Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
5.2k · Feb 2013
Icarus M Feb 2013
There's a tree over there
that waits for its dreamer.

I have survived many.
And lost much
but to tell all would encumber several human spans
I have lived and longed.
I have learned and yearned.
I have waited.
At the train station, where existence can only be fulfilled
via a spiritual connection.
Bounded by roots that twist and secure
Soon to be bonded with thoughts
Floating through the sky, riding the air waves, see-through till caught
in a spider's web, or something like it.
And imaginary gets real.
Take in the matter
Scrub the void with scrounged emotions and colors
Pour in materials of lint and string.
Mediums with no particular conductance,
but taught it tight
and strum till the vibrations reverberate
and bring your idea to life in my wings
Because you are my dreamer.
And I am your catcher.
Hung on a wooden peg,
in your study.
Waiting for the day you
pick me up
and all your dreams tumble out and
and you realize
**who you are.
Initial idea was to describe a surreal explanation of what a tree waits for in its life. Instead I ended up with this. Tips on improvement to this would be appreciated.
© copy right protected
2.9k · Jan 2013
Zander's Sandcastle
Icarus M Jan 2013
The shells lined up nicely.
"At attention," the conch yelled.
He was curled black, with boiled blue spikes.
And so they stayed, in a perfect line against the wall,
until the wave,
washing ashore, it plucked three.
One was an abalone,
almost full grown,
with five holes descending down its left side.
A sheen of gold and silver out,
murky indigo and forest green in.
He lost grip first,
and was pulled into an incoming breaker.
The second was a conch.
Chocolate and vanilla swirls coated the outer layers
leading in to slight pink.
Her name was Neapolitan.
She was once an adult shell of the queen conch,
washed ashore and set into a line by small hands,
that were gentle and soft.
A soft voice called.
Inhaled by the mouth of the ocean,
exhaled into a bout of seaweed.  
She was lost.
The last,
was a cowry shell.
He was old,
or at least he imagined so.
This was not the first time he had washed ashore,
nor had he figured, would it be the last.
His back was ivory white
with brown speckles,
in such a pattern
that he imagined himself to be, at times, a turtle.
He had first felt and then saw reflections of himself in sea glass. He was gathered in a bucket and rubbed so that his design reverberated until he felt, every shimmer of himself.
Knowing not what lay ahead,
but understanding,
he held no grip and went where the ocean led.
It's getting dark Zander.
The others gasped,
in horror their screams rasped.
"Save us. he...l...p."
As another wave crashed into the wall and stole four more,
till all were cast away from the wall
to be laden across the expanse of sand.

Soft brown eyes stared,
at the empty holes,
where shells had been placed,
as decorations to a most deserving sand castle.
Turrets and towers,
hard packed by child hands,
with a red flag flapping to the sea breeze.
A crude skull was drawn,
for it was a pirate fascination that encapsulated this year.

He had spent hours seeking and finding,
the perfect art,
to be the binding,
to hold his wall against all defense,
but all had fallen in the first wave of battle.
"Oh well," he muttered.
He would try again tomorrow.
© copy right protected
2.9k · Jul 2013
Icarus M Jul 2013
Superimposing marks
On red, swollen lips
Bit and bled from chattering teeth
That tolls nervous as a cuckoo clock chirps.

A bumpy road with
Spidered cracks
Like a well dried jerky strip
Wrinkled, and tough.
Bit and chewed
With no bones underneath
And no guts to go forward.

Warning skies
Of red in the morning.
And thunderstorming nights
That flash with lighting so intense
You'd think an old-age photo party was commenced way up high.
And rain so furious
You'd think the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces.*

As a cloud,
I think I should add
That we aren't all fluffy and white
Nor scary and dark.

Our seasons do not come easily
For we undergo much
To make it "rain."

And even more to keep it calm.

Thunder is not a weathering crash,
It is yelling from another room.
And the lightning flash,
That leads to liquid pain.

The hard pressed wind that tosses your hair
Are witheld screams
until tolerance level reaches maximum,
And snaps. Like that old willow's trunk,
Wrenched from the earth,
Because the sky is powerful
And we are only along for the ride.

