She was born in the back alleys of bones
left as scrap thrown to the dogs
by men who chewed her raw
and picked their teeth
with the edge of her.

When sprouts formed,
and skin and flesh blanketed her existence,
and blood dripped into her veins
from body bags in dumpsters:
she began to grow anger,
and brain,
and heart,
and eyes,
and fists.

So she may see the men her tossed her,
and attain her vengeance.

I sit at the edge of the world,
as water falls from the ocean
into the abyss that is the sky
and floats past the stars.

Where I cling to handfuls of dirt
and grass, and the rocks that cling too,
so I do not fly up
and drown in the universe above
and below me.

She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.

She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.

She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.

Now the hound named
"Sea"
became full
once more.

I rattle like
air dried bones
on winds unknown.

She lays on the hill
between heaven and hell
and ponders
the valley's
name.

Recently a poem of mine blew up and I wanted to say thank you all for it!!
The poem Edge was inspired by a writing prompt titled:

Write a poem using the phrase "the sky is on fire"

I came up with the poem from this line, and I wanted to say this because it feels wrong to not credit inspiration and a line to the original creator.

Melissa Jennings Twitter: @melissajenningz came up with the prompt!

So a big thank you to her for the inspo for that poem!!!

Cool lungs
fill with chilled air
that know no breath
and I am myself
once more.

I sit on the edge of the world
where the sea meets the galaxy
and the water
begins to float.

I no longer think
of where I am
or where I am going to be
or where I was.

I am here
where the sky
is on fire.

When I met her I knew she was a sleepless night in the making.
She lays on a bed fit for mortals,
but the moon places a halo on her head as she sleeps.
I curse my eyes,
as acidic darkness clings to her skin
and eats at my ability to see her at peace.

Seventeen years of life
and I still have yet to realize:
that being a sucker for insomniacs is not good for me.

She is rolling thunder,
a stoic figure with grace and presence.
She dresses herself
as a storm
with dark clouds
and lightning.
Her laughter rings
throughout the heavens
and sailors fear her,
as they should.

Alone and Alone
I write these words twice
so at least
they have company.

I fell in love with her
not like a lover
but a soulmate.

I wish not
to taint her skin
with my touch,

but rather
admire her forever
from afar.

I know her name
like she is the air I breathe
the stardust in my veins
the wonder in my eyes.

There is beauty in potential.
Fleeting moments of desires
to be freer than I am
come stronger and faster
when captivity has been for this long.
The potential to be free
will always appeal to me
more
than freedom itself.

Her frizzy hair
was simply
an invisble halo
being wrapped
in strands of gold.

I really miss her,
the woman who knew
her place:
on top of the throne.

There is something so forbidden about women
that just makes me want them more.

The memories
of late October
torment me
like trick or treaters
begging
for more candy.

Freedom
is the feeling you get
when you breathe your first breath
and your ribs
no longer
press into
the floor.

The sky is stained
with wine,
as lazy clouds
move hungover
towards the sun.

True respect stems from love not fear.

If a child respects a parent out of love, and does something bad and gets away with it, their guilt will consume them and they may confess and do the right thing.

If a child respects a parent out of fear, they will simply be happy they did not get punished and avoided fear.

I loved her
before
I even
met her.

The echoes
of your presence
remain
in my empty mind.

Sometimes
letting go
means making a bonfire
and using
your old mobile like
firewood

I pray for forgiveness
I know I do not deserve
but forget
that I have already been
forgiven

Wrap me in silk
and send me home
I am nothing but a sinner
who knows
how to drown.

I stare at graves
and the autumn leaves
that fall,
as my envy
for decay
consumes me.

I cupped your face
and my hands stung
because you knew
what it meant
to be
holy

For my sins
I shall rot
in the caskets
of my enemies
and this punishment
is anything
but
divine.

There is no law
stating that the holy
are beautiful...
There is a reason
why Hell
is HOT.

I pity the fool
who envies angel's
because to become holy
means
losing
your
humanity

Freedom rings at heaven's gates;
to answer is to accept you are dead.

Sometimes
being free
means letting go
even if
you are not
ready
yet.

Sometimes to be completely free
means to be
unfathomably lonely.

I used to be someone
whose life goal
was to do something
that would impact
the world.

Soon I found solace
in disappearing as a whole
and realized
the biggest impact
I will ever make
is
leaving.

Stormy sea thunder
boasts with glorious tales
of men who've drowned,
and the sirens
who drowned them.

What is faith
but an empty promise
to a God
that abandoned us
years ago

She smelled like cigarette smoke
and *****
and Oh,
how I wished to be
the ash or the bottle
that fell
from
her
lips.

I love you,
so much.
Every day goes by and I miss you.
As a poet I try to find multitudes of beauties to write about
and you have managed to be every one of them.
To be graced by your presence
once a millenia
is honor enough to last a lifetime.

I feel like the stars sent you here,
a comet zooming through space
that landed in the forest
where you grew ethereal
and beautiful.

I adore you.

She was so beautiful
so graceful
so filled with wonder
that the parthenon
wept at the sight
of her.

At my very core
am I as human
as I was promised
to be?

Flowers grow between my ribs,
and in the cracks of my mind.
While those around me call it beautiful,
it is getting hard to breathe.

Who am I?
But a collection of sounds in colors?
Of tastes in scents?
Of misery in delight?

I am nothing but the shadow
of good times
and there
lost files.

I woke up to the sound
of moon on my skin
and velvet on my lips.

The scent of pine cones
will always
smell like
a memory I lost
long ago
of home.

She was moonlit skin
wrapped in the silence of the night
with dew drops for eyes
and a soul
made of wet earth.

Sometimes I feel as though
writing poetry
is like throwing scraps at the dogs.
Have I satisfied my mind's hunger to write?
Not until
I can say
that I've written
with pride.
For the only way to be full
is to be brave enough
to swallow
my own
words.

Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.

She's begging to me
through rattling teeth
and broken bones
made of ash.

Her body quivers
as cold wet hair
sticks to her skin.

She is begging for mercy
Dare I deny her of it?

Getting through to her
was like trying
to talk to the window
with the blinds closed
and the curtain's drawn.

To loathe oneself
is an art,
I suppose we
are all artists
one in form or another.

She was teacups made of China
and sunny spring afternoons.

She was soup
on the stove
when it was raining and grey
outside.

She was the gentle touch
of a birds feather
landing on my nose.

She was comfort in its essence,
and I hope to never lose her.