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Carsyn Smith Jan 2017
Hey, everybody! So I've had this account since I started high school and now that I'm well into college and working on publishing more and more, I've created a second account dedicated to some of my favorite, more refined work. Here's the link!
There may be some poems from this account that you'll recognize as I'll be revising and posting on my second account from now on. I would love your support in this transition! I am open for collaborations, edits, suggestions, comments, etc!

With love,
Carsyn Elizabeth Smith
Dec 2016 · 997
An Ode to a Magnum Opus
Carsyn Smith Dec 2016
If he were a canvas,
     My fingers through his dark hair
     Would be gentle whips of cornflower
     Or the shade of the southern shores
     Aching for sun kissed sands.

     The deep tint of the midnight hour
     Is the feel of my palm on his cheek;
     Unspoken words spark between our skin,
     Igniting as I am red phosphorus and he is sulfur.

If he were a canvas,
     Our breathless laughter
     Is a warm canary radiating
     Across all the dark spaces we ignore
     Like solitary candles in suburban windows.

     Our hushed voices on the pillow
     Is the gold with which the sun shines;
     The reflection of my heart in his eyes
     Is silver like a glowing full moon.

If he were a canvas,
     My lips gently grazing his forehead
     Are a soft powder pink,
     Like the petals of an awakening rose
     Or the shade of clouds draped in dawn

     But when mine meet his, amaranth.
     A ceaseless incandescence
     Of raw desire and a hint of diffidence
     From a flower seeded in our gray matter.

     When he touches my skin
     It’s in shades of pine and dandelion and wisteria
     And suddenly I see the painting
     Has covered the painter in romantic chaos

And it is the apron they put on display.
Sep 2016 · 855
Carsyn Smith Sep 2016
The painting collided with the steaming floorboards,
a single nail which once held the frame
torn in half like warmed taffy --
a single string, thin like a strand of hair,
dangling in the painting's place,
swaying in the slightest breath.
The wooden six-panelled window trim cracked and whined
but the glass remained untouched,
reflective of the doll carefully decorating the fur-covered bed.
Crystal eyes blink but do not break,
a manicured hand overlaying her mouth,
melding with the porcelain that is her skin.
Her elongated lashes dripped down her blushed cheeks.
She shook slightly but did not move.
Her ears, hidden beneath ruby locks, burst.
A puff of black smoke pushed its way past her curls,
framed by the sound of barotrauma.
Her eyes rolled back, lids fluttered shut,
chin collided with the soft skin of her chest . . .
A slug dropped onto her shoulder,
wiggling side to side with its newfound freedom.
It lost its balance on her delicate sleeve
and landed on my lap in a gooey pile of slime.
There are too many mirrors in this melting room . . .
I can't twitch my eyes without meeting the doll's.
The mirrors shattered as the frames which held them contracted.
The room glittered like the inside of a snowball,
but soon the luster turned to dust,
and the shards left clinging to the frame turned black,
bubbling glass dancing to a lethargic beat down the length of the walls,
trickling into the melted monstrosity swaying like an angry sea.
All the while the doll sat content in her fur-covered bed.
Apr 2016 · 613
Ghost Town
Carsyn Smith Apr 2016
What are you supposed to do when you return to a ghost town?
Do you walk among the dead, pretending to belong,
breathing from a straw as you watch the shallow water rush over your senses:
filling your ears with the same white noise you tried so hard to run away from,
bombarding your mouth and consuming the space your voice would perch before it decided to fly,
making your gaze so blurred you're never sure exactly how shallow you've become or how far you've sunk,
wrinkling your fingerprints and numbing everything but the constant rushing of a thin layer of blue silk,
you cling to the memory of the tulips you paused to smell as it's replaced with the eerie aroma of copper…
but that straw, those frantic shallow breaths, is all that keeps you from floating along the stream of sleepwalkers that litter this town.
This valley is a cage and every tunnel you see makes your heart whisper
"You're almost there."
In a city where nothing stretches for the ever-clear postcard sky
except the fumes of the local factory,
the people crawl between city blocks whose red lights
cast a net crafted for salmons at narcissistic sardines.
The suburbs are quiet on school nights, at weekend's dusk, in holiday's dawn.
Teenagers who have lost interest in the quiet are up late either coughing up ****** or SAT scores,
all searching for a heartbeat they forgot how to feel,
straws protruding from their lips like unlit cigarettes.
Their eyes are cloudy, pupils expanded, the whites bulging with pulsing red rivers, delving deep into a landscape the world forgot.
They shuffle next to you, faces purple from the lack of oxygen, but they'll never say so because
haven't you heard?
the walking dead tend to eat the living.
Mar 2016 · 738
Carsyn Smith Mar 2016
The hot summer breath pours over the expanse of my exposed neck,
nearly silent as it reminds the rest of my body of the shadow's chill.
I'm under a tree, its leaves hang in the air as if they have no weight;
they simply decide to lay their heads on the sea-sprayed grass below.
The waves kick up from the water lurching below, kissing my brow;
I want to peak over the edge, but I know if I do I'll fall straight down.
It's an arm around my waist and under my temple that holds me back,
A kiss on my crown and the feeling of fingers interlacing with my own.