But, there is sunshine that warms our tops
While the bottoms are in shadow,
wrought in darkness that writhe along uneven surfaces.
But, there is moonlight that makes us gleam,
Like silver was sewn into sides.
But she is not always there,
And as her light fades
A work in progress, but I wanted to share what I already have. I hope you enjoy. Any tips are welcomed. © copy right protected
2.4k · Feb 2013
Dear Madame
Icarus M Feb 2013
-October Twenty-Second-
Dear Madame,
Here is your six am morning wake-up call
delivered via letter delivery by the bellhop like you requested
who took the stairs because the lift was out of service
to knock on your door even though it was on the top floor
so thank you for getting him to exercise
because he had to run up every flight of stairs in all.

Dear Hotel Manager,
I send my thanks to the bellhop for his early morning workout
to bring me my excuse to get up and greet the day with renewed vigor
because if he can overcome seventeen flights of stairs
I can climb out from the covers
and face the world free of doubt.
My Regards-Oct. 23rd

-November 1st-
Dear Madame,
As you so requested again
here is a letter regarding your early checkout time
to be happening on Tuesday November 5th
in the morning by half past ten.

-November Sixth-
Dear Madame,
Failure to comply with our notification
has been noted
since it is now Wednesday November 6th
and it has come to light
that you have not left the rooms
and adjacent guest have made complaints
of noise
and a most awful smell that seems
to be originating from within your boundaries
and so Madame
you will be removed tomorrow evening from the premises
by nine-o-clock sharp, without any hesitation.

-November Seventh-
Dear Madame,
Changing the locks is not allowed
and no amount of furniture bombarded against the frame
will keep us at bay for long
please just vacate  
and there will be leniency endowed.

November Eighth
Dear Madame,
We have called in a specialist
to break down the door
and remove you by force
to take you to jail
because by now,
as you must have realized yourself since you have stayed there,
the stench from you room has expanded
to encompass the entire floor
which is quite problematic
you troublesome narcissist.

(Her room is finally breached and her body is discovered.)

November Thirteenth
Dear Madame,
I never did ask your name
at check-in
with your ugly green steamer trunk,
all I could think was "Poor Jeffrey the bellhop has to carry that thing up seventeen flights of stairs because the repairmen aren't due till next week to fix the lift."
And you just stood straight,
with hands hidden in your deep burgundy trench coat pockets.
Softly spoken answers to every one of my questioning remarks,
The lift is broken, what floor would you prefer?*
(The uppermost floor if you could, sir.)
Would you prefer a nice or regular view?
(A view would be mightily enjoyable.)
Single or double bed?
Your eyes twitched and your mouth turned down
And so as you walked away,
I stared at your backside and made some inappropriate inner comments
about your body because you were beautiful. Apologies for that madame, but I guess your looks are what got you into this mess.
After all,
how was I, the manger here, supposed to know that you had been murdered.
I don't know what a decomposing human smells like,
or at least I didn't.
Although I am thankful you paid in advance for your room, it does not cover the charge of having to fumigate and replace the blood-spattered walls, carpeting, and bedspread.
And so Madame, in conclusion to this letter that I am currently writing, I will go to your funeral and toss this envelope into your grave in order to approach your relatives and
bill them for our costs.
The Manager...who is not to blame.

Note: Her letter was later found in the removal of some desk drawers that had splintered when the bullets had ricocheted into the dark grain wood.

*To whomever does find this,
My apologies to the manager and the bellhop of this fine and fancy hotel
I had not meant to stay so long
but I have been running for some time
and a rest
back in my city was what I needed.
Unfortunately, if you are in fact reading this,
then my past
and my fears have found me
and I am dead.
Murdered presumably by
a most terrifying man...

...whoever he is.
-Oct. 30th
I wanted to write a story-like poem and this was the result. Does it work?
© copy right protected
2.0k · Jan 2013
Icarus M Jan 2013
It was a flavorful month.
First with a delightful treat of Black Walnut,
followed by a week of chestnut.

The splendorous aroma
of cooking meat on a rotating spit
the sizzle as the juices dripped running down,
covering his fingers and wrists with grease and fat
to drip into the burning flame
of the fire he had sheltered near.

The night was cold
but the fire would warm him.
(I'm done. Spoke the meat to the bone. I can no longer stay here with you and listen to your ramblings and lost dreams. I'm leaving you, she whispered. The old bone gasped, stricken. Please, do not go.
He reached for her and grasped tendrils, holding on to nay release.
And so the bone held the meat, but just barely.

