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Poets have the loneliest hearts.I drink morphine
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
filled up
with nothing.

& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
but-

I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.

I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
tiger-striped skin.

With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,

I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.
Hear me howl.Tell me again, Father,
I’m the perfect daughter-

when all I want to be
is the crescent moons
resting like strong soldiers
in the grooves of my palms.

I am but
(outgrown)
lonely bones,
quaking with frostbite,
numbed with rage.

A wolf's jaw:
locked, teeth tearing
into the chilled flesh
of your neck.
Open Heart SurgeryI've got ink throbbing through fissured veins,
poisoning every atom of my soul.

"Bite your tongue," they say.

How I'd love to chew the damn thing off
and suck down every filthy syllable
just like the rotten bone marrow it is.

They'd all watch as my body spontaneously combusts
and becomes nothing but convoluted karma.

And so I wrote,

"Dear poetry,
Teach me the ways of ripping out a human heart,
and stitching it onto ink-stained parchment."

The answer that came was rasped from a cauterized throat:

"Read your future in the collapsed palm of the stars;
find the abandoned pulse of your lionhearted muse;
steal their conformed scalpel and mak
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,
I wanted to pluck my ribs
from out my chest &
hang them about my house
like wind chimes-
dangled brutality;
a taunt for hungry wolves.

I didn’t grab for sharp objects,
I just wrote about it.

I never knew
I wanted to be a writer
until I lost something.
I still don’t know what that is-

(my mind, maybe.)

But words,
they fill gaps
that had no stories
to keep them
from hollowing out
in the first place.
You'll Never DieHear me read it!

They say that if a writer falls in love with you then you never really die.

Instead your body is laid out in its funerial shrouds and moulds are made. Soft impressions of you to be pressed onto the blank faces of future loves.

Every time I write of taking comfort in a safe place in a storm, it will be your forearm. Every half-made smile will be on your lips, and every touch will be constructed from the residue beneath your fingernails.

When I metaphise of trees' blood, the leaves that give the energy so that a willow can provide shade for those in need, it will be your blood, it will be your light drenched kisses.

Every
Shy moon,i've got love carved into honeysuckle wrists,
a murder of crows in my throat,
& a pack of wolves at my back.

i want to know truths behind these myth eyes, &
the distant galaxies under your fingertips.

but, love me. love me, Love.
show me what's beyond Grimm fairy tales
& scars.

spare me your ribs;

this skyscraper heart
needs a place to go.
i'm not an artistwe do not belong in boxes
and bags and books or
words,
and we do not sit contently
in wordsworth and shakespeare
and blake, burns, and brownings
or in the cold stiff bones
of raleigh's of long ago;

no--

we infect,
detect, and re-select
a virus--a disease,
a germ in every verse and line;
the first signs of
foolish waitings under
bridges and scolding parents
and melodrama
and nothing to signify at all

yet--

we are the blood of nations
and the heart of men
and the love of every
rhetorist and sentimist
to come;
we dance through the ballrooms of
the age and chat with
higher minds
we shake hands with heros
and the homeless, dirty
type
Things I'll Never SayThere are certain things I’ll never say,
Like how I thought about killing myself today
Just to keep my own scary thoughts away.
Like how I stay awake way too late
To be sure I don’t awake in a bloody state.
Like how I soaked white into red last night
And turned myself into a ghastly sight.
Like how it hurts too much to breathe
When I make my own skin seethe.
Like how I Google things I shouldn’t
When I want to do things I couldn’t.
Like how I’m scared of being alone
Yet I’m only happy when I’m on my own.
Like how I know I’ll wind up killing myself
And turn into just a dusty photo on a dusty sh
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterflies
until she realized their beauty
rubbed off on her fingers;
but she will always be loving you
with those digits.

