She travels like cinnamon on spiced breath following filigree roadways and lacy dirt paths
a runner in the sun feet caking in mud hair a tangle, all tumbleweed and rust
She's spring, and summer but mostly fall. Blooming and radiant and falling into hibernation
Smells like warm lavender and smoldering wood or a wiccan roast of potpourri
When she speaks, and it's not often but when she speaks -- the afterthought of imagination when you're waking from a dream and grasping for that final kiss or last embrace.
She's not foreign, but she's exotic. Unusual colors, her own culture. What I wanted to be; she's me, but more.
in these days, someone took my words and spoke them from her mouth and wrote them with her hands
even before I was born, they were my words.
I already knew them, planned them out sketched X’s where they should land.
My words. Mine.
Author's Note: A frustration at figuring out the difference between amazing poetry and dime-a-dozen emo poetry -- no matter how sincere, some poems will be cast aside as bad, and some will be good. Just thinking, sometimes a really good poem I never knew existed says what I've thought, but worded it better. And I'm gonna do that, someday. :)
Note: Titled after the music I'm listening to. Never heard this genre before. Has little to do with the writing of the poem, though. I feel like crap and needed to express it somehow.
I'd also like to point out that I haven't used curse words in my poetry in a very long time, and tend not to curse. I dunno why it felt needed in this poem.
i was gorgeous once.
i'd forgotten, in the tatters.
i was pretty, dark with a sparkle a glitternight -- a pseudoenigma
i had a quiet confidence, knew i could be beautiful knew i would be important
and the world has translated into cells all surrounding me. i could see them as an orbit and i'd love to shove them away but they're so casual now, so easy
When I become the sharper static shattering individuals into fragments of the picture and I whisper mosaics into their ears--into their minds
Like rain, snaking through memories and clocks creaking joints and gears and all my thoughts are tumbled in the soil
I will grow new again and clean venturing out, flowering forth growing confident and fast until the world stops turning
breaks off.
Cliffs are craters in the sand and glaciers the ice cubes in the ocean Steeping all the trees of the world like a tea, like a drink, like a sip of something fluid
I forgot we still exist woke up in a haze; woke up from a nightmare Could the science behind it all be exact and still our species live?
I am all cracked lips and lies and fornications discovered and void. A five cent divination and an alibi for hire.
The fish mouth around the words I turn to bubbles, I turn to air and speak in mono, through my left mouth words are food and ears are hungry
A kind of shiver, and a stuttering groan -- a sigh and I'm happy.
Looping through repeat and weaving chords on a five-line loom When I am straggling, and when I am enamored I come to your color and breathe.
Through your songs, I drip. I drip fantastic, pull me down and drink me through fantastic. Like vibrant and violent feathers slicing with a tickle and a giggle and it's so very good to see you smile again.
I got stuck on the outside peering in at my home, where I was eccentric, and abstract, and it wasn't a bad thing. Where I remembered being sincere, and it wasn't a bad thing. I got scratched up with time and it was apparent... but that doesn't matter now.
I remember the scent of this time in my life and how alive the aroma was. I think I can smell that way again.
I'd feel a little less shameful if you weren't looking while I strip away feelings like skin and air vulnerable like vapors.
It's the way you turn your head and stare eyes glistening with solid knowledge and I'm a liquid on uneasy footing.
Those others, blabbering, making me afraid and you, some sudden anchor in the best, most unconventional of times. Always surprising.
I feel a bit like the desert some days, with nothing to give, and everything gone, and here you move, gliding over the mountains, a monsoon. A hydrating healing halo hovering, hugging. Reassuring.
Your rains whisper Shhh as they hush down into my cracked earth of doubt and fear, and I lull into bliss, safely ignorant.
You don't have to turn inside out, just turn me right side in.
Oft I take in a breath at night and breathe out my mind's ash, trying to remember the existence of skin, the serrated meaning it held over men. I rake back tears, daring to dream why one would ever start the dance.
I never understood their bigot-only dance, but grasp that knowledge can be shrouded by night. Thus without care for the Politian's dream, I look to the fire and dust which became my ash, despite the scorching tongues of ignorant men who have the hindrance of prejudiced skin.
I find memories an ancestor planted in my skin. Suddenly music draws friends & strangers to dance as they pulse in a club; its jazzy veins thrive like men. My soul ventured back through decades’ night to a smell strong of cigars and their ash. I’ve become a dark-eyed velvet-voiced dream.
I see a friend emerge through my soul’s dream. We pout our lips, ignoring those just skin and bones, glowing with pride and forgotten ash. This girlfriend and I, we croon and dance, as lightning bugs in Summer's night, pretending our beauty and song can delight men.
In our souls, we stand equal women and men, but out there a man who has a Dream is barraged by evil day and night. He prays for all different spectrums of skin, hoping to lead friends to freedom’s dance, yet is refused by those who hate colored ‘ash’.
He says, “Never mind what some deem ash, for these people are not the important men.” Others join him, and the ever expanding dance soon allows children of the future to dream of a world which sees deeper than just our skin; a dawn which breaks through a hate-filled night.
We can’t decide the dance or design the dream to censure good men with flesh like night, or refuse girls with skin like ash.
write-y
apathetic