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001 i am a whirlwind of
bruised knees
(purple)

an aching heart
(dark blue)

twisted guts
(red)

&
a regret that could
crumble mountains.
(green-green-green)

sister yesterdayeven our plastic flowers had faded—
an overgrown garden of concrete and pottery,
wrought-iron furniture under the sunlight, paling—
a broken lawnmower in a rotting wood shed, a swingset
creaking with each gust of wind—

but she said—
let's gather up these old tin cans,
empty the pool of its stagnant memory,
relight the candles and mend this picnic table,
recall the laughter we shared here when
our summer was in bloom—

when mother wore that sky blue dress
and planted shiny pinwheels,
lazily spinning

Candori am not the person you think
and you will realize that all too soon.
i am not what people have built me up to be
and i am destroying myself in trying to measure up.
i am not interesting.
if i were a puzzle, all of my pieces
would be careworn with age and wear
colors dull and muted--
a picture prosaically familiar;
there is nothing pretty to look at here.
i am not beautiful. i am not the kind of person
that they write about,
stories and poems that make you cry.
i am not strange enough to be special,
but i am not normal enough to fit in.
i am not fragile enough to engender support,
but i am not strong enough to help myself
let alone those who are foolish enough to rely on me.
i am not a delicate collectible
that people wish to adopt
and call my problems their own.
i am a dusty cliché
that has seen better days.
let me be clear:
i am none of these things.
i am not.

200 Plastic StrawsTwo-hundred plastic straws
are scattered on my floor.
They haven't moved an inch
from where I dropped them there before.

A multi-colored frenzy
is dancing on my tiles.
Ghosts long past
come flying back
to stay there for a while.

The straws slipped through my fingers
and so, they all tapped down
like the movement of a second hand,
eternity, an hour.

They fell away, as does the past,
so pick up every piece.
Throw it away or use it well,
or its dance will never cease.

Two hundred plastic straws,
or at least, that's how it was.
Now a hundred ninety-nine lay there,
a pink one in my glass.

BrailleI can't read you by sight,
I don't remember which arm
Your birthmark is on,
Or the number of freckles
On your face.

But by night I learned
Your Braille by heart,
A secret language
Hidden by touch.

I don't remember the exact
Hue of your eyes,
But I remember
Your skin under mine.

DepartureA hapless loser;
a lionhearted wallflower, if you will.

Browbeaten, sheepishly slipping through the curtains on the window.
Intimidated by the high-pitched noise you hear when there is no other sound in the night.
Bellowing out like a soldier stuck in his trenches.
I am heard, as I impinge your eardrums,
yet you're as steady as a statue during a windstorm.

My mother always told me that I was a well balanced child;
I had a chip off both of my shoulders.
One day the gulls will swarm down and make a nest of our bones
and you will still be as level headed then as you are now.

So go my friend, I bid you adieu.
Cast off your anchors, and feel t

CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;
bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--
tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.
My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.
You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.
We are waiting for a miracle,
we are waiting for you to heal--
We are waiting for something that will not happen.
We are stretching for something that is out of reach.
We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our lives
so closely, we cannot see the bigger picture
of eternity.
In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,
but we can't seem to hear His voice--
only the silence ringing in our ears
as the monitor stops
your breathing ceases
your face un-creases--
and, for the first time in years,
you run Home.

ReflectionIn a mirrors reflection

I see no affection.

In a simple mistake

my eyes can't erase

The pain won’t subside

It’s content to hide.

Then appears unwanted

and reveals those haunted

Memories created

by demons now faded

Into the darkness screaming

while I lay dreaming

of a world without life

where nightmares suffice.

Still your body lays dormant

this mirror is my torment

I can't stand to bare

this unmerciful stare.

This blood won’t let rinse

and my smile can’t convince

my soul to let go

of the pain I don’t show.

A self offered apology

dipped in hypocrisy

can’t stem the tide

of the insanit

Lucidall this time she's seemed so near
her angel face you hold so dear
she'll find you in that darkest time
her eyes will speak sans reason, rhyme
in time you will remember things
of birds and bones and broken wings
of deadly secrets, shattered dreams
things left unsaid and silent screams
with open heart and open mind
stand in the rain and you will find
that healing lies in these things true
and to remember changes you

RecollectionThe bed sheets were too soft for her—made her feel weak. She tossed the sheets off and piled furs atop herself to ward off the cool night air. The prickly feeling of the leather and hair made her feel home, made her feel calm. A heavy breeze blew into the bedchamber bringing with it the smell of the fruit garden down below. The smell of peaches and oranges never appealed to her anywhere, she turns over onto her side and empties her mind.
Memories came flooding back in as they often do at night. Long lost recollections and ideas better worth forgetting. One memory proved stubborn though, she tried to dislodge it, but still it remained to play in her mind.
It was summer, years ago back home to the north. He was handsome, a man with a rogue’s beard and grin, adorned with gold chains and necklaces, rings and the such made him stick out in this drab northern city. The man looked confused as he tried to get someone to stop so he could ask questions. None stopped, some even callin