My cheek rests upon the soft surface of a desert's sun-kissed sand,
everywhere I look the dunes never end, they simply shimmer into the sky.
I breathe out hot wind onto a landscape that defines the very word,
watching the breath create stirs that turn to circles that turn to clouds.
The clouds become a storm, but not a single grain of sand grazes my skin:
I trace the spine of this towering wall with the very tip of my finger nail.
It trembles under my touch but does not waver against the mighty storm;
my body curves to his, my arm around his torso, my cheek upon his back.


Here I float among the stars and planets as I look upon the earth,
gently, like the bobbing of a canoe down a river, I glide on the moon.
I can feel my heart pounding through the thick material of my suit,
or perhaps it is another's as I can feel my own through my hand.
The two different beats dance and race until they are nearly one,
putting on a show with lighting provided by the Milky Way above.
Something stronger than gravity holds me fast from drifting away:
an arm around my back, my cheek upon a chest, rising with his breath.


The vines of the jungle hold me tight under the thick canopy above,
humidity causes a bead on my brow, but I dare not shake it from its place.
I am like a body in a coffin, but more like soft pink petals in a spring bud,
held tight but not too firm as not to cause a misguided cut or bruise.
The sunlight burns my skin, the rays that squeeze through the ceiling
try to bubble and churn me into a misshapen form, but I am protected.
Forehead to forehead, a heartbeat in my palm, mine between is fingers;
four legs tangled, unidentifiable, so they become ours not mine.


The sunlight kisses his crown and falls through my lashes,
unforgiving of any peace we may have found with eyes closed.
A small bed in a small room, two people stumble in at two in the morning.
They talk of the future, of rings and a white dress between quick breaths
and within the slow mumbles of midnight gripped promises.
For now, he wakes her with a soft kiss like a single drop of spring rain
and she reaches for him with fingers dripping in memories of a dream.
To them, love is an unspoken promise,
like the change of the seasons or the pull of the tide.

Mar 2016 · 724
Carsyn Smith Mar 2016
I know I was never kissed by the sun,
but all I've ever had was the moon's love;
my mother's arms were the only strong ones
that held skin untouched by father above.

The night sky never rivered down my spine,
but I had it pooled between my lashes.
Pearl teeth, lips the color of blush wine;
who I am has to be just the ashes...

I must be a phoenix about to soar,
there is no other way to explain it:
I've beauty, but not yet, but like before.
I am of the sea foam, not sand sunlit,

not like her. She is father's favorite kiss,
her hair's darker than an ocean floor,
her lips are full and warm and hot and bliss.
She's beauty, just like now, not like before.

She's on your lips but I am in your arms.
Touch me with the fingers that long for her,
listen to me with ears full of her charms...
Her name is what you call in drunken slurs.

If my heart did break, it made no real sound,
but spun and twisted me tight to my knees,
there I pledged my mother and became moon-bound,
dancing bare in her light in the slight breeze.
Feb 2016 · 730
2/14/16 at 2:22am
Carsyn Smith Feb 2016
"I love you, a lot. Don't break my heart, please. It ***** when people do that to you. I did it to someone else to be with you so please don't do it to me because that'd ****, a lot, because I love you."
He broke my heart two days later.
Jan 2016 · 737
And then she was a chasm
Carsyn Smith Jan 2016
And then she was a chasm,
A cavity of weakness;
Void of throat shredding screams,
Drowning in mind mincing whispers.
She is now hollow of all
But a single reverberating beat
Clawing at the Heaven she yearns for.

But she is now a chasm,
A cavity of sorrow;
She found the space behind her ears
Home to hundred-legged creatures;
Her mouth's roof now scarred
From the family of nesting bats;
The glow worms that once illuminated her dark eyes

That is all she will ever be:
A Chasm.
Her bones broke when she joined the mountain side.
Muscles turned to moss, skin to crumbling stone.
Her lashes are now the stalagmites and stalactites
And although she did not open her eyes to this,
She is no neophyte to the mountain's arms.
She simply allows herself to forget for a time.
C. E. Smith

Sometimes I just lay in bed and a phrase comes to me and I have to write about it: "And then she was a chasm." What does that mean to you?
Dec 2015 · 943
Carsyn Smith Dec 2015
You only listen to clouds once they’ve rumbled,
And once they strike you wonder
How you could’ve possibly missed the warnings.
Lightning strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback,
But didn’t you see them shift?
Two dark bodies slamming into each other:
Colliding with rage and silent fear,
Conducting something sporadic and deadly,
Only to leave nothing but an echo and a reminiscing glow in the dark sky.
Sometimes it starts a fire, or takes a life,
But I love to watch it dance across the sky:
I shouldn’t.
Something so tragic and deadly should not fill me with awe,
Shouldn’t make me study and wonder --
Should make me cower and weep and mourn.
Lighting strikes so fast, it takes everyone aback.
It is the action to the voice the clouds whisper at night,
It is the last cry of rage or loneliness or fear,
It is sudden, but not without warning or precursor
You just have to be aware enough:
Watch as they dance.
See them cry and shake,
Listen to the rumble of their voice,
Feel the electricity dancing on the soft hairs of your arms,
Smell the damp city sidewalks,
Taste the copper on their tongue,
Watch as they dance across the sky:
Lightning struck so fast, it took everyone aback.
Dec 2015 · 1.0k
Mark my skin
Carsyn Smith Dec 2015
I want to mark my skin
like the ever-stained hem of the sleeves
that lick my knuckles like the sea foam
of a southern beach.