The spit was held still, a sliver of flesh carved off
nearly pulling it all.
A smile at his face, as he replaced his knife to a home of supple, tan leather
stained black with charcoal.
Still broad-faced, he shut his eyes and gorged.

hist beard stubble provided a maze for the drippings to puzzle,
tracing towards his chin to run and leap,
and splatter and soak into the hard packed dirt below.
It had not yet rained, for many span.
So the fire would burn.
And crackle,
and sear substance that was brought too near its boundaries.

How it liked to char.
Its scorching embrace,
meant to suffocate with smoking laughter
curling upwards toward the trees
spreading all throughout the land.
Imagining creatures hundreds of miles,
breathing in and knowing vulnerability when coughing tumbled topside
and shook their entire being until,
until they understood her power
and how she came to be.

As stated, it had not rained for quite some time,
seven years and thirteen days to be exact.
And so, seven years ago,
(for the rain that came held saturation up to the thirteenth day)
she sparked into existence.
Quite literally, remarking on the above statement,
a passing knight atop a stumbling steed was fumbling around,
unwittingly, he had taken a trip down river which his horse had not been thrilled about.
While being chased by a horde of grey goblin trolls,
after he had blundered into their hunting party
he decided to escape through a stream
he had heard they were afraid of running water.
But his information was wrong,
and the throng
chased him down,
till the stream turned to river which turned to faster until
And so they went and now were sodden and miserable.
He rode along until Cudge, his haughty horse, refused to budge.
So, he built a fire and the following morn he rode away without putting it out.
Along his route,
his flint stone happened to drop,
out of a saddle bag and onto a rock,
causing a spark to light upon a bed of dry leaves,
which led to the creation of our dear fiery friend.

She spent years collecting herself
after the Tinder War.
Briefly explained:
Another fire that was left to burn
did not want to share
any of the forest around where the road did turn
all should be his no other fire would dare
challenge him.
This was her first test
as she felt meek and small
her flames could not jest
against his that were tall
but she prevailed and tricked him.

Fueled with victory,
she became an inferno,
and raged with widespread havoc,
till one day she murdered a magpie,
perched on the forest floor her heat overwhelming,
till his soul escaped to forever fly the skies never landing upon the earth again
Lusting with virtuous eyes
she eradicated and slaughtered
till she killed a village.
A lone survivor,
a child who could not see.
She cried tears of lost.
And brought flooding to the land that washed away the fire
till nothing,
but a spark was left.

The fire never forgot,
the pain,
the life she had snuffed out,
for what?
She changed her ways,
and lived out her days,
remembering her suffering faze as a young blaze.
But happy now
to provide company to this occasional traveler
and his trusty steed.

And so, encircling back (or forward we should considerately say),
to a month known as February which was particularly tasteful.
She, the fire, was enjoying her recent companions,
known as a knight and a horse called Cudge,
who had fed her planking from foreign floors
that tasted salty
from shipwrecks that had sailed to shore and he had carried for firewood.
Although she did not need wood to continue her life,
she relished the savory timber,
and in return provided a spirited heat to perfectly roast a pheasant.
Her name was Yori and she was fire.

The next night it rained.
The End.
© copy right protected

Note: (Entirely too long to read as a poem so consider it a stanza-stepped-story)
2.0k · Apr 2013
Fetching Stretch
Icarus M Apr 2013
"I should," just sounds off,
like dentures biting into a bar of toffee.

Daydreams as sipping some froth,
out of your morning coffee.

Flying otters and mechanical beasts,
welcome to the rejection hotline over imaginary vibration.

Ice cream sandwiches and mushroom burger feasts,
a day does try some patience.

Red and blue smurf battles,
on blank and empty computer vision screens.

Nerves like snake rattles,
and nothing but imaginings.
© copy right protected
1.5k · Mar 2013
Peanut Butter
Icarus M Mar 2013
Peter Pan stole my innocence,
and the hurricane claimed my name.

Exasperated replies conquered the dawn,
and a baking tin of foiled hate.

Forgetful days will come forth hence,
and sleepless nights will hold the blame.

As silent screams will whisper through cracks,
and driving motions continue straight.

To uncoil a watch too wound,
and overclock a piece.

Releasing the vine from being that was bound,
I think that would be nice.
I just do not see this as working. It's too "skippy" and jumping around.
© copy right protected
1.4k · Jul 2013
Remnants of a Shadow
Icarus M Jul 2013
Today she broke down crying into a watermelon,
and as her spoon dug deep into it's tasty flesh,
tears collected in the corners of each eye.

