my heart is a thing i wrote out
on the back of your hand, one night,
in ballpoint pen,
while you were sleeping soundly,
milky white and deep blue and wrapped in my love;
in the dark,
i closed my eyes and breathed your being's poetry,
filled with nirvana.
Dawn broke the day
like an egg
on a canvas.
And her eyes
bled a trail
staining that
alabaster sand.
Coming from the arabesque land;
with her ivory skin
and mute screams,
she wrapped me
like their bitter fruit.
And bid me farewell,
pollinating my lips,
then waning in my vase.
I could see her
amongst the frigid flowers
on the windows,
as I entered the white desert,
where people reminisce
of the deaths of other people.
here's the the crazy little thing about the end of the world: i haven't done a damn thing differently even though i know it's all over soon.
but here's the other crazy little thing: it's all okay now.
he's looking at me like i am alive and so far from burnt out and the subtle hint of his arm around my hips in front of everyone and we're sneaking off to kiss in the elevator and to kiss behind closed doors and the lights are on and i'm not fucking terrified.
this is how it starts: always with an ending.
i am not broken and i am not angry. i am looking at you from across the table, half smirks sly as silver foxes, and you're knotting your fi
some days you look at me as if i am
worth remembering,
glances studying my face like a road map.
but mostly, i find your eyes stuck in the static
of the pavement, or lost
in the clouds
gathering before lightning.
and we never promise anything, just share the air like strangers
when we don't know what to say.
(it always ends with a silence more desolate
than broken trust.)
you said this is the calm before the storm
but what if
it never slows down
enough for me to notice
that there are days when we can exist
without doubting every second. you have a tendency to whisper
too quietly, leaving room for me to imagi
i knew you were sick because you asked me why i smelt like cinnamon, when
i was wearing your favorite perfume: vanilla and lilac.
i took a shower while you cut up our decadence, our love spelled out in
tight, white lines. i washed with pomegranate soap and lavender shampoo
and when i stepped out of my steamy abyss, i tried not to cry as your
nose crinkled.
you didn't want to go to a doctor. i picked at my finger nails and through
a thousand "uhm"s and "ah"s, admitted that i thought something was wrong
with you. your skeletal remains lay in a heap on the bed, telling me to
stop worrying, saying that everything was fine, it was jus
black moon serenade by DamagedHomewrecker, literature
Literature
black moon serenade
it's always two in the morning and it's always hands. it's always the same story. i'm crying and you're cradling my shoulder. the sky never blushes this much unless we're crossed beneath it. i am a fool. always. but here we go again. don't leave me. just stay. just try. oh.
doused in milk and honey
the Queen rises
a horizon,
the skyline
you've got the devil
in her eyes coming
out like drivel lies
she wants you, paradise
but what she aches for
is to turn
a murk bath into
a gully.
her spider
arms hold you round
the neck and
you slip
to the floor a rapid;
cast her into
the sea.
Her eyes scream fill in the _____. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
Her eyes scream fill in the _____.
They said
she has starving
little poet fingers,
& lungs-
filled with
the heroic hearts
of nameless protagonists.
But, she cries
tears of Saturn
on too-little-sleep nights,
& coffee ringed mornings.
They call her vanilla.
Innocence,
much too ripe to fall
with freckles on her
wander(lust)
shoulder-blades
singing connect-the-dot
blues.