[x]

Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,
serenaded by the waver of
gossamer wings;

faces blushing bright
as the sunlight
slips away.

fireweedi have planted my city heart in the dust
and set it aflame.
my new one can taste the wind's origins,
it knows how to ponder heavy thoughts with dark clouds,
it knows the motives behind the rain drop's dances.

--

the sun was eating my skin but
no matter, i can regrow.
i could feel the quivering earth in the bees' hum and
the rhythm of each passing second in the ants' march.
i wanted to tell you i love you because
in all the beautiful expanses of raw earth and passion i have never seen a face so fine.

--

it is four at dawn and the world is tumbling,
lights and numbers are exploding,
we are dying,
time is not waiting.

HindsightI'm starting to think this life isn't what it seems,
but I might just need some sleep,
I just need to fall asleep.

I've never believed in luck,
my personal philosophy is one of feigned entropic denial:
You take a hit,
you retaliate right back with twice the force.

Yeah.
they say some just want to watch the world burn,
but what's a pile of ashes in the long run?

In reality,
all I'm feeling is wasted,
and I should have never got high off of you.

In fact,
if you find yourself in a hole,
the first thing to do is stop digging.

In hindsight,
my fingers have been covered in dirt and blood.

AtlantisOur ships float close under sunlit skies,
hovering above Atlantis.
We claimed the ocean miles as our own,
an underwater district which we would call home.

Drown.
Suffocate with Neptune,
as heavens burst through violet haze.
Your gaze,
splits the nebula, infinite space,
and explosions in a faraway place.

And when the sun should close its eyes,
you'll sail afar.
To climb electric vines,
and lay in the arms of the storm.

Isaiahdid you hope with me, Isaiah?
or did I merely dream the days of our stand;
of red strings, of stardust,
of too-small hands & too-long hair,

& of the words, the words, the words

(the ones you had me
believe you were worth)

for it was you who said,
"go big or go home.
I will give you the world,
or nothing at all.

this, I promise to you."

so dear to me, the vowels & the verbs,
the air hissing through
your teeth: gateways
to a barren land

words

like wind through the trees,
like ghosts through the tombstones.

have you left me, Isaiah?
I travel north & farther north, still,
for humans do, subconsciously,
gravitate homeward.
b

paint me an orthodoxone day I'll rest on hollow shoulders
and silence the humming of my heart

pink is a flightless bird
bearing semblance to four cavernous holes in my body

if feathers cannot fly
Then my infested soul will never brush the stars

i am squirming
under the gaze of your colors
and the tools in your hand

paint me an orthodox

i'll slip you an omnipotent card
and declare you the decorator of my body

you'll need more than glue
to attach ruffled feathers
to my darkened soul

[if you love something, set it free]

once you're done re-inventing me unimaginable

TransientThe once sanguine walls—
broken and collapsed into wings
—have become grey, pinned still, within a desolate birdcage.

Migratory birdsong hatched from our birth place, from
scuff marks and peeled paint, where cross-legged lovers once sat,
where lips fed souls, and fingers clasped time tightly.

Time escaped on the winds we breathed;
its cold chill upon our cheeks,
our eyes closed to the changing seasons.

But lights shine through to eyes pressed closed,
and hearts know what we wish they didn't.

I carved your name along my rib, an epitaph,
and whispered safe journeys to you, weeping
your departure from winter gr

fishing for hearts with lace and not nettingtake one - in which burned bread is beautiful

They're crumbs in the road, toast-speckles that spin and skirt and we
     drive past, like we always do, the radio          singing
white noise against my black humor and you say
   you say I'm getting better, and I think no, I am better
I am better, I say and you say        no
and I say
yes,
I'm fucking exemplary
and you ask who Exemplary is and I tell you it's me and I think
    somewhere                we got lost in the words
And I'm not all that keen on admitting to you that sure thing, dad,
    I'm fucking myself
over
and over
            but mostly I'm just fucking myself o

intersectionMy father's hair is gray now.
I'm not sure if it was the elevator
or that realization that caused
the lurch in my belly.

