[x]

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

we are not a fairytalewe are not a fairytale.

I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way

(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not

the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding

we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I&rsquo

Onceyour beauty lies restless behind those
hills, where you fought valiantly. and
the man you once were was brave and kind,
but now you are possessed by a passenger
of darkness, whispering words of your
loneliness.

the man you once were is forgotten, and
the man you are today, is only a ghost, a
shadow, of what you were before.

SurelyIt was raining
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.

Thin rivulets
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
from now
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
no more.

Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
whirling
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and me
and my frowning smile.

The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
and,
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

FossilizedLiving proof of fossils alive,
and no horseshoe-crab am I.

Nor, inhabitable harsh compression of plates,
residing under humid marsh-scapes.

I mold into the walls, as chalky old coal.
But I am no mineral, no era.
I am not, Mesozoic.

Through the ages
Iron
Bronze
silver, gold and heroic.

I remain a still-life; and no Iduna's apples would retain my youth
No magic fountains, or time devices, or wrist watches.
I am the machine of time.
The watcher, omnipotent, the wise.

But

no God am I

Somewhere, sweet tangy sap trolleys down cracked bark.
Somewhere, celestial bodies erupt unseen.
Somewhere, a abrupt breeze blows overturned bi-cycle tire

Prelude       Nocturne;
I conjure the moon
as dusk crests,
       a wave across the sky

       I am lovely and lonely in
       the night, shadow-
       shackled to the mountainside

and the moths
unfurl their hamsa-wings as
mama calls me in.

bookworm“there is no such thing
as reading too much.”
that is what I tell you
when you insist

that there is some danger of
becoming lost in the stuff—
mistaking seriphs for serpents,

swallowing a story so whole
that its hook
sticks in my throat.

“there is no such thing
as reading too much”
I tell you, bold-faced,
surrounded by snakes
with a line through my lip.

VaseA broken heart can be excavated.
Damaged tissue can be scrupulously removed
and the cracks can be sealed
with the molten trails of gold solidified.
The upturned cavity,
once proofed against further damage,
can become a pulsing vase for tulips,
because even though your heart has been broken
it is still valuable beyond comparison.

silver dreams.i won't say a single thing
about what you and i did that night.
it wasn't anything bad, we were
made to do it.
but the way your tears fell down
in the shape of a cloud
and the pounding on the doors
told us the stars were calling.
more like the gates of hell, but
you think stars make the most delicate
corpses.

HorsepowerHorsepower

There’s a knife turnin in my soft parts
And heat burnin my mind on hard starts
The motors runnin but I lost the wheel
Just want it to be numb don’t wanna feel
Take two steps back and put it in park
Before I leave scarred up black marks
I need a u-turn on this highway
But can’t go back on the by-way
So look ahead, the pavement goes on
Break the rear-view mirror it’s gone
Contemplate
Reiterate
Put it in drive
And say goodbye
Let’s see how fast this bitch can fly

-Cygam7

nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.

Here and There, Now and ThenBurnt umber dawn, swaying electric trees
Thousands of souls chant in the summer wind
Journals of the dead are read by schoolchildren
They awake shaking someone else's dreams from their heads

Static electricity on the nape of your neck
In the television, on your phone, in your dinner
The calling of a murder of crows from the trees
You remember the view from the hospital room window

A smorgasbord of life and limb, death and decay
The antiseptic smell has an undercoating of rot and dirt
Talismans won't work any more than prayers and candles
Soldiers still fight lost wars, glory in the faded night

Tall fences are built to keep the worlds separ

Puppet My tears fall,

like invisible

diamonds.

My heart beats,

like soundless

drums.

Unwanted,

because of the

strings attached.

How To WriteHow to write:

Write a word.
Now write a sentence.
Write a paragraph.
A chapter.
A story.
The end. ♥

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.3 KB more ▶

More from ~xthe-eleanorx

I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.

He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leave

ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.

She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.

Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.

She never felt quite at home. She worried about

The Angelic AnachronismMy turn-of-the-century French Boy
An anachronism, lost on his way home.
Walks by the stone angels,
Growing out of the ground.

He spoke with the tip of his hat
And French love letters
Waiting on my doorstep
I saved them,
Unanswered, and unopened
In an old hat-box

The frivolous-French boy
Traded his pea-coat for a business suit
And his eloquence for a profit
Sometimes he still walks by the angels
And wonders if they are sprouting,
Or sinking.

The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.

"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."

I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.

"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."

The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."

"Sad?" My mother asked inquis

Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.

Please don't leave me.

She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the

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

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#TheWritersMeow
Cool Cats Who Write

Details

Submitted: October 13, 2012
File Size: 1.3 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 11
Favourites: 6 [who?]
Views: 156 (1 today)
Downloads: 1 (0 today)

[x]

Porch Swing

by ~xthe-eleanorx, Oct 13, 2012, 2:47:59 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i. It's December,
the warm part of winter
snow is a blanket
and the fireplace crackles.

We eye the elephant-package
covered in crumpled birthday paper.
The paper flies
beneath it we gasp,
and the boys and girls
smile and take our picture.

ii. We're safe
from the April showers
beneath the roof of our porch.

We swing back and forth
for the first time.
I place my head
in the crevice
between your shoulder
and your neck.

We talk for two hours
about the azaleas.

iii. Our daughter's
daughter
runs through the sprinkler
watering the dry August grass.

She sits in the middle
planting sticky
strawberry-flavored kisses
on our cheeks
like seeds.

iv. You were the one
who wanted the apple trees.
We eat Honeygolds,
though we ought to wait
until October.

You stand up
to get another one,
from the lowest branch.
I stay on the porch
and pick at the peeling paint
on the arm of the swing.

v. By February,
Christmas
has gone and passed,
and I didn't get
another swing.

Porch Swingby ~xthe-eleanorx

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Mostly fictional.

1) ENDING I'm having such problems with its ambiguity that isn't even ambiguous.
2) Is the poem too long? Did you get bored partway through?
3) Favorite section?
4) Thoughts/Comments? Love/Hate?

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~ChiaraScuro Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

1) I liked the ambiguity! But I enjoy endings that are open to interpretation. I suppose if you wanted to make the death more obvious you could put something about how she's sitting on the swing alone now?

2) I think it's the right length. You got your point across in a pretty concisely.

3) I loved the imagery in this ~ favorite part in passage iii "planting sticky strawberry-flavored kisses on our cheeks like seeds."

4)

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 15, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you!

~Always-A-Day-Dreamer Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Awww!

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 14, 2012 Student Writer

~Always-A-Day-Dreamer Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

It's so loverly!

~TURNIP-SLOP Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Photographer

1. Ending I agree is a tad week, but I like what your trying to do with it, no idea how you go about fixing it though! Sorry

2. I don't think it's too long, but I would say that I was starting to lose interest in the middle of iv. don't know if that was length based or not though?
3. My favourate section was definitely the middle of ii. It's the part where I gained the strongest emotional attachment to the main character.
4. It's not your best work by far but I still enjoyed reading it a lot

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 14, 2012 Student Writer

I know, ugh, endings are never my friends.

~TURNIP-SLOP Oct 14, 2012 Hobbyist Photographer

Haha, oh well, at least you get the rest of it right fairly consistantly!

~Siartha Oct 13, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Where you trying to say that one of them died?

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 13, 2012 Student Writer

Trying. Yes.

More from ~xthe-eleanorx

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

Porch Swing

Porch Swingby ~xthe-eleanorx

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style