I want each pore to be filled
with the same heaviness that each streak
of watered-down mascara holds
as it lingers on the ends of my worn-out shirt sleeves.

Every line must mirror the soul
trapped in the blackened rivers
that forever run parallel to each other.

The curves crafted by the needle
will sway with same helium
he fills my chest with;

the crosses and dots will pack
the kisses he planted tenderly on my lips.

My first tattoo must be more than ink,
it must be heart.
Dec 2015 · 739
Only After
Carsyn Smith Dec 2015
The streets only glisten after rain,
Puddles catch the setting sun or
Soup the city's flickering street lights:
Suddenly the landscape is scattered with diamonds.

Sea shells only appear after a storm,
The waves kick and scream only
The best and the biggest ones to the surface:
Decorating the shore with rediscovered treasures.

A wolf only sings when it cries,
His echoes in the moonlit valley
Resinate from his shuddering chest:
Flying across the land ever so effortlessly.

Art is only lovely when it is broken,
Tear drop stains leave the best character --
Silenced screams in paint strokes entice:
Humans lie when they say they love a happy ending.

His touch was only gilded as a memory.
Nov 2015 · 997
Carsyn Smith Nov 2015
You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river
And now I know that I am that swollen western stream
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
And you are the man that is sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling me how the sun made me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills...
I know that I am that western vein because
I know I give more than I take,
I know I could never stick around for long...
I feel like you're like the others
Who held me in a colander and
Walked away with all I could give them.
Nov 2015 · 724
I will always wonder
Carsyn Smith Nov 2015
As a poet I will always wonder
If my body ran under your fingertips like the Great Plains rolling under a tempest...
If the hollow echo of my breaking heart beating against your skin made you recoil in disgust?
Did the breath we share grow stale as it sat in my aching lungs?
Does the pale ghost of my lips make your neck shiver and tremble?
Where did your heart move when you held me; did it fill your stomach like it did mine?
Could the space where my hand used to lay thaw if you recollect?
Would your skin itch for the soft tracing of my fingertips again?
Do your ears strain for the sound of your name falling from my lips like leaves lifted by an autumn breeze?

As a person I will always wonder
If you even loved me.
Just wondering...
Carsyn Smith Oct 2015
The window is strung with the residue of sun dried rain drops
like strands of glowworm silk hanging from the aged ledge of the forever forward shuttle.

They're from a storm passing through not too long ago, whose wrath still rises from the fallen leaves and souped soil on the side of the busy city sidewalks,

But the sun is warm and bright and the tree line ebbing and flowing against the blue morning sky is splattered with vibrant yellows and oranges and my nose fills my lungs with the crisp breeze that stands the hair on the back of my neck and my heart skips as my mind drifts towards the wisped clouds lounging just out of reach... and my cracked lips spread... and my teeth embrace the winter kissed air... and I laugh as a warmth fills me and... I think of you.
You make me happy <3
Oct 2015 · 1.1k
If we are but grains of sand
Carsyn Smith Oct 2015
If we are but grains of sand,
he is a warm embrace and soft kisses as
she is the single pearl ring given to a blushing date.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the oyster that works like a factory and
she is now part of the bracelet given to the new bride.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the hands that pries her free but
she is already in the long necklace hanging from the neck of a grieving widow.
If we are but grains of sand,
he is the greatest lie and
she is the most lovely tragedy.
Oct 2015 · 1.1k
Carsyn Smith Oct 2015
Her puffed pink lips wrapped
around the **** of her freshly lit cigarette,
hollowing her cheeks and sinking her eyes
as if death breathed her in and exhaled her out
as the smoke billowed out her nose
like an early 1950’s ad for Camel.
Her blue eyes were never opened all they way,
the black lashes heavy from the piling layers of mascara
she never washed off and under-eyes caked
with a yellow-orange tint that sat deep
into her sinking wrinkles, but the way her painted lips
kissed that cigarette made my heart yearn for a faster beat.
In and out, death bathed in her every breath until
nothing but the brown paper, stamped with her lipstick,
remained. Her ******* opened,
the cigarette still coughing up smoke as the toe
of her battered converse pressed it against the earth.
She waits a moment, looking out into
the busy streets of the city, until the itching of her fingers
is too much and she leans into her bag to pull out another one.
Through her heavy lashes, peaking over the basin under her eyes,
between the strands of her golden bangs
shown two bloodshot ponds that swallowed me whole.
The voice that snaked from her lips enticed me,
it sounded shattered and homely, rough and soothing,
as she leaned in and whispered
“Got a light?"
"Smoking has such a beautiful artistic sense" ~Lindsey Bost
Sep 2015 · 743
Carsyn Smith Sep 2015
Late September kisses the nape of my sweat beaded neck
as I watch the sun rise over the towering skyline of the city.
71D heading east on 5th Avenue --
its four-ways pulsing like a heartbeat monitor.
My legs ache as I pull myself into its hollowed out torso;
my eyes itch, my lips throb, my skin resonates memories
of hours drowning in late night revels as I lean against the side
of the beast coasting towards the awakening autumn sky.
The hum of its breathing vibrating my lungs and
shaking the soles of my worn converse, the orange washed clouds
filling the spaces between metal towers like some sort of abstract painting.
I sway and bounce to the beat of its wheels on these barren streets,
each jolt shooting more pain through my spine
until I radiate with a dull red hue. The glow pours over my body
and washes onto its floors, dissipating into its skeleton and
leaving me chilled. The beast groans, the sun now glaring
through into the driver's eyes, as it pulls to a short stop.
I step out, ignoring the aches as Morning's hand guides me home,
back to my bed,
to sleep away Evening's drunken hands and puffed breath.
Prompt: Your experience on a bus ride (where did you go? did you forget anything? where you comfortable?)