There's a little plastic container
on the bathroom counter, housing
blue, yellow, beige pills, designed
to slow the body's inevitable breakdown.

There are lines around my father's eyes now -
I feel his loneliness echoed in my chest,
in the mirror as I prepare for bed.

A blurry, half-remembered moment,
smudged with time, of sitting on his strong
shoulders, laughing in the sun,
so sure that he would always be able
to hold me up to touch the sky.

We live this half-baked life now,
circling each other, moments

they can't be takentheir bleach skin caught my eye
albino white against the wild
hair like bright sky electric in the briars

haloed sister gods shot down like fawn

AffannatoIf my ribs were weighted keys,
I'd play you an ocean song that tips you
right off the edge of the earth,
and clinging to my last phrase, you'd say
'what a tragedy, what a helpless dreamer,
such a beautiful pair of lungs gone to the dust'.

And night would hold us in that distant desperation,
playing our heartstrings so we couldn't keep up,
no, not with that soulful, off-tempo portrait
of who we could have let each other become.

I'll crawl back to bed on my bare boned knees
and when I wake to the black holes you've burned
into the sheets you and I were 'us' on,
I'll write you a desert song
about how I jumped off the edge of the earth
and yo

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

sick hydrangea and my bonesi bare my bones to the screeching moon.
twenty-nine days, and i claw again.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

ribcage and spine: shadows soften too soon.
light, light, as i crawl through the glen.
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.

i gouge myself open to find the rune,
hacking, peeling, like do all wise men.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

pooling skin-folds, i want them scattered, strewn.
this skin's all bark and oozing holes when
i bare my bones to the screeching moon.

bubble, swell; i can hear the snakes croon.
beauty of being lies beneath the vein.
take my flesh, take it, dye me maroon.

crazed lust for hu

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

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

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bleeding heart blossom-boy

Joshua was born into a flower market.

He was raised by orchid tendrils and soft-petaled tulips. He bathed in the tender fragrance of freesia and subdued pink roses. It was warm all year round in the greenhouse but he took on a permanently pale, sickly look. His hair was a rich chocolate color and his thick, arched eyebrows were of identical shade. At age 16, these features should've given him a strong, ponderous demeanor but they only added to his fragile appearance, for they accentuated his translucent skin and made his cheekbones, collarbones - all bones, really - of his thin figure stick out more. He resembled a bleedi

the music box Ever since we moved into the new big house, everything seems to have slowly drifted away from me. My room is too big and too pink, with too many shelves and drawers and ledges. My mother had put out all the little treasures from my childhood out on display. They're perfectly spread out, all so beautiful. I hate looking at them.

I have not given that sequined music box a glance for years. I think it was a gift from a long-gone friend. I used to play it every day; the crisp, sparkling notes were not something I heard in life anymore.

I tread heavily over to it. The clown on the box with the gold eyes and pink cheeks refuses to look at me.

his golden girl. It was in the dark days when I watched the golden story of a young man end and fade into sparkling crystals that still illuminate part of my world out of the corner of my eye.

[This is a picture book.]

It was the days of being trapped in bell jars and having the air sucked out of you by your own lover-in-demon-form; it was those of dead ocean tides and the night wind and city lights swirling your hair around, ant-sized police car lights and sirens wailing under you, and the little voice singing, fly, fly, fly.

It was when we were all hollow-eyed and yellow-skinned, with some of the boys broken-hearted and most of the girls puffy eyed.

without a mapThe night is warm and damp. It is late September, but the heat still muffles the air. My ears throb and I wish I had left the window open so I can hear the ocean that bleeds on the beach. This is the eye of a hurricane though, and I am frozen in bed.

The window. I force my arms to raise my body up. They lift me a few inches, and then grow weak and I fall. I try again, and fail again. I look around. The lace curtains are drawn down tight but their creases glow in my bedside night-light like the stretched out whites of crow eyes. Staring, mocking. They are the only things I can see. I wish they didn't look at me like that; I have done nothing

to save yourself.She is the closest
she'll ever be to
hanging off a cliff.

