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fingertips.one fine day, she met this boy who had:
a mop of unruly hair,
a cheeky grin,
and mismatched eyes.

to her, he was beauty at its true form,
and thus,
she let him pull her closer to him,
and her fingertip just barely grazed love.

Oh Dear.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.

Three distancesThe distance between my heart and my head was a marathon I could not complete,
I watched you hurry to your train, and I wonder
how people do it, survive instead of living
and does the journey shorten with time

The distance between my head and my mouth was shut down with roadblocks,
I listened to your ship setting course, and I wonder
should I be grateful for already being numb
or afraid of what I will accept tomorrow

The distance between my mouth and my hands is a path long overgrown,
I know your plane is about to leave, and I wonder
after all this time, will you understand what I could not say
and will the revelation come too late

Summer Skin Draft 2It was the summer of the weird smell and I was fourteen years old. Katie and I met on a swing set. I was twisting back and forth, a bag of red licorice on my lap, a fresh novel in my hands. I never finished that book; a few chapters in, I was interrupted by an energetic "Hey!" and as with most things that summer that weren't Katie, I couldn't now pinpoint the details of the novel if my life depended on it.

"Whatcha reading?"

"A book," I answered deadpan, carefully marking my place with a tissue.

"Well, duh." She collapsed into the swing next to mine.

Her blonde hair was darker than my own, sun-kissed shade.

"Can I have some of your red v

StarsIt is
amazing
how
when our eyes
align
I see you
staring,
star gazing,
beautifully unfocused.
Unseeing,
but crying,
stars
reflected in your eyes
even though
you don't feel
anymore.

I am the WriterI am a protagonist,
An antagonist,
A minor supporting character

I am the investigator,
The liberator,
The prophetic narrator

I am your hero
Your villain,
Your forgotten sidekick

The creator,
The destroyer,
I am the writer

ErosStare at me
with fire in your eyes,
remove the slow flame of love for the moment—
ignite the spark that burned
my thighs,
set me ablaze with desire.

I know; you love me:
tenderness coats your lips,
pulses through your gentle hands
whole heartily as mine sweat.

Find the hunger in your breast,
crave my canvas with your entirety
like you did
when we wished the world
would disappear long enough
for a firestorm.

Remove your virgin's veil,
kiss without those three words
behind your lips,
and from mine pull the deep,
smooth, booming cry
of your name.

Spilled PaintA blank piece of paper
Is staring at me
It only wants to be written on
A pen with no ink
Is glaring at me
"Write" it commands
But my chair is spinning in circles
And my thoughts are flying out of my head
And the words I want to write
Are staining the floor
Like spilled paint

The trashcan in the corner
Of this dirty room
Is overflowing
With crinkled papers
With half-written poems
And half-expresses feelings
That are dripping down the sides
And the color of pain and hate
Of love and joy
Are staining the floor
Like spilled paint

My tears of frustration
Are falling on my blank piece of paper
And the lines start to run
O

Painting the SunSun,
Canvas of blurred lines
Waiting patiently.

Golden tears fall
From the brush;
Hues of orange, yellow and red
Create stars.

Final stroke;
Stand back when she yells
"Let there be light!"
Now, watch it gleam.

Feeding The PigeonsThe new pills were in my pocket, probably getting all linty. Or should I say the new-new-new pills: after all, this was the third try at finding a medication I'm not allergic to. After throwing my guts up on two different meds, I'm not about to swallow another one, only to find it's coming back up too.
Why do I even have medication? It's not like I'm in horrible pain when I don't take it.
My arms are stuck straight out, and they waver as I try to balance on one metal track. If my foot touches the ground, it's "burned" by lava. Lava is pretty good incentive not to touch the middle of the train tracks: even if in real life, its not lava. It

ZombiesWe are all sullen creatures of the earth,
Burdened with the day-to-day task
Of dragging bone-weary limbs
Across vast roads of asphalt and concrete
And of wrapping worn-out fingers
Around the steering wheels of vehicles and life
Just to fulfill an existence
We can't even comprehend the meaning of.
(Our brains don't have the capacity.)

We secretly yearn for energy like infernos
To course through our vacant veins,
(Crimson blood long gone, poured out like water through parched skin.)
For even one neuronal cerebral response
That signals we are more than hollow husks
Just so that

We can feel alive again.