Word ***** about an early morning bus ride after a late night
Sep 2015 · 754
Carsyn Smith Sep 2015
Lullaby of the city, bright and strong,
Serenade the masses of the sleepless,
The tossing and turning, troubled tense throng
Of our kin bubbling over with stress.
Ink covered fingers flowing like water --
Pouring o'er paper in sharp curvatures.
Lips like verbs, eyes like green glass he'll shatter;
Like an open book with a hardcover.
Ballad of beautifully broken notes
Ringing through the chilling autumn air
Gathering the hearts and the tears of most
To bring the sorrowful much needed cheer.
     Like the steam from her black cup of coffee
     Not quite here; she's warm, hearty and happy.
Sep 2015 · 550
I know of these things
Carsyn Smith Sep 2015
I know of a tree that is not one,
But two seeds intertwined --
Roots rolling, truck twisted,
Two leaves growing on the same branch.

I know of two bodies
Tangled in a small bed --
Soft snoring, nipped necks,
His strong arms holding her against him.

I know of a ruby rose,
Swaying in the late summer rain --
Placid petals, tough thorns,
She doesn't mind, she kind of likes it.

I know of his lips
On the back of her neck --
Petty pecks, ***** bites,
His breath caught in her gasping lungs.

I know of a single rock
Split true down the middle --
Jagged joints, scraping sides,
Pressing together, but never close enough.

I know of her open palm
On his barren chest --
Tracing touches, grazing glances,
Morning sun scattering through the quiet room.

I know of the sun and the moon,
The stars and the dawn --
Shining summer, frosting fall,
But most of all, I know the sound of a breaking heart.
Sorry I took this down so quickly before, but circumstances changed and such. Regardless, this is my work and I will love it with its misfortune of conception. <3
Sep 2015 · 457
running out of oxygen
Carsyn Smith Sep 2015
I am the reminiscent glow of warmth in the midst of a light autumn snow: the embers itching for something new to swallow, perhaps another brittle arm of a Douglas Fir or the soaked heart of a Willow, but I wait in agony even if you've been gone for hours because maybe you're just looking for the perfect branch or maybe you've found a new fire to keep you warm?

My skin is nothing but mere ash compacted into a human body, crumbling away with each touch and yet there I was laying next to him after my heart stopped beating with your softening footsteps; he ignited me for a breath and stumbled away for a girl who burns so much brighter than I.

I am a benign fire hazard with a finger curled around an unlit match, salt water drenching its ruby crown and its body straining against my grip, but I can do it myself -- I can keep myself warm if I can only have the will to keep these embers glowing just a bit longer.
Sorry it's a bit of a rant, but I just have a lot on my chest that I needed to write about in some form.
Aug 2015 · 770
Half past Two
Carsyn Smith Aug 2015
Hush yourself to the foreignly familiar sound
you've known your entire life --
it's the sound of nothing,
                                             the sound of blackness.
Close your eyes,
but it's no different from when you leave them
staring into the voided eternity.

The thin hairs coating your arms
like sleeves of chain mail stand attention
as the strange chill sweeps over your body.
Darting eyes like two blue dragonflies
locked in a twisted duet
search the space just out of reach as if
looking longer or quicker may catch something
     off guard.

Breath deep.
Take in the familiar scent of you
in the frail cocoon you've wrapped yourself in.
Struggle against it,
                                   fall into it,
entomb yourself as a way to fight
the sudden dryness of your tongue and lips.
Lap them again as your mind wonders
to a place of blue skies and bluer seas...
                                                                       and then snap back.
Something has broken the foreignly familiar sound of night
and it seems to be breathing down your neck,
shooting waves of panic and
                                                   adrenaline deep into your bones.
Prompt: the experience of being in darkness

It's becoming rather difficult for me to write lately. I'm not sure why, maybe stress? Either way, I'm trying to break this block, but every day is harder than the last. I'm terrified of the day when I won't have the will to lift a pen anymore.
Aug 2015 · 2.9k
Hourglass Cage
Carsyn Smith Aug 2015
Hourglass cage holding me like a love,
Hold me closer, tell me of forever.
Sing to me of time, not my lack thereof,
Just lie to me with soft lips so clever.
The sands sub sole sink as the skies expand,
Stretching higher and higher as I shrink.
People are slipping through my open hands.
My tears are now sands that run when I blink --
They replenish but cannot save the past
Slipping away like my grip on the glass.
Each grain like a timer I can't outlast,
I place all my faith in falling morass.
     Grasping memories, hands, hourglass walls,
     I hang above the darkness like a doll...
          'til I simply fall.
The end is nearing, but so is the beginning.