Bare feet
Angel-winged ribcages
Southern winds around her waist
Hot snowflakes soft against her neck.
She adores you.

Blurry guitars,
drums,

strum.

strum.

strum.

strum.
She inhales. She
smiles. She thinks
it is Lotus, Mint,
salty waves,
chlorine.
That smell in tune with
how it's
you and me and all other people with nothing to do and nothing to lose and she can't keep her eyes off of you.

-

She adores you.
It's not up to her
to save you.
She will be hanging
off herself. And you'll
have to pull you both
back up to the sun.

lucid dreaming.wide awakei named the place harmony hill. it is always dark and cold and smells of dead leaves and burnt cloth, burnt hair. sometimes the sun comes out and hisses at me. i think the water of the river wants to devour me.

left foot. right. left. right foot.
and my fire orange dress trails behind me.
there are evil branches and sharp sounds of tall grass tearing the lace. but i think, it is better than society. better than society. the shadow of the tree to the side that looks like a spider jumps at me. and i think. better. better than society.

i dip my thin stick in ink, the stick dull from the scratching, over and over again. writing. why do i ke

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taking

by ~520romeo, Aug 27, 2012, 4:29:55 PM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

_{wild sea-scented boy,
when it's time to
use the razor
i will cry and i might
leave dark-moon bruises
on your biceps
but i won't
blame you,

i won't. instead,
i will remember
primitive indigo dawns
with naked lamplight
light on half your face,
fire in your eyes,
me trapped between
your hands firm on the sides of my head,
i will remember cathartic silences,
your gaze leaking into my tear ducts,
my waist
my ribcage
my sadness
that you taste away,
the pulse of your vitals
against mine, lips raw with
sincerity,
and i will remember
our skins our touch
the energy flowing through
our foreheads,
your bicycle
your pen
your smell your smile
your hold your salt water
that i will take with me
forever.
boy born from ocean breeze
there is no other you
i still do not want this blade but
i do not blame you.}

takingby ~520romeo

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

does the title fit?
i purposely stayed away from punctuation because i wanted to achieve an emptier, airy, slow feel. how did that work out? or is it just all jumbled up together?
what do you see the 'razor' to be? and what blame?

critique: [link]

_{their words mostly noises
ghosts with just voices
your words in my memory
are like music to me.

(i pray that something picks me up
and sets me down in your warm arms.)
--snow patrol}

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

=Sammur-amat Feb 26, 2013 General Artist

Congratulations on the well-deserved DLD, dear one!

~520romeo Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you very much!

=Sammur-amat Mar 6, 2013 General Artist

sure thing, sweetpea!

*bloodawni Feb 17, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Gorgeous. Congratulations on your DLD!

~520romeo Feb 17, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you! (:

*bloodawni Feb 17, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

You're welcome!

~TheChesherCat Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I love the darkness and the ocean together -- not a pair of images that you see together very often, and it's very powerful.

~520romeo Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

thank you very much.

~ilyilaice Feb 6, 2013

love love love love. i think i need to watch you now because i've seen your work a couple of times and it always takes my breath away.

i did like the lack of punctuation here - makes it feel very raw. i also loved all the ocean metaphors because who doesn't love ocean metaphors??? i'm pretty sure i've used oceans too much as metaphors because they're perfect to describe everything. i sure like the way you related the ocean here to a boy who can't be contained, someone who the tide will maybe take away. so yes, i do think the title makes perfect sense.

the proximity of the words "lamplight" and "light" feels slightly awkward to me but perhaps you meant that?

of course the razor/blade to me refers to suicide. it's the obvious symbol, but maybe you meant it for something else, i don't know.

anyway. love this.

your words are always hypnotic.

~520romeo Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

aww thank you

aha i feel like many people use ocean metaphors too often. oh well.
that's a very interesting way of seeing the relationship between the ocean and the boy. i actually did not think of that myself when i was writing. (:

and yes, i intentionally put the 'light's close together.

thank you so much for your comment.
and i really appreciate your support.

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