[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.

I Am FlawedFrom body to soul and in between,
They blotch the parchment that is me;
I know of worse flaws I have seen,
But surely
I am flawed.

I sometimes lose my temper,
Use my mouth before my mind;
I ponder things I could do better,
And regret them for a time.

I can be harsh, I can be blunt,
I tend to hide my thoughts;
But this is far from what I want:
To be in someone's heart.

Comparisons are hard to make
Since we are all unique.
But half the time my words are fake;
The real me is a freak.

Regardless,
These flaws define me, describe me—
They make me what I am.
In that light, I'm proud to say that
I
am
flawed.

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...

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

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.

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

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Paper-cutsThe say love dies slowly
Wilting like an untended plant
--else it dies quickly like a love poem
Thrown unread into the grate.
Nothing solid but the pounding between ears
The spilled ink and scattered pens
I pretend I can’t feel them beneath my feet
Every post-it note a sentiment that once was.
These days even the good news has barbs
That cut and dig into fingertips
As they tear open the envelopes
Addressed now to only one--not both.
Paper-cuts
Little agonies
As day by day without me knowing
You removed me from your life.

SuitorsI count suitors;
Their clashes and contrasts
Distrusting my heart
And every argument in my head--
But above all unsure of all
And every one of their intents
Their charm, gifts and flattery;
Is there deeper meaning?
Some hollowness thinly veiled
Hidden yet malicious intents?
The blatant disregard and disrespect
The physical and emotional distances--
Disgruntled,
Perhaps I ought grow old disgracefully
And remain a spinster.

LucidThe full moon was yellow that night
The colour of the church bricks
Whose silhouette it outlined.
I watched as the moonlight bled to red
Above the countryside
With it the portent of ill omens
I recall these superstitions
As phantom black cats trail my footsteps
As the daylight crept in
I wonder if I only dreamt of sleep
Heat haze rising from the roadways
Holding only the promise
Of a work-days monotony
On a supposed day of rest.
Give me the night back

Prowling...A pastel rebellion
To your monochrome black;
I walked into Summer
Eventually and near begrudgingly told
I looked ‘lovely’
Your tone changing in the light
Of other appreciative glances
You growl that ‘the wolves are prowling’
--with your waxing and waning affections
And of late feeble attentions--
I smile silently,
Knowing somewhere in the back of my mind
Those very wolves
Might well be closer than you think.

Time AwayDepression haunts the hallways of my heart
Where wolf-paws ought stalk my pulse
And quicken my laughter
Only ten-thousand-eight-hundred seconds
One-hundred-and-eighty minutes
Three whole hours of agony
Spent away from your smile

Breaking slowly...Answers elusive and advice clashing
A torture self-inflicted
Viewing our intimacy from the outside.
The difference of ‘loving’ and being ‘in love’
And the unwillingness to break another’s heart
With that change in affection.
Seeing it in eyes looking anywhere but here
In dreams where curled closeness
Became faced-away distance in the night
Even though comprehension has yet to creep
Into the waking world and present.

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Submitted: February 6
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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Blame.

by =rockgem, Feb 6, 2013, 9:11:29 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

It's my fault.

That my waistline remains at thirty-two inches;

In bare-feet I will only ever reach your chin,
That i have hard working hands and artists eyes.
The curves of an hourglass,
And the ruined joints of a former runner.
Teamed with the bespectacled face of a librarian
Struggling lungs and lover's heart-
Labyrinth mind.
Flirty lips
And crazy-cat-lady potential-

Refusing to colour my hair russet

Choosing to collect more body art.
More studs, more rings, more corsets,

A mix and match of grunge and rock;

Nirvana sang 'All Apologies'

Buckcherry sang 'Sorry'

And I lament just a little,

I'm still who I was when you fell for me-

But I'm finding myself taking the blame for that.

It's my fault

That you're now so different.

Blame.by =rockgem

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

~dartimus Feb 13, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

you know my thoughts. so, all i can say, is that i am here for you in the capacity that the Goddess allows me to be, no matter what happens.

=rockgem Feb 15, 2013 Professional Digital Artist

its good to know i can vent in my writing some and have friends like yourself who can be there for me.

~dartimus Feb 15, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

you are always welcome

~BlazingMalice Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

*cuddles* I'm always here for you! *wails* T^T

=rockgem Feb 6, 2013 Professional Digital Artist

thanks sweetie

~BlazingMalice Feb 7, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Welcome

*Created-By-Caz Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh dear - problems with the boyfriend shaped creature?

=rockgem Feb 6, 2013 Professional Digital Artist

less problems and more just some irks that cropped up, figured it was just me but several friends noticed it too, but i jotted this a week or so back, since then its like hes completely changed again for the better - methinks someone has had words...

*Created-By-Caz Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Good to know - you can only be yourself and people should accept that.

=rockgem Feb 7, 2013 Professional Digital Artist

its sort of like neither of us have changed but the more he gets to know me the more he dislikes or more so compares unfavourably to someone else who shall remain nameless

part of me sees it as the beginning of the end - part of me sees it as over-reacting. only time will tell

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