Aug 2015 · 708
I'll just put this here...
Carsyn Smith Aug 2015
My grandpa always told me
“being a war veteran is scary.”
You sign up for a life of piles of
empty bullet shells and hollow bodies,
both equally as tall as the other.
A flip of a coin decides whether
you’ll kiss the ground one more time,
or be buried beneath it.

Every man and woman who
has ever faced evil is a hero,
regardless if their heart beats or sleeps.

Don’t tell me you’ll set a table
for a man who’ll never come
but not give five dollars to
the man on the corner with a sign reading
“war veteran. Help. PTSD. HELP.”
Don’t you dare look at
a marble block and cry,
but look at a homeless hero
in utter disgust.

Where has humanity gone?
Where are we now
that we shun the survivors
and immortalize the dead?

We don’t need another big shiny rock
to carve the number of good people lost:
We need hospitals, psychiatrists, therapists,
real people to help real heroes...
not cookie cutter doctors
paid by a government too worried
about being the world’s #1
nuclear weapons producer.

If I ran for president, I’d win with the slogan
“**** our future, I have a big gun.”
After thought note: I would never suggest that the people lost in war are worthless or not worthy of your respect. I'm simply upset at the neglect towards homeless war veterans who were in the exact same place as the fallen, but fate declared the bullet missed them. My grandpa is a veteran and I respect him above all others, but he was blessed with financial strength when he returned home whereas some heroes are not.

I'm beginning to develop my own opinions on things. I hope HelloPoetry is ready because I won't be silenced.
No title yet

Aug 2015 · 428
Midnight Summer Thought
Carsyn Smith Aug 2015
I'm going to start walking backwards now: I'm pretty sure I'm facing the wrong way. I can't keep looking into the past and expecting to arrive at the future.
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
I was drowning in holy water to get to you,
Praying to a man I couldn't accept for you,
Burning in the next pew to get close to you.
You sewed your hands for your God
And tried so hard to lace that red thread through my flesh.
Faith is a mighty tree you blighted with Doubt.
Belief is the sunshine you shadowed in Fear.
But, oh my God, you are my creature of temptation
And I'd forget it all if you would too...
But your hands and sewn together
And my mirrored palms are still healing from your needle.
I loved a Christian and watched who I was crumble into dust. The world could be so much more if people kept an open mind and an open heart.
Jul 2015 · 728
Tree hugger
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
My love for you is like the sunset through the tree line:
It shifts, shakes, blights at times and flourishes at others.
One thing is clear every time the day ends and
Those deep red rays touch the crown of my bowed head.
The trees do not move.
They are a constant I rely on far more than I’d admit.
The only way I could get rid of the trees
Would be if I cut them down…
I don’t have the heart to do that.
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
The way his ghost fingers weigh on mine
Could break every tiny bone as if my hands
Were the dried petals of the roses hanging in the summer sun.
The heat of July is nothing like the fire that consumed him
One late winter day;
His water written promises couldn’t save him from the ashes.
Jul 2015 · 383
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
It's so ******* hard to get rid of you when you're most of who I am.
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
Start with me back at the beginning. Watch the Earth come to be,
see the stars dance in the music that has become the twilight.
Watch mountains rise high and valleys sink low.
See the Earth's blue river veins fill and flow,
and its vast sea soul... listen to it move.

Start with me back at the beginning. Watch a life come to pass,
see a child's first laugh, forget the tears that started it all.
Feel them hold their mother's finger like hell.
Listen to their heartbreak, their wedding bells,
and the soft hymn of their eternal sleep.

Start with me back at the beginning. Watch for that one moment,
see the first two creatures fall fast and effortlessly in love.
Watch where it starts, and pin it like a map.
I know how love ends: a chest with a gap,
but the first step's a cruel teaser to me.
Wrote this yesterday morning. My fingers itched all day to pick up the phone and text him to see how he was doing. By the time the sun set, I wanted nothing to do with him. Amazing how fast things change. Watch for those moments: they're small, but they'll change your whole life.
Jul 2015 · 709
Oceanic Hostage
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
Like a shell taken hostage by the tide,
Like the rain to the river to the sea,
I walked out that door with all of my pride
And old neglect heavy inside of me.

Now the sea foam holds where your arms would be
And the sand buries where your lips could be.
The night breeze is soft like your hands should be
Echoing like a ghost still haunting me.

The dark deep unknown kisses me goodnight.
The broken rays of dawn's soft lips entice.
The soulless ocean I cry is my plight --
The faux strength and pride turning me to ice.