And as the juices squirted onto her hands to run down her arms,
her shoulders shuddered.
And she cried.
And she didn't know why.
why why why why      
She whispered.
Her lips moving to repeat over and over again.

And I stood near to her,
and watched over her.

But I could do naught for her,
or her chest heaving, racked with sobs.
And her eyes gazed heavily somber.
And her lips trembling, cracking, disappointment.
And her spirit falling, crumbling.

I watched her all the while,
and stared,
where a woman,
a strong woman,
had confronted her inner demons,
and lost;
and was replaced by a shadow of herself.
© copy right protected
1.3k · Feb 2013
No Point
Icarus M Feb 2013
no point on my
It has dulled
over time
and experiences.
            But its story began
years ago.
It was stemmed anew                  
made naturally
and packaged unnaturally
in sheets of crinkling plastic.

It's first day,
the first sharpening,
resulted in success.
A tip so fine              
a needle would
be jealous.                                  
And with such a clean canvas
of paper so white
that there was a glare
how could joy compare.

The first time        
pressure was applied
it hurt and the tip
snapped      leaving                  
                       shattered lead remains
that wrote broken.
Shameful.                                                ­                                                  
To break on first point.

A journey followed,
bad and good times involved.
Resharpening after a hard day's,                      or night's,
Handwritten, cursive, plain.
Shading, drawing creating.
Ah was the life of a pencil.

Along the years the eraser dwindled,
the yellow school bus coating chipped and weathered
bitten and gnawed on
and too much force
giving way to[                  ]and constant resharpening.
(You may wonder,
how does one pencil last,     years...
There was a period
where fallen and forgotten under the bed
and was not found until
the owner had grown at least a head.)

And so it became to be                                              
too much                  
as a pencil does not approach infinity,                                        
like last evening's calculus.          
There was a limit.
The pencil grew to a stub,
and soon there was
No Point~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~--.--~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~
A semi-twist with hints of double entendres that can be humorous.
1.2k · Mar 2013
Shifted Memories
Icarus M Mar 2013
that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.

Covered in dripping red
gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.

Atop a table
tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.

Retching from inhalation
as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.

Enlightenment of the general mood
from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.

Dead like a corpse
as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.

Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.
© copy right protected
1.2k · Jul 2013
Inspired Bright
Icarus M Jul 2013
Timothy the poet,
With words that speak professionalism
That I envy
His diverse
His sense
The words that flow from him
And the happiness that seems to spring off the page
And force itself down my throat
Until a smile cracks my lips
And my teeth show white
Because Timothy
Your poetry brings me joy.
To Timothy, for I look up to his vivacious personality on hp and his wonderful writings. © copy right protected
1.2k · May 2013
Icarus M May 2013
Be ready for it.
Ready or not, here it comes.
Like hide and seek.
Telling you to expect the unexpected.
Even if the unexpected is hiding up in a tree.
When the rules clearly defined only "on the ground hiding spots."
Ready to drop in on you.
On top of you.
And crush you to the ground.
Catch me if you can.
If you are ready.
1.1k · Apr 2013
Icarus M Apr 2013
Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.

the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
                                                         ­                                        pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.

Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.

As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.

Darkness eclipses.

And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.

Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.

Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.

Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.

She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.

So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Didn't think while I wrote, just wrote. Inspired by Dave Gledhill's poems. Skipping stones across a lake is what I felt like.
© copy right protected
1.1k · May 2013
A Dying Wish for a fish
Icarus M May 2013
Sailboats glide through waters calm
albatrosses dive head first intro cascading waves
yellow fins scatter and glue together again.

Green leaves wrap and brown vines slither clumping into a floating mass
orbiting globes ride along the surface
oblong noses push the orbs closer and closer
delve deeper in and see their glow
blending colors straighten out and wavering lines grow stark in contrast
yearning arms reach into and pull self into...inside
exit signs alight red and darkness fades to bright.
Every day I miss you more.© copy right protected
1.0k · Apr 2013
Privateer Rant
Icarus M Apr 2013
where in the abyss
can I fly to my dreams
where responsibility streams
like feathers through your hair
and dripping tears, Despair.
of lonely mid-spring nights
and tumbled breathtaking flights
that lead to stony shallow brooks
riddled with dead fish hooks
covered and soaked to the brim
spilling frothed foam
like sea water monsters
and seaweed tears.
Because it feels like I have been gone too long, unable to write. But here I am.
© copy right protected
955 · Sep 2013
Icarus M Sep 2013
Where can I go?
Can I go across the road?
I am a chicken.
I find this a bit funny.
920 · May 2013
I use Thesaurus (!)
Icarus M May 2013
I am a pretender.