20 years from now
when even the love on her arms
is unrecognizable.
Heart:a rebellion
tucked away
in her chest.

they say
she's got skin
unworthy to write
poetry on,
but
she tapes those
lovelies
to her limbs
anyway.
Sun Child,I am freezing
& I am hungry
for fever’s lips-
her inky fingers
purging
a dry stomach.

My body is an ocean,
my limbs, but oars.
My tongue & teeth,
a life raft
keeping this madness
from sinking into blue.

Offering up 102 degrees
of skin;
You would think
I had something to say.
Show me what the stars look like tonight.I’ve fallen in love with wars & darkness.

The kind of darkness said to have made
shadow monsters of seen-too-much eyes
& the kind of war lands made of
desecrated, dandelion wrists.

I am the wind, the morphine pump

& I’ve carved my bones into stars.

I wear them around my neck
like outward sun marrow
warming my carotid pulse.

These little glow-in-the-dark blankets
aren’t enough to stifle the sounds;

but my anatomy never seemed to fit
together the right way anyway.
We Poets Are Frustrated...We Poets Are Frustrated...

I am sure that you have all experienced this feeling:
A masterpiece eclipsed by the baying of a brat!
A raucous rhyme, so emotionally raw;
Shadowed by a child's melancholia...

Alone in the darkness, you lick your lips and growl.
Your anger, so evidently understandable; yet you forget your own abilities!
In despair, my dearest sibling, you have forgotten — yourself

Why fear an obstacle so easily overcome?
Why shred your works with such heavy tears?
Have you forgotten that we are the original craftsman?
Our tongues birthed as our chisels and axe!
We need only take these simple themes
And corrupt them with all
I want to forget names,& faces,
& people.

I want to forget their veins,
fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;
wrists I can't look at
without longing to tear apart.

Spine full, and spiteful:

I want to cry
roses in my midnight tea
for these star collapsed lungs.

I want to cry for her
& for me.

But Shame,
she wont allow me the courtesy.
It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,
or the burning gaze of her lover.
I am merely a forest of silences,
old dogwoods & untamed hair.

-But, I made a promise
to a bone collector once.
He could have my spine,
my kneecaps, &
one flowered rib,
wrapped & bowed-up
like a present

-if he could fall in love
with things that slip through his fingers:
Me,
the sea,
shooting stars.

-“It would be a sin to love you,
my dear sweet wolf;
you will always cry for the moon.”
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More from ~TheLaughingDreamer

To the child in WarYou've lost your home, and lost your people

You stand alone, in grim disaster

Your house destroyed, forever after

Your parents gone just like your laughter

Remember when you played there, my child?

Pretending as if you're a dancer?

Remember when your little friend came by?

And raced to see if he was faster?

And then you beat him at the race

And laughed at him and made a face

But now, my child there's no such place

For it was wrecked by airplanes

That rained explosives and grenades

I swear my child, I'll wipe those tears

Someday when I have lost my fears

The fears that you have never had

Your little heart, never learned to fear
TreasuredOceans were created

Out of lovers tears

Where they dwelled for days;

An endless lament,

Eating up their hearts like

Decay.

Calypso –

When you came upon

Her flowered islands and you left her

Like the millions who have deserted her

Before you.

Persephone –

Isolated in the cold where

No love would reach her. Her roses died

Between her pale fingers

To be a Queen of the Underworld.

And many others of your tragic stories

Where love was the monstrous sin of your

Sorry adventures.

Dear, when sailors rode the waves they knew

They always felt the need to be the lonesome crew

They drank your victim's tears like wine and
Poems in the windsMan.
He was born of dirt and there he will return
He is afraid to die; afraid to die in a land that isn't his land

Granny used to say that we're all born of earth so what does it matter where we die?
She's in her seventies and she wouldn't travel anymore
"There's no better place than where you've grown," she says

I watch the winds blow, north or south.
Every particle in this air might have been a human once
A few billion might have walked around this very place or might have walked around china

Are we all of one place?
Does it matter where we say our final word? or breathe our last breath?