Wondering of you keeps my tides churning,
Dreaming of you puts salt in my waves,
Loving you created a deep yearning,
Loosing you crafted trenches and sunk caves.

I am glass heated from a time before:
molded, cooled, cracked, worn down by sand and strain.
I walk like I'm queen of the ocean floor
Burning to feel the warmth of love again.
C. E. Smith
Jul 2015 · 456
Update / Apology
Carsyn Smith Jul 2015
Hey guys! Please don't hate me for not posting something in a while, I've just been having trouble finding inspiration. I've been caught up in my religious studies, plus I've been working on a book! Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for the lack of poetry. Now that it's summer, I have to be responsible for setting time aside to write -- and it's harder than I thought. My mind has been wondering tonight, plus I just got back from a pleasant lake vacation, so I expect at least something in these next few days. Until then, here's a typed up version of scribbles from my notebook. They are just ideas that need developing, but I felt like I had to reach out to you guys. I love you all, and thank you for your support <3


It all started for freedom & fun, but now it's to forget you

The drinking started
in the name of fun freedom...
now it's to forget.

If that was the last time you ever saw me,
would you be satisfied or regretful?
If I died on my way home, or perhaps
disappeared from the face of the Earth,
would you feel the slightest bit of guilt?

Your call to action is nothing more than a soapbox whisper.
Your yarms of summer romance are nothing but a fisherman's platitudes.

You say that you miss me, yet you act like youre carrying on just fine. You talk a big game, but you don't know how to hit the ball -- or perhaps the most heartwrenching thought: you never intend to play. Just string me along, maybe for a while I'll trail behind because silly me still believes in fairytales and a mystical thing called "change."
~C. E. Smith
Jun 2015 · 527
Fearless Darkness
Carsyn Smith Jun 2015
A twisted thing held all my fears:
Midnight hours ask of my tears,
Creatures in corners see me stir
And wonder why I weep no more.

I wish the blue blood wouldn't pool
In the shaking hands deemed so cruel,
This chill burning my blackened bones
Is the same etching my tombstone.

I don't cry for the dark unknown
But for the creature that is shown:
The one that looks me in the eye
And lets the red love we had die.
Jun 2015 · 897
I'm too Old too Young
Carsyn Smith Jun 2015
Sixteen years is too old, apparently,
For soft hugs, rain kisses, a scraped up knee,
A baseless smile that's simply friendly,
An innocent romantic fantasy
And this little thing called virginity...
Imagine what they're whispering now that I'm seventeen! *gasp*
May 2015 · 909
A text I'll never send
Carsyn Smith May 2015
So a guy asked me out the other day, but I was so scared he'd be too much like you that I said "no," and I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult anymore.
Sorry I haven't posted anything in a long while, I've had a lot on my mind
May 2015 · 3.0k
Shun the Thought
Carsyn Smith May 2015
The line for the local convenience store
Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb,
Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor
And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”

We make like big balloons who self-implode:
Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns,
Fighting for survival makes mores erode
When a dark illusion has fooled billions.

Little John waits in line with his mommy,
No more than a decade, he learns to shoot.
Life was quiet like a dark raging sea,
Now we shake from a screen and men in suits

Fear not, trembling people of the world,
There is a way to end the gun violence,
To stop making canyons of the knurled:
Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!

Automatics in the professor’s desk,
Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs,
End common fear with something more grotesque:
Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.
An assignment for my English class satire unit :3
May 2015 · 1.2k
Searching Soul
Carsyn Smith May 2015
Of all the lost souls I have come to know,
You are the bravest, strongest, most divine.
These misplaced foot steps set the world aglow,
With each touch of your hand, new stars align.
I assumed your wondering made you lost --
How foolish of me, but now I can see
You are more than stone: bright granite embossed
With love’s red roses, not sickly ivy.
Envy is my desire for your hands
And how they can shape such beautiful thoughts.
You are like a creation of Dream’s lands,
Lulled spirit tattooed with scattered inkblots.
     Wandering but not lost, found but still searching
     To bring color back to Earth’s eve of spring.
(7 of 10)
May 2015 · 572
No Good With Spoken Words
Carsyn Smith May 2015
I've never been good with spoken words and maybe this is why
because everything just seems to spill out in rambles and tangents
like trying to follow a scribble cloud as if its a map to buried treasure  
locked deep inside with the secrets and I could never quite tell you,      
not straightforward anyway, how I felt when you sat in front of me,         
but that's not an excuse, and maybe I shouldn't tell you that when I           
see you I feel like I'm being drawn and quartered with every emotion        
pulling selfishly at me but maybe that's just me and perhaps I'm over          
exaggerating the momentum in which my heart holds my head but I         
can't say for sure because all I can hear is a constant drumming…         
constant drumming... constant drumming… and it never stops           
even as the sun sets and you, so far away, somehow crawl into my    
head as if its a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard, but I am the
exact opposite and if my words don't convince you than perhaps a    
cold shoulder will burn the idea into the soft skin of the arms that used    
to hold me when I cried about those stupid little things that I laugh at      
now and you'd laugh with me, oh that laugh, would fill me with a heat   
that could challenge all the stars in the universe and yet it flickered so      
quickly like a single flame suddenly at the will of a breath that has            
become so shallow and shaken by the tears of something deep inside      
shattering at such an immense speed that everything else is slow motion   
in comparison, and maybe my head is right to think that you're no good   
for me, but don't think for a moment that I could possibly keep you out  
of the mind that has become so crowded and yet you sit in the center of
it all like a king, or perhaps a dictator, that knows he belongs there in
that crowded space just under my ribs echoing with that beat, that constant
drumming that runs through my body like a relentless river as it destroys          
everything in its wake and runs along a silent stream of thoughts and words           
that pour out of my mouth when I open it…                                                              ­