Looking through a window that is slightly open,
so that a breeze winds in
with gathered memories
of subliminal pain.

And I'm lost
partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand.
With the sun no longer reflecting,
A reddening burn
and a quickened pulse
aching *****
and held breath.
I know where I am.

I am a fake.
But I cannot go through with it.
If I do not in the "real,"
why lie online?
Why hide myself
and view myself
criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine,
not even who I want to be?

Why do I ignore myself,
and let fade into lingo.

Because I am human
and I don't want you to know me.
Even when I want you to feel,
I want you to share this moment with me.
And that is why
I post these
discombobulating pieces of no reckoning,
non-entertaing, ultimate **** "poems."
Because I want you to understand this
in this instant.
I don't like to reread. I don't like to rewrite. I like to keep it pure, so I can go back and look at who I was and what I wrote.
883 · Feb 2013
Merda, la morte.
Icarus M Feb 2013
As she sits there silently,
rocking back and forth
to and fro
in her wooden rocking chair.
Her eyes closed,
head pressed firmly into the patterned blue cushion,
pushed by her tense fists
that grip each sidearm
and threaten to leave marks
into the dullard rich grain
that smells like "childhood"
covered in dust mites.
Her feet propped up
on a matching rocking stool,
it's a set.
She used to lie flat on her stomach,
with her feet on the chair,
and her belly on the footrest,
backwards...I'm flying.
Now she's grown,
too awkward,
too sad.

He sits there
in an armchair
drooping with age
with memories sewn into its brown decor.
Smells like basement
and home.
Feels like creativity
when life wasn't so hard.
When its cushion and pillows held back the world
and a blanket provided a ceiling, that drooped,
until it plopped on his face
And he would climb out and fix it
because inside,
he was safe,
and happy.
his feet would be cold
and his head would break the roof
not that he has the imagination anymore
nor the time.

Sitting there,
with fingers dead
and withered
crackling dry,
voice depressed
heaving sighs with every sentence
and a general gloom about the room.
Perfectly still,
entirely quiet,
that stems from silence that is only apparent
after a presence has left
shed from a carcass growing cold
born anew to live a life till stretched and old
now a red neon sign lit up,
© copy right protected
869 · Jan 2014
Deer Death
Icarus M Jan 2014
I need a sharp

Stretched     taught
and dried
eyes staring.

Dipped in red
and put to parchment.

A bird's surprise
to carry a message
a call.

A warning to flee,
now fly,
and bring the men galloping.

was a factor
A pipe dream    unfair.

To trumpet's song,
and ****** battlefields
bathed, enriched
in history.

To be told
and retold.
I just wrote. I didn't read it, didn't think about the whole. Just stanza by stanza, so it's probably pretty terrible right now. And now the title. But I don't recall what exactly I just wrote. So, I guess I will call it "Deer Death." As my own double meaning, play on words, with visualization that doesn't quite make sense. You don't have the full picture, but feel free to fill in, and color your own into my words.
854 · Mar 2013
Icarus M Mar 2013
Holding a red, flowing scarf
                                    on a day of all days
                when leaves dance in circles
                in corners tuckered away.

Enchanting weather today
               with a gathering protest of winds
                against an acrylic sky, opaque blue
                                    grasping to steal sway a streak of red.

Laughter stumbles over and down
                on a night of lonely nights
                to be had over lost scarves
                                trickled away by cloy, boiling bathwater.

Phase in blackout, flickering lamp lights
               where past looks back on future
               and memories shift like the earth below
                                                       in constant motion

                                                        ­                                                  she cries

   ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                  *help me.
© copy right protected
833 · Apr 2013
Buried (Haiku)
Icarus M Apr 2013
I am going to ****
and dump your body into
concrete foundations.

Where no one will find
So you will spend some time there
trapped like a hamster.

In a cage locked tight
A ghostly visage hovers
Escaping the door.

For it is unlocked
In the twilight until shut
As first light creeps up.