InvocationSpeak through me, Muse, and sing me the tale
Of that girl unskilled in the ways of the world--
The intrepid wanderer,
Seeking truth for years on end,
Oblivious to the dynamics around her
As others talk with their eyes and dance with their words.
Many the nights she's lain awake,
Living the hurts of her friends, powerless to help.
Trying to save the world
When she can't even save herself.
She wrote dark storms of words
And ascertained the deceptive nature of journals.
She lied to others and she lied to herself.
She learned that sharp words leave scars,
Struggling each day to open her eyes
And walk toward the light;
Yet despite her best intentions, sometimes she strayed:
But hands were there to guide her back to the path,
And hearts were there to share her pain.
Growing and changing and coming to see
That she didn't have to understand humanity to be human--
She doesn't have to earn love to be loved,
And angels can hide in the oddest of places.
Of these trials and tribulatio

Evening childWe’d sit on porch steps
Insecticide burning our lungs
Awkward and gangly attempting to grow into our limbs
You with freckles dusting your nose and I with a small dot on my cheek
You called it a beauty spot and I said god was too lazy to give me freckles

We were 15 and lust driven amnesiacs
Dissolving our flesh with cheap gin in your tree house
Throwing pebbles at the sky hoping to shatter it
We were an epidemic of the underdog prognosis
Playing encores to an audience of cowards

For some reason we’d always rush across rail way tracks
Metal bars quivering and our broken sneakers stumbling
We were branded in mistakes and embellis

NightmarePlot twist: you can't wake up.

A Circle before JailWriting about the fairy circle is hard, she thought
It was an old tradition, passed down and down -- don't you have one?

-- a water tradition?

She would stand in the middle of her room
All painted in yellow, wearing a pretty dress, pigtales

-- perhaps a special saying?

Taking the dust from the bottle -- purple to be precise
May, I excuse you sir -- it had to be purple

-- special teddy bear -- am I reminding you?

She disappeared into her world of safety, her world of delight
Doing a fairy dust circle, sprinkling her childhood memory

-- Is was but years later

She remembered why, why the fairy dust circle was there
It was

Place of Not-MeClosed behind my sight
Wrapped inside my very thoughts
I become all I can sense
And I sense all that is

I am the acrylic rain
That restlessly stands still
That shatters me to pieces
Into dust and stars far gone

All's realised through me
Existence cheated by impossibility
Its plastic darkness spreads
And fills my conscious awareness

And veins so cold and slow
Bleed in this place of not-me
I stay but cannot remain
My comprehension overloaded
My mind stretched to infinity

I can be no more

Browse More Like This

More from ~violetense

thoughts of thornsyou were sent to me--
but as blessing, or lesson?
only time will tell.

Wake-up callwhen you're drowning in an ocean of sad thoughts,
you don't trip out onto the beach:
sooner or later, the waves will sweep you off your feet
and you will be unprepared
when the waters close over your head.
instead, you take a deep breath
and say your prayers
and you dive in.
the quickest way to learn to swim
is to have no other choice.

Lesson learnedShe fell first, and scraped herself up on impact.
By the time you were ready to let to and trust that she would catch you,
she was no longer there.
She picked herself up, dusted herself off, and moved the fuck on,
because she's stronger than you.
And you were left holding the pieces when you hit the ground.

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Mimicry

by ~violetense, Jan 29, 2013, 8:39:22 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Concrete Poetry

_{mildewed [ghosts] haunt the c.r.a.c.k.s in the w do not a mistake l their voices l for s your own. someday, you may be one of them. [this is not that day.]}

434

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Mimicryby ~violetense

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Please do not use without my permission.
Comments are welcome and greatly appreciated. Any feedback is great to hear. What can I do better?

EDIT: I've been featured: [link] Thank you so much!!

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Submitted on: January 29
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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*raven-dust Feb 18, 2013 Student Writer

Cool format, gives the poem some unique-ness

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~junete Feb 11, 2013

This is great. I love the formatting and I love this: "do not mistake their voices for your own."

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~InkySnowflakes Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I love the layout of this! It's definitely different, but not necessarily in a bad way.

This is a great poem, too. I like how it's so concise.

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`dreamsinstatic Feb 1, 2013 Professional Writer

Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.

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~violetense Feb 3, 2013 Student Writer

Muchas gracias!!

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`dreamsinstatic Feb 6, 2013 Professional Writer

You're welcome.

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=Daghrgenzeen Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I am in love with your way of writing.

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~poeknowsprose Jan 31, 2013

This was really good, kind of creepy in the best way possible. Really different and interesting.

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~m-AliceM Jan 31, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I would like to see this on walls.

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Mood: Wow!

~LilMijou Jan 31, 2013 Student General Artist

Very interesting visual

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