and that is why I am no good with spoken words.
Sorry about the repost, but this one needed to be taken down too if I had any chance of getting it published. But now it's back up :)
May 2015 · 520
Creature of Habit
Carsyn Smith May 2015
He told me he could wait
regardless of what he wanted.
promises flew at 60 per minute
from lips and trembling fingers,
falsities billowing out with strain smiles
all because of the clock above his head
a constant ticking, reminding and controlling
as if it were a religion
as if it were his master
Creature of Habit
have you seen your master;
gone to communion today?
remember all you’ve wasted with each breath,
each blink becomes a hash closer to death
but they all claim patience and restraint
pulling against chains not clearly visible
golden lips whispering at 60 per minute
regardless of how they speak, they act;
They claim they could wait
Sorry for the repost, but I had to take it down when I sent it in as a publishing submission.
May 2015 · 937
Blood Moon
Carsyn Smith May 2015
They call a deep orange-red moon “******,”
That, somehow, she can hurt and wound like I…
How absurd! A rock can’t show tears or glee
Yet she is as joyous as stars are nigh.

Goddess Moon kissed Mother Earth in passion,
Fire consum’ng their love so time would not.
Time is a hunter they could not outrun,
As he ripped them apart, doomed them to rot.

One grew lush and strong, the other ice cold;
One circled the other in longing stares,
The other raising man in open wolds;
Memories in scars -- what a tragic pair.