Zombieinside they're worming
flesh heaving as they go
eating tunnels, slowly,
through my very fiber

maggots chewing through
emitting a putrid stench
as my innards are digested
bite by bite

i'd never pitied rotting stump
filled with holes and moisture
turned to mossy sponge
anchored fungi becoming
the last form of life

ChocolateI once had some chocolate bars
And on a summer day,
Out on the grass behind my house,
I passed them around to my friends and we ate them,
Bit by bit, greedily,
Holding the smooth skins
And leaving smudges.
Each bar went around to all of us
And we all had our share
Some more than others.
We all left our teeth marks;
Little chips in the layers of chocolate
that told the next in line that we were done.
I gave away the bars freely;
There were always more
Different flavors in fact
And we were so eager to share,
And so eager to find our favorite,
That we tore through each bar with little thought,
Taking our fill before passin

curious company'this town is too small,'
she claimed.
'too small for things
to actually change.'

a lit cigarette dangled from her lips
but we ignored the smoke;
the light coming from the tip
will burn longer than anything she knew.

such a nonchalant complaint
dismissed with a blink;
she flicked the embers out onto the street.

there's the sidewalk for a chair,
but the runt of a tree for a roof
fails to cover the disappoint
she always found herself wading through.

a siren in the distance
coming to save her?
no, not this time.

a rescue slowly passed by,
hoping for her acknowledgement
but she knowingly misses the chance;
the words of her

Puzzle PiecesYour mother got annoyed with us, so she sent us to the playroom with a puzzle. I dumped all the glossy pieces out while you watched intently.
How are you going to put this together? You asked. The pieces are all circles!

I was perplexed. The pieces were clearly not circles, so I began to put the pieces together.
I don't understand! You exclaimed. How can we do this?

I figured you were just being silly like always. I ignored your moans and put together all the outside pieces.

You huffed and puffed the way disgruntled children do and crossed your arms across your chest as you plopped down on the floor.

I pushed the last piece into pla

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More from ~xthe-eleanorx

Oh Dear.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.

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?

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

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Passionate Indifference

by ~xthe-eleanorx, Mar 18, 2011, 7:57:29 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

To say that I have loved
Would imply that I feel
Something more than
Passionate Indifference.

Passionate Indifferenceby ~xthe-eleanorx

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2011-2013 ~xthe-eleanorx

This was written around the phrase "Passionate Indifference." I liked that phrase, how can passion be indifferent? Or rather, how can indifference be passionate? Actually, please don't answer that.

Does the poem flow well?
Is it "poetic?"
Thoughts/comments?

~Morph-Sedation Mar 28, 2011 General Artist

Very poetic and it flows well, but why so short? I feel there could be much more to say than those four lines, though it keeps a sort of mystery. A different title could be better, because it's so short, using the end as the title makes it repetitive to my eye.

Interesting piece of writing, I like it!

Reply

~xthe-eleanorx Mar 29, 2011 Student Writer

Thanks for the feedback! Glad you enjoyed it!

Reply

~The-Dormant-Sprite Mar 25, 2011 Student Writer

it would be such a great piece if the title weren't just a reiteration of the thesis. if i were you, i'd do something entirely different that adds something more to the poem. title is so important!

Reply

~xthe-eleanorx Mar 25, 2011 Student Writer

Thanks! Titles really aren't my forte, I've been working on one, but I haven't found the right one yet.

Reply

~toBea-or-not-toBea Mar 24, 2011

I love the rhythem in this, very contrasting. Simply beautiful

Reply

~xthe-eleanorx Mar 25, 2011 Student Writer

I'm glad you liked it!

Reply

~toBea-or-not-toBea Mar 29, 2011

So am I

Reply

~WaKip Mar 24, 2011 Writer

Makes just enough sense to make me enjoy it

, I thought it was pretty poetic.

Reply

~xthe-eleanorx Mar 25, 2011 Student Writer

Thanks! I'm glad you liked it!

Reply

~Same-side Mar 24, 2011 Writer

I think the phrasing works well with the line breaks, and the message/point of the poem is Beautifully Punctuated in you use of capitalization. The only minor problem I can see, potentially, is the mismatched verb tenses ("have loved" being present perfect tense, "feel" being present tense). As I said, this is minor, but it's something to look at when editing and revising down the road.

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