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Literature Text
i.
loving unconditionally.
our cats,
my teachers,
the man across the tracks
who was more creepy stranger
than he was mr. roger's neighborhood.
every hour of breathing,
my heart burst into stardust fragments
and i glittered my veins with leftover particles
(pixiedust taken from my soul).
i was too blinded by smiles
to realize i was faking my own
and in the end,
the record was left skipping a beat
and the silence was filled with their names.
heartached disappointment,
but what else could i manage?
my heart was stuck on repeat
and i still believed in a beautiful tragedy.
ii.
decaying.
my butterfly stomach,
the boils in my blood,
the holes in my heart
where all my most haunting memories were stored.
with every minute,
another ribbon of skin tapered off
and i lived in a state of being skeletal
(bones oozing my words away slowly).
i was too caught up in the dance
to realize my feet were already tied
and really,
i was already losing my fingers
to the grips of tomorrow's cruel palms.
i was waltzing
to the beat of a disco-ball life
and i was peeling the dreams from my eyes.
a broken silhouette,
but what else did i offer?
my throat was too raw to scream
and i was still hoping someone would save me.
iii.
utter loneliness.
i was hugging myself with sharp claws
and wiping my own acid tears,
throat clogged with remorse
for all the moments i let slip me by.
it was a bed made for two
and i was breathing alone,
pillows answering to a thousand names
that i couldn't drive out of my head.
i was drowning myself
and too far from the surface
to understand the water never existed;
my sight was blurred down the middle,
but it was only the cracks of my heart
that made the whole world seem to swim.
i was gasping in murk
in air that should have been clean
and the pretended fog was scorching my lungs.
a dirty defibrilator,
but what choice did i have?
i was striving for purity
in holding someone near to my heart
when all i'd been handed was scum.
iv.
a forceful forgetting.
i was a flake and a fraud,
forging my name in the stars
when i should have been fading,
pulsebeats losing the fight
to a sunset i just couldn't keep up with.
i was mixing my paints
and coming up dry
(charcoal only leaves smears
and you can't paint with salt in your wounds).
and i just couldn't grasp
why my portrait was bleeding
when i had left my past far behind.
and i thought i was moving
(maybe away,
possibly up,
most likely just on)
when all i did was fall in globs on the floor.
i was tearing apart
in a shamrock-green disarray,
but what else could i do?
i was painting a portrait
when all i could hear were the trees
and i was calling it my own form of hell.
v.
running from you.
because you were everything i feared
put into one being.
you stopped the beat of my pulse
(half-hearted
and pounding as it was)
with one short-lived grin,
you raised the hairs on my neck
(while still bending me down
at your feet)
with your breath kissing mine.
you pulled my fragments from the dark
(kicking,
screaming,
fighting with all that they had left to their name)
and took time to sew them together with thread
and your love.
and i was bolting away
but your laugh kept me chained to your side;
i was looking for freedom
but only seeing the stars in your eyes.
and you were unlike any eclipse
my soul had ever encompassed
(you burned much too brightly
to be killed off by my hands),
but you made living a ride to endure
so i shackled my tears to your comet-trail
and i stuck around.
and you're still the poetry
in my spiral-ridged fingers
and i'm no longer afraid of writing for you.
after everything i went searching for...
you made me whole.
a cliched romance,
no doubt,
but what other path could i take?
i was destined for heartache...
and instead,
i got you.
loving unconditionally.
our cats,
my teachers,
the man across the tracks
who was more creepy stranger
than he was mr. roger's neighborhood.
every hour of breathing,
my heart burst into stardust fragments
and i glittered my veins with leftover particles
(pixiedust taken from my soul).
i was too blinded by smiles
to realize i was faking my own
and in the end,
the record was left skipping a beat
and the silence was filled with their names.
heartached disappointment,
but what else could i manage?
my heart was stuck on repeat
and i still believed in a beautiful tragedy.
ii.
decaying.
my butterfly stomach,
the boils in my blood,
the holes in my heart
where all my most haunting memories were stored.
with every minute,
another ribbon of skin tapered off
and i lived in a state of being skeletal
(bones oozing my words away slowly).
i was too caught up in the dance
to realize my feet were already tied
and really,
i was already losing my fingers
to the grips of tomorrow's cruel palms.
i was waltzing
to the beat of a disco-ball life
and i was peeling the dreams from my eyes.
a broken silhouette,
but what else did i offer?
my throat was too raw to scream
and i was still hoping someone would save me.
iii.
utter loneliness.
i was hugging myself with sharp claws
and wiping my own acid tears,
throat clogged with remorse
for all the moments i let slip me by.
it was a bed made for two
and i was breathing alone,
pillows answering to a thousand names
that i couldn't drive out of my head.
i was drowning myself
and too far from the surface
to understand the water never existed;
my sight was blurred down the middle,
but it was only the cracks of my heart
that made the whole world seem to swim.
i was gasping in murk
in air that should have been clean
and the pretended fog was scorching my lungs.
a dirty defibrilator,
but what choice did i have?
i was striving for purity
in holding someone near to my heart
when all i'd been handed was scum.
iv.
a forceful forgetting.
i was a flake and a fraud,
forging my name in the stars
when i should have been fading,
pulsebeats losing the fight
to a sunset i just couldn't keep up with.
i was mixing my paints
and coming up dry
(charcoal only leaves smears
and you can't paint with salt in your wounds).
and i just couldn't grasp
why my portrait was bleeding
when i had left my past far behind.
and i thought i was moving
(maybe away,
possibly up,
most likely just on)
when all i did was fall in globs on the floor.
i was tearing apart
in a shamrock-green disarray,
but what else could i do?
i was painting a portrait
when all i could hear were the trees
and i was calling it my own form of hell.
v.
running from you.
because you were everything i feared
put into one being.
you stopped the beat of my pulse
(half-hearted
and pounding as it was)
with one short-lived grin,
you raised the hairs on my neck
(while still bending me down
at your feet)
with your breath kissing mine.
you pulled my fragments from the dark
(kicking,
screaming,
fighting with all that they had left to their name)
and took time to sew them together with thread
and your love.
and i was bolting away
but your laugh kept me chained to your side;
i was looking for freedom
but only seeing the stars in your eyes.
and you were unlike any eclipse
my soul had ever encompassed
(you burned much too brightly
to be killed off by my hands),
but you made living a ride to endure
so i shackled my tears to your comet-trail
and i stuck around.
and you're still the poetry
in my spiral-ridged fingers
and i'm no longer afraid of writing for you.
after everything i went searching for...
you made me whole.
a cliched romance,
no doubt,
but what other path could i take?
i was destined for heartache...
and instead,
i got you.
Suggested Collections
Actual title:
five things i wasted minutes on
Because I was bored in class
and needing to write.
Yes...it's also another piece inspired by
's Ten Things series. Sue me.
It's still only five. I write way too much.
And I think part five is pure crap.
October 2009
five things i wasted minutes on
Because I was bored in class
and needing to write.
Yes...it's also another piece inspired by
's Ten Things series. Sue me.It's still only five. I write way too much.
And I think part five is pure crap.
October 2009
© 2009 - 2024 betwixtthepages
Comments12
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As I mentioned to 
, the passion you have poured into your work has an astounding affect on it's readers, particularly me. I connect to it. Lovely. Amazing. No words can describe...
, the passion you have poured into your work has an astounding affect on it's readers, particularly me. I connect to it. Lovely. Amazing. No words can describe...