Bleed, Moon, bleed as I do cry for lost love,
Alone and cold with the stars high above.
May 2015 · 889
The Book You Titled
Carsyn Smith May 2015
I wish I could find the book titled you,
The haphazard bounded and embroidered
Cover with pages spilling golden rue
And blurred lines under every lovely word…
But I don’t know where to look anymore
Or if my heart wants to ache like it did.
I couldn’t burn the secrets or foreswore
And forget the love seared on my eyelids…
But my thrum is in the eyes of a man,
Laced in every vein, waiting on his lips
Like a drug deal not according to plan
And your relapse stinging like poison whips.
     I’ve held and been held by this book in dreams
     And secret studies full of rouge sunbeams.
     Perhaps this diversion is what I needed;
     Maybe someday I'll learn to stop the bleeding?
Had a strange dream and figured I'd write a poem about how I was feeling
May 2015 · 1.0k
Man of My Dreams
Carsyn Smith May 2015
Don't flatter yourself
Apr 2015 · 646
The Woes of a Wordsmith
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
I ponder, perhaps too much, of how I've lost my touch. I wonder if, in my delusion, it was just a dreamed haven. Somewhere in the hours of meditation, someway I've lost my salvation. My thoughts are trapped and closed like a man-lake is cement opposed, like soaring eagles discover they are just gifted wren actors, or the chlorine stinging your eyes is the spray of ocean waves crying. I feel like a snuffed candle trying to burn, a cloud wisp trying to rain, a parched rose trying to flourish, a winter breeze trying to warm your fingers. Suddenly I feel a kith with the discarded plastic bottles littering my beach, for, like them, I am searching for a purpose out of reach: the woes of a cursed wordsmith.
ranting about my loss of muse/inspiration
Apr 2015 · 484
Shots Fired
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
When I do meet the gun that will not fire,
I cross the trigger that has yet to rest.
My heart yearns for the ear of a liar,
a dark cipher and gnawed gold in his breast,
as fingers ache for the truth in his eye,
gilded guiles, a world he keeps private.
In a dream he shot me sweet as a sigh
with a touch fatal as any bullet,
but dreams melt like red and blue to purple,
creating a world of passion and pain --
he is a chained ankle and an angel,
a cold-shouldered knave and soft summer rain,
     a night vision of hope and black regret:
     a misfired gun I will not forget.
Apr 2015 · 779
Lakeside Suicide
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
The surface ripples like the whisper of
A knife through the space between her
Ribs, and although it may be Great, it
Is but a spec on the sapphire that is our
Earth. Thousand stepped lavender
Converse soles suspended, kissing the
Lips of the restless waves like a
Gentleman upon her pearl clasped
Glove, oh how I wish she could see the
Way her eyes pulled at me like a
Riptide. And oh how I'd give to kiss
The water in her place, but she made
Love to the very lake she bore from
The depths of sleepless nights. She was
Waterborne with every crumbling step
Over cracked city sidewalks,
Wandering like a bottled message at
The whim of currents. I think she
Would have liked to sink to the
Bottom, but they've raised her like a
Bullet shredded battle flag. I think she
Would have floated in the silence of
Eternity instead of speaking through
Rotting lips. Perhaps would have
Rather whispered the petals of a
Midnight rose to his boat than kissed
The tips of his time tattered converse
Sneakers. Perhaps she would have
Wanted to catch him as he mirrored
Her dive into
Apr 2015 · 508
A Spring Night's Dream
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
Drop the leaf, and allow yourself relief.
Much like the mysteries of lifeless time,
Much like my cursed gift of endless rhyme,
I can not tell you why comes the nighttime.
From my great wisdom, I can tell you this:
Let thy leaf fall and give mine roots a kiss,
And I can offer what you look for -- bliss.
For your sake I prayed I be false in sight,
Now you breathe and your life must thank thy knight.
Foolish is he to look for death to spite,
Now a price you must pay to make things right.
Oh dear gods, you victim child of fate,
The jealous martyr will demand and wait
For thine toll now that you see death’s black gate.
The Dreaming Tree. I don't do drugs, my mind just breathes differently. <3
Apr 2015 · 578
Wishing Well Diving
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
Pray tell, where be the sun that kept me warm,
And where be your body when comes the storm?
If I, asleep and drowning in the well,
Could see the stars, I’d dream of tales they’d tell:
Of you, of me, of what we used to be.
Luna watches me sleep on currency,
On tears of the dewy eyed wish-makers.
Bed of bargains, blanket of still waters,
Drowning in you, yet desert with needing.
They see me as a drought’d man bleeding
And you a cool glass of tricky poison:
Still I came to sell my soul or my sun.
          How fitting it was you who pushed me down,
          Took your heart from me, so in this well I’ll drown.
I'm not really sure what message I'm saying exactly. Mostly word ***** and my first attempt at a sonnet. :) excited to try again soon
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
Has anyone ever written something for
you? You who labors over pages of
raw emotion, who stares at the same
space on the wall from evening sun to
early moon in search of the perfect
word? Have hands cramped and
callused over the hills and valleys of
your name, blistered and cut, not
bothering to acknowledge the trickling
of blood because it quickly turns from
pain into sweet ruby devotion? Have
you ever had your indents caressed?
You know, the deep ones between
your thumb and fingers or the striped
ones on your mid arms from scribbling
scattered thoughts onto weathered
pages? Has anyone ever watched the
way your eyes shine when you think?
Did they see the way you search
tumbling storm clouds for the single
silver ray, or the depth of the soulless
ocean for the glint of golden treasure?
Has anyone ever told you how beautiful
your mind is? How, if the world went
black, you would cherish the way a fire
dances on a wax stage? Has anyone
ever written something for you?
Because I would. I would write you a
thousand sonnets, haikus and ballads if
you'd look at me with those shining
eyes and think of me with that beautiful mind.
(6 of 10)
Apr 2015 · 575
An evening under the tap
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
2B or not 2B -- that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to trust
The estranged memory of my parked car,
Or to take arms against the flight of stairs
And, by ascending, remember. 1A, one floor --
No steps -- and by 1A to say we end
The footache and the thousand natural shocks
That heel is heir to -- ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. 1A, one floor --
One floor, perchance no callis. Ay, there’s the rub,
For in these shoes of death what callis may come,
When we have shuffled off these mortal streets,
The lot must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of memories.
For who would bear the sores of party shoes,
Th’ endless rows of resting vehicles,
The low ceilings and countless steps,
The insolence of the inebriated, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might end the fuddled search
With a local inn? Who would challenge the stairs,
To grunt and sweat under buzzed breath,
But that the dread of someone waiting at home,
The undiscovered disappointment from whose bourn
No party-er returns, shaming the conscience
And makes us rather storm the steps to 2B
Than face anger we wish we knew not of?
Thus a spouse’s fury does make heroes of us all,
And thus the reality of ten more steps
Is boiled in the evening’s song and merriment
With little regard whether the car is parked in 1A
Or perhaps upstairs in 2B. -- Harsh you now,
The ground that catches me. -- Cushion, concrete bed,
I think I shall rest here.
A parody of Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech.
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
How do I compare you to the wonders of the world
When you surpass even the most lovely of sunsets?
If the stars shine, then your eyes illuminate.
If a fire be warm, then your smile is ardent.
A California riverbed sparkles with scattered gold,
But your laugh becomes the lucent wind,
gilded by the chimes, glinting off the dusk sky.
I have seen my share of faceless beauty,
But never one who knows the hand of
Both Aphrodite and Athena effortlessly paired.
Your flaw, if there be one, is the ocean’s deep bed,
Unknown, hidden and shouldered in the dark.
Might I drown before I learn this mystery?
I think not, but if indeed, know I float adjacent,
Shoulder bruised and ruby eyes searching.
Wonders of the world, vast and stunning,
Like the fragile delicacy of a butterfly wing and
The resonating echo of a growl in the hollow cave;
You are a wonder unparalleled and unequaled.
How lucky am I to explore the marvel of your being?
(5 of 10)
I love you, my friend. <3
Apr 2015 · 412
Carsyn Smith Apr 2015
My tears are the purest ivory and the thickest acid: they are only shed when my heart stumbles.
Word ***** part two
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