[x]

Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through

Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.

lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.

Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you

one. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).

It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.

two. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,

a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
myself.

three. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name

I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
o

ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su

i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.

String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.

ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to
Believe that the ability of
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice
In a life that was once
So happy.

A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she

this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.

Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...

AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.

Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor

Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie

On the road again searching for lost thingsLake bones carved into words
The slow baked Texas heat seeping into
Galaxy veins and Saturn ring irises
Like cross hatched road maps
Leading to lost cities gilded in gold
The skies nursing oil spills like a wound

Your cat eye palpitations lingering
Behind drowsy eyelids
Where childhood adventures of never growing up
Spark between neurons and sneakers pounding
On old dirt tracks
Boyish dreams of Milky Way heroes
Make up the constellations of your breathing

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Not Something You ForgetSometimes I wish
there was a "delete,"
a "CTRL+Z," a
"forgive and forget."
But in real life,

There isn't.
So people
are forced to live
with their memories,
pain, regret, and denial

All included,
free of charge.
Memories teach you things
the best way they can,
the painful way.

They'll teach you
he's a dirty, rotten cheater,

Bloody RhymeOne, two, buckle my shoe.

It should've been me. Not her. Me.

Three, four, break down the door.

So many questions, but why, why, why?

Five, six, she's next in my mix!

I'd give anything. That's what I'd told the doctor. Blood, a kidney, a new heart—whatever it takes.

Seven, eight, piece of cake!

Three minutes and forty-two seconds. That's all. I left the room for three minutes and forty-two seconds. But he only needed three minutes and forty-one.

Nine, ten, bye bye Jen!

Bloody murder, bloody baker, bloody butcher, they said.

Eleven, twelve, I'll add to my shelve!

Flatline, they said, nothing they can do, they said.

Right and WrongSometimes I wonder,
Why, and what,
I need reasons,
Answers, explaining me.

So I tell myself:

A simple mistake,
Overlooked by God,
Just a mishap,
With the way I feel.

These feelings,
The forbidden sin,
Are not here,
They can't be here.

I'll ignore the "right,"
And love with blinders on,
Going no other way,
But straight.

And when I feel ill,
As I always do,
I'll recall the wrong,
The error I must avoid.

Even held at gunpoint,
By none other than myself,
I remain on track,
Because that's "right."

Puppet and the PuppeteerSpider silk lies entwined around my wrists,
Blurring my eyes and fogging my mind.

He whispers rumors and criticisms,
So harsh to the point of "truth."

You are a loser,
With a smile, But it's okay, I'm here!

He is my friend, he tells me,
And he only wants what's best. Right?

Don't worry about it! he insists,
Convincing me everything is fine.

My dirty little secret into a dirty little addiction,
And I'm still reassured, Relax, I promise it's okay.

I lie to myself over and over,
As he guides me the wrong way.

I'm a puppet strung on insecurity,
He's the puppeteer with empty promises.

Why do I listen to this man,
I'm your fri

You Over There..."Hey, hey, you over there!"
I must ask, "How do you fare?"

Not too well, you suspiciously say,
But, hey really, no one's well today.

What? "No, no,
I don't think so!

I won't settle for mellow,
So cheer up, good fellow!"

Is that all you wanted?
You're annoyed, I see—I remain undaunted!

"Yes, there is, my dear friend,
You see, today, a smile I'll lend."

Idiot buffoon, we're here in the city!
Stop dreaming, and stop giving me your damn pity!

"Upset, are you? Please don't be,
Smile, and you'll feel better, you'll quickly see!"

Are you really being serious?
Have you seen reality, Mr. Delightfully Delirious?

A laugh and a pat

The Randomites Ch. 3(Christine)

The next school day, I felt like everyone was staring at me. They weren't, of course, but I couldn't shake the feeling. It was terrible, feeling so vulnerable. Before, even when I wasn't with my friends, I had this security, because I knew I could always go to them later.

But now, there was no aloof Chaos to ignore, no Alfonzo to pester for homework answers, no Matt to mess around with, no William to talk to. No anybody to do anything with.

That stupid hole in my stomach was there again.

I needed friends. But who?

"Hey, Christine! Wait!" a high pitched voice called. I knew that voice. "Don't–move–one–inch. No,

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[x]

Black-Hearted Monster

by ~pianokeys457, Jun 23, 2012, 9:37:37 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

What is a monster, have you thought?
Oh, holy—! Jason!
Are they hiding under your bed,
Shit! Mom, Dad!
Ready to jump and say "boo?"
I...Jason, he...
Vicious claws, or ruby red eyes,
They beat him up, bad!
How do you think they look like?
A bunch of kids...
Reptilian, mutant, or avian?
A few, I think, were football players.
Maybe some of them are nice,
Been giving us shit since day one.
But then again, maybe not.
What? He isn't...?
Are monsters bloodthirsty?
No. No way, Jason can't...
Or just looking for a good scream?
They must be laughing right now, those...
Feeding on anger and hate,
No, I'm not going to calm down!
Thriving on watching you suffer.
Jason was my brother!
A monster, with a heart of black,
Why then? Can you tell me? Why did they do this?
No feelings but sick satisfaction,
What did we ever do? What's wrong with us?
Is the worst kind of monster.

Black-Hearted Monsterby ~pianokeys457

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

ASDF- WHAT CATEGROYYY IS THIS ;w;

--

I don't think this was a exactly my best work... but it's ok, I guess. I may have focused a bit too much on the story part and less on the more poemy part. (that's probably not the right term lol)

I wrote this late last night because #Heart-of-Poetry is having a weekly prompt, and the theme was, "Monster."

Except I'm a slowpoke so I may have already missed the deadline. /fail

_{...and the langguage doesn't need a mature warning right? I don't think it's that bad ._.}

~Contradictory55 Jun 23, 2012 Student Writer

It's really good. I enjoyed the story ^^ It's narrative poetry! Sort of. That's the right category, 'free verse', if you don't know ^^
No, the language is fine.

~pianokeys457 Jun 24, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you c: And I was thinking narrative, but then I had the other half to it so I just put it in free verse, since pretty much anything can go into free verse lol.

~Contradictory55 Jun 24, 2012 Student Writer

Nearly all my work is free verse.

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Black-Hearted Monsterby ~pianokeys457

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