Forces you once more
In a meat suit of rotting
Entrapped under road.
827 · Sep 2013
Icarus M Sep 2013
I just want to curl up
and give up.
Practice my lines
and snort a few lines.

Let me fall into bliss
not drown in a vat of chocolate bliss.
I want to be in the fetal position
not this life and death limbo position.

Give me a reason to
and I will give you an excuse.
I will tell you the truth for a reason
and you will give me an excuse to.

Change the conversation to focus on you
and I will steal it back to me.
I want to help you,
but I will steal it back to me.

Don't want to be here,
you don't have to hear.
I promise not to share many more
if only I couldn't breathe any more.
Trying something new. I don't snort lines, it just felt right for this poem.
© copy right protected
826 · Jan 2013
Forget and Forget
Icarus M Jan 2013
The wind sighed
Wet whistled lips
as teeth scrape along
to force a suppressed whisper
fabricated into a command
pleading with an element strong.
As the wind's breath
                                       takes and rips
two syllables before her
with no lines left to play the part.
                                   Empty.                                                    she stands there
threads of herself whirling
like hair in her face.
As the draft increases
and catches her on broad wings,
through the clouds
                                              to reach the sun
and fall to earth                                                            ­                                 Because she flew too close.
Close enough to feel the heat
Close enough to watch her tips singe
catch flame as her body neared the fringe      .      and let go       .      so close enough to feel the bliss
       ­                                                           She screamed.
Searing.                                   Straining.  ­                                Suffocating.
                                                    ­                    In pain.
As her wings melted
dashing her towards the ground                                                           ­                             to impact
                                                                ­         hard dirt.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 The earth mumbled
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                                      *Regret.
"If Icarus was a girl, depression would be her prison."
© copy right protected
Icarus M May 2016
Please just make it stop. Please.
Her hands were tired.
                                    Of digging.
Or was it her arms?
Her arms. Her arms were tired of digging. Her hands were just numb.
Numb, useless, blocks of worthless...hands.
And her knees. *****.

And her feet,__, they were no good as well.

She chuckled.
No good as well. No well as good. Well good as no.
The rest of her?             It was the rest.

The parts of rejectedness. The parts of her wreckededness.
The rest which she wrested with.
404 Error. Does not compute.
Her teeth clenched, her lips puckered
(the lower one crunched more than the other),
and she glanced around the yard in which she sat.
Weeds were strewn around her sides,
but she only really looked at the tree.
It was a pine tree, hers.
Big and round on the base with lots of needles.
It was a healthy tree. It was a lovely tree. It was a loved tree.

Tears had sprung to her eyes,
and she looked over herself once more:
1) one tennis shoe missing but both socks on
2) jeans covered in dirt and mud, probably from another lawn
3) shirt was black, wait blue, she could partially see now due to the dawn
4) so were some parts of her arms, and one of her fingernails was just gone
5) her face had all the bells and whistles, but something in her eyes was just...gone.
6) Her mind was still running through plans, but somewhere along the way, the train had derailed, and it was just gone
7) a slight breeze tousled her hair around her face, but the feeling it should have brought was just...wrong.
Gone* she whispered.
Going. Going. Going...

And so she opened her eyes,
and stared at the man she loved,
and waited.
But it was just      
801 · Nov 2013
This is not poetry
Icarus M Nov 2013
What is a poet?

A poet is able to capture a feeling with words.
To adeptly potray one. single. instance.
with words.
With scribbled, illegible
Or cleansingly, typed
clear, crystal, words.

am not a poet.

I am a monkey,
deftly punching on a typewriter,
finger smashing keys,
expecting Shakespeare
to appear on a backlit screen
or a pure white notepad.

I am,
not a poet.

I am the grouch,
in a trash can.
Yellow moss on a rock,
pointing south. South.

I am not,
a poet.

I thought I dripped words
like blood out of my veins.
I thought my muse,
was darkness.
Then the sun came out.

I am not a,

I am a high school English paper.
I am the run-ons,
too many ands,
too many commas.
Not even a proper sentence.
I am the red-marked essay.

I am not a poet.

And I have nothing else to say.
Inspired by Rob Rutledge's "This is not a poem."

© copy right protected
798 · Sep 2013
Icarus M Sep 2013
Just tell me I cannot hurt you.
Tell me I do not matter.
Me: fallen, broken, wingless.
I reached too close to the sun, and now....I
Cannot glue myself back together....For I am
Hurt. By my failed ambitions.
You                                                   