own problems:
algebra isn't too hard.
when you balance the equation, multiply by
negative one (leaving a positive me)

eventually my irrational love is squared
and i am the outlier.
i don't need a protractor to know
that i am less than what you want me to be.

This is How I Want You
I want you at 4am rubbing the sleep from your eyes,
sighing like the last breath
of a distant thunderstorm.

I want you in dark wash
jeans, white socks and black shoes,
pulling each article off

one

by

one

and leaving the exposed skin for me
to brush my fingertips against
and revel in the faint tremors.

I want you entangled
in my bedsheets
counting the pieces of my spine,
and the hours til dawn. I want
every synapse to crackle
with electric charge, with
anticipation;
waiting.
Waiting.

I want you,
your heavy, solid warmth
pressing down and concentrating all its force just below my navel,
to leave me struggling for

b. 1954He was born to Elvis' first dreamy hit
& a mother who preferred it to the soft
thumpthump heartbeat of her infant.

He was born to a world suffering
the high-pitched paranoia of racism,
the tight lows of war ad nauseam,
the slow slaps of McCarthyism.

He was born to a family familiar
with the thrilling thwack of ringed
fingers on flesh, to a father
who fled the frenzy in favor
of that mellow bass at death.

He was born the first son
and assumed the lead, progressed
from child to man at percussive speed;
Papa was a father long before me,
playing mother as well for siblings in need.

But seventeen came swiftly, and brought a new

Don't Need A Skyshe told me she didn't need to be a bird to fly

she didn't need feathers
or machines or extra limbs

she didn't need swing sets
to reach the clouds

.

she told me she didn't need to be free to have freedom

that I could lock her and chain her
but she would never need keys to leave

that I could bind her and tie her
but I could never touch the things that mattered

.

she told me she only needed hands

she told me her pens were her wings
and the paper her sky

and as long as she kept writing
she could never be contained

a poem to the matriarchsI'm growing out from under you
on colt-shaky legs,
exhaling clouds of mist from black-rimmed nostrils,
and sending wishing spirits dancing -
into the frost-edged November.

You planted me, two dozen years ago
like herbs on a kitchen windowsill -
tended by a widow-woman who lives alone;
her long gray braid brushing at threadbare hipbones,
barely visible under the pale, wintersoft press of lacy skin.

She rubs their leaves together in the mornings,
just to release the bittersweet scents
(of lavender, rosemary, thyme)
and set them lazing about the countertops;
pressing delicate fingertips into moist warm earth
and bringing them

Ruth.

She has suckers for breakfast
The fools for midnight
And laughs at the splinter-boned;
The lovers.

No bittersweet taste of golden days
Upon the lips of a drifter, fifteen strong
Pleased to displease, the boys of shame
Honey, it's not worth the ache.

The beauty is in nothing broken
And you are nothing less than lovely
A romantic who's not one for fallin'
Love, if you only knew my story.

"Nothing lasts forever."
No 'happily ever,' only afters
Lonely hearts, the greatest disaster
I choose not to believe.

Piano PlayingI am a pianist
And you are my piano, dear.

I play minuets along your ribcage,
Write love songs on your arms,
And press your vertebrae like keys
To let soft chords fill the empty space.
Your hairs are the resounding strings,
Your lips are polished brass pedals
That make everything loud and soft at the same time.
Kissing you makes the whole world shift up an octave.

I am a pianist
And you are my piano, dear
So let's write a duet in the dark.

Bone Marrow and bone Structurei.
I carved your name into my ribcage
The doctors had taken away my pens
I made due with knives and scalpels

Precision and care; I had none
I clumsily wrote you in my structure
And I cracked the bone by accident

I found you in my bone marrow
Begging for escape
But I couldn't get you out

ii.
Use, use, use, use;
that's all I asked you to do
instead you just took, took, took

I'm left; bone marrow hallowed out
I walk like I'm full of helium
Tethered to the ground; fearful I might escape

Then I wrote your name
in the crooks of my elbows
and you erased it

iii.
My circulatory system fails me
and I hate, hate, hate that
I've

I.My bones were glass blown:
Crafted to curve lowly -
(un)beautifully - furling like
a fetus,
inchoate.

Imagine me transmuted, bursting through
desquamated skin. Picture my
clay-molded contours liquified
and awakened, shifted:
Incognito.

But I am unseasoned - grape-shelled,
guileless. Esotericism is overflowing
in my veins:
I click
shut.

This path is as smudged as
its traveler (skidding yet
never slowed), clotted
with mud:
Defiled.

Watch my fingers splay, breaking
from my tendons to
grasp tangible air
and touch
nothing.

You can neither scorch nor
whittle me into
nail-sized hopelessness, only
make me
obsolete.

Steeled, my jaw is set -

I'm finePaint splattered like dying sobs across the wide emptiness,
Running away like ink from bloody fingertips.
It's close enough to midnight not to matter
And these words are written with hands
Shaking from forced apathy.

A voice lingered,
It sounded like yours,
Or else it was the pages falling closed,
A regretful sigh in the early hours of the end of the world.

The television's on repeat; it's crying for help
And I thought it might have been you,
But it was the angels instead.

They circle like carrion
And steal all of what I wanted to tell you
About the meaningless feelings I've been having,
Replacing instead with the poignant:
"

The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.

I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.

Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hai

aphrodisiac.You're a match.
A dark, calloused surface blazing
bright. Fingers glowing at the tips -
on fire, you gently brush the digits
across my skin, setting the nerves alight.

A rush of heat,
washing across my neck, my chest -
pooling in my stomach.
I tremble.
As your hands draw lower, falling in spirals,
ragged breaths tear out of my lungs.
I
palpitate -
a swarm of butterflies in a red balloon.

You're the sunset,
and I'm the horizon.
As you sink, the skies ignite
and I burn - a fireball, a pheonix -
flames in a forest of clouds.

I'm consumed...

So soon, the inferno dwindles.
Fireflies cool and grow dark.
Sunlight fades aw

O Dan Rot.Dan Rot, a man
of considerable comic timing
who came on rackety wings around the globe
in thirty days or so,
visiting once again with a night on his heels
copping feels on innocent ladies pillowed in bathtubs,

i.

i was black like night
and i was ringed in rainfall
i was so glorious

a spiraling psyche led me to one thing
and this town never could have contained me
a spinning science to my insanity

bends in the system and curves of the power lines
a beauty to plywood and splinter breaks that cannot be defined
bends in the path, a northward slide

strand you in a parking lot
i was vicious and viscous
and i was perfect

as i die

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A Moment on the BusHe knew from the moment that he saw her that he loved her. He stepped onto the bus with the rest of the crowd and was immediately smitten. She was sitting in the third seat from the back, dressed in a business-like pant suit while typing on her iPhone.

The whole world was glowing around her, giving her a celestial appearance. He felt like Moses parting the red sea as the crowd split in two while he made a beeline for the empty seat on her left.

He felt as though he had won a prize, although he did wish that he had been able to take a shower that morning. He looked down at himself—he couldn't hold down a job, and it showed. He was skinn

The FenceHe came over to my fence every afternoon. Sometimes I would be playing in the yard, and other days I would see him through the window. I would reach up to unlock the door and run out to the fence. We would sit, he on his side and me on mine. We pulled grass and flowers, get dirt on our scabby knees, and catch bugs. Talking through the fence, enjoying the simplicity of being eight, but we wanting to grow up so badly. We would play until my mother came to the door and told me to come in and clean up. I would wave goodbye and run inside to wash the mud out of my clothes. And I knew that I would see him at my fence again tomorrow.

I remember the

ReminiscenceThe library always had a particular smell to it; she couldn't place her finger on it, perhaps mothballs or window cleaner. It wasn't a particularly good smell, but it was comforting. She wanted to look at her books, the ones that she wrote, the ones who made her who she is.

She was the only adult in the children's room. She had grown up in here; gotten her library card, checked out her first picture books, then her first chapter books.

She crouched down to reach the shelves, looking for her books.

There they were, right before Anne of Green Gables. She smiled when she saw the worn, broken spines and the ripped, plastic library covers.

She

MusingsI can ignore the pang in my stomach,

And be quite amused by the whole thing.

I knew: I saw it coming.

Would you like me better if I was one of those girls?

Who blubber songs of unrequited, yet true love,

And claim poetry is 'too confusing'

Because it uses big words?

I pretend that I enjoy this feeling,

Like a balloon without a string.

I've been told that I would be rescued,

By a Prince Charming,

Or some ruby slippers perhaps.

What if I didn't need it?

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Oh Dear.

by ~xthe-eleanorx, Sep 1, 2011, 10:11:02 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

_{He is an Oscar Wilde inspired man-poet
Whose subjects are as real as glass.

He is a silly chorus boy
Spending far too much time in the music room.

He is a reader,
A dreamer
Who hums to himself while his eyes float across the page.

He is real-
But I don't even know his name.

And I am already infatuated.}

Oh Dear.by ~xthe-eleanorx

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

_{This is a revised version of a poem that I put on my tumblr.

I had a bit of inner turmoil about the first line. I really liked the idea of an 'Oscar Wilde man-poet' but this implies that this unnamed person is gay. And for the sake of the poem(poet), it is important to make clear that he is not.

1. Does the separation of the lines make the poem too choppy?
2. In the third stanza 'a dreamer' is given a separate line making this stanza three lines rather than two. Does this...matter?
3. I am on the fence about the ending, what about you?
4. Title help s'il vous plait?
5. Thoughts/Comments? Love/Hate?}

love 2 2

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

*Allyrah Feb 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

First of all I have to say that I really don't think the line "Oscar Wilde inspired man-poet" implies that the person mentioned in the poem is gay, it didn't even cross my mind until I read your comment, because there's just so much more to Oscar Wilde than that. That said, I love this! This is really great!

1. No, the separations do not make the poem too choppy, I think the separation of the lines works just fine.
2. No, it doesn't matter, I think it's great that "A dreamer" has its own line, it places more emphasis on that line, which I think works very well for this poem.
3. I like the ending. In fact, I love it! It made me smile, I think it's great!
4. Ah, yeah... Don't know, titles are difficult... And I have no idea if you've already changed it, it's been a while since you submitted this, I'm pretty late in commenting.
5. I guess I began this comment with this part. I just really love it, it's wonderful, short and magical. I love the "He is a reader" stanza, love the imagery! This is a really wonderful piece!

~xthe-eleanorx Feb 6, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you very much! I'm glad you liked it!

(I actually still haven't managed to find a decent title, I suppose I gave up in the process.

)

~420Writer Sep 18, 2011

"He is a reader,
A dreamer
Who hums to himself while his eyes float across the page. " - I love the feeling you get about the character from these lines; you just picture him sitting in a chair in front of a fire reading to himself. lol. At least that's what I got from it.

1. There's something about the word choice that makes the choppy lines feel right. I wouldn't change a thing.

2. I thought the third line here was intentional, so I would have to say no, it does not affect the rhythm. In my opinion, it actually adds to the flow of the piece.

3. The ending was my favorite part! What are you talking about? lol. I thought it was such a clever way to end the poem and leave the reader wondering who you are, and who he is; and you almost feel a little infatuated yourself.

4.

Love this

~xthe-eleanorx Sep 18, 2011 Student Writer

Thank you for the comment and favorite! I'm glad you liked it! (And I love your interpretation with the fire.

)
s'il vous plait is a French term meaning 'if you please'--it's the SVP in RSVP.

~420Writer Sep 18, 2011

Haha I'm glad you liked that.

Now that I understand the question: I think something like "My Man Poet" would be cute and, and since you put such a stain on it, I think it would make the reader feel like it's more of an "admiring infatuation" instead of a homosexual infatuation; which is what I got when I first read the title and poem combined. Just a suggestion though

~xthe-eleanorx Sep 18, 2011 Student Writer

I do like that, I will most definitely take it into consideration. (If you can't tell, titles are my weakness.

)

~wakemeup60 Sep 18, 2011

^{I love the way you write, and I love the way this piece feels. The separation of lines is fine. It slows the pace down and makes everything seem a little more dreamlike. I really liked the ending. I'm guessing you're on the fence about it because it seems a little cliche, but I really think it works for this piece. The title's good too. Short and sweet, you know? The 'Oscar Wilde man-poet' part was the only thing I didn't like but I see you're struggling with it. This really is a great piece, though.}

~xthe-eleanorx Sep 18, 2011 Student Writer

Thank you for the lovely comment and favorite! I'm glad you liked it!

~wakemeup60 Sep 18, 2011

^{you're very welcome}

~Sandstar12 Sep 14, 2011 Student Writer

_{1. Does the separation of the lines make the poem too choppy?

No, I don't think it does make the poem choppy at all. I think it works; you've started each stanza with the same 'He is...' which helps to link them all together, and it is clear that each of the thoughts follow on from each other and are about the same person. I also think that the simplicity and shortness of this poem helps to emphasise the extent of the infatuation the speaker has with this person. Almost as if they know so little about him, but it doesn't matter...

2. In the third stanza 'a dreamer' is given a separate line making this stanza three lines rather than two. Does this...matter?

Not at all.

3. I am on the fence about the ending, what about you?

I like the to-the-point bluntness of the ending after the descriptions and thoughts, but I'm not sure if it isn't a little clumsy... on second thought, I do like it. It sounds good if read aloud.

I'm afraid I really can't help with titles; my own are bad enough and I wouldn't inflict that upon anyone.
My thoughts are that I love this. I also didn't think of homosexuality when I read the original first line, rather of Oscar Wilde himself with all his wit and irony. Saying that, I like the addition of the word 'inspired'.}

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