i don't know where I'll die but-
I'll feel sorrow
The Dream GuardianA beauty- in her own world
Roaming… a blue jay between two skies
Freedom carved in the feathers of her wings
Her name was sung and played on strings

Country folks knit stories about her
The savior of dreamers upon clouds
Rainbow paths to get them laughing
Paints and brushes in her hands

Wonder is what her colors do
Creates new music in the air
Paints the sky a brilliant blue
Daisies seem a fresher white
Weaving dreams in brighter hues

Gaze around your vivid nights
Whispering her precious myths
Incandescent, intensely bright
One violet star –the nomad, through
           …our fantasies
FreeFighting against the current everyday
Sometimes we have bread, and sometimes
The ashes of bread partly burnt, sooty grey
We've never tried meat except a few times
And the water we drink is mixed up with hay

I stand alone in the sun's burning rays
Praying that work will get me a few coins
Ma cries through the night to stay strong through the day
And all I can do is work hard and pray

Sometimes I ask Ma what's the matter
That I hear her crying every single night
She shouts at me, and her heart would shatter
I don’t know what's wrong or rather what's right

I search endlessly for coins in the trash
Sometimes I'm lucky and I find an old c

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Poetry - it's all you need.

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March 8
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when writers cry

:iconthelaughingdreamer:

Awake on strong, black coffee drinks
Words on paper, liquid ink
Dreams of pen tips, future lies
Tragic stories, quotes of the wise
Nights have carved their dark, deep valleys
In the hollows of my eyes

For you see, my friend, when writers cry
There are no tears, their cheeks are dry
But ink dipped fingers, worn out wrists
Chewed up nails and bloody fists

You see, it's strange when writers cry
Their hearts are true, their words don’t lie
They mourn in silence for a few days
Of paper cuts and tear-less haze

Of coffee mugs and smoky paper
Liquid spills, and water vapor
Sorry dreams and wasted hours
Putrid smells and dying flowers

(Torn to pieces from inside
Tears are hidden by our pride)
:iconthelaughingdreamer:
...........................please add a comment and i hope you like it :)...............
(its been a while since i wrote a poem that rhymes)

........edit!!...........
oh my god this is the first piece i post that reaches 200 comments im so happy...yay!
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:icon666nando666:
Mood: Love ~666Nando666 Apr 25, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
As a fellow writer, this is true.
Reply
:iconfirebird2021:
*firebird2021 Apr 25, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
i. love. you.
Reply
:icontrespassingthrough27:
~trespassingthrough27 Apr 25, 2013  New member
I love this! It's awesome! I've missed reading rhyming poems. This certainly doesn't feel like you rhymed for the sake of it.
I understand completely...especially as of late...I mean I was writing fanfiction and it almost turned into a diary ! <3 wonderful xxxx
Reply
:iconjaceonosbon:
~JaceonOsbon Apr 8, 2013  New member
This is actually sometimes to sole reason I write, I need somewhere to vent... My sadness, my anger, my frustration, it can all be released through writing. The final part especially resonated with me, "Torn to pieces from inside, Tears are hidden by our pride."

So true. I tip my hat to you, good sir.
Reply
:iconthelaughingdreamer:
~TheLaughingDreamer Apr 8, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
thank you sir. *tips hat back* :)
Reply
:iconinsanecowtipper:
~insanecowtipper Apr 7, 2013
nice
Reply
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:iconhipsterowls:
~hipsterowls Apr 7, 2013  New member  General Artist
... Wow.
Reply
:icondreamersthoughts:
Mood: Joy ~dreamersthoughts Apr 7, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
This Describes exactly how I feel, I cant thank you enough for writing this. There really is a strange happiness in being understood, now if you'll excuse me, I'll be sifting through your other pieces. Thank you:)
Reply
:iconthelaughingdreamer:
~TheLaughingDreamer Apr 7, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
awww thank you so much (of course i don't mind):)
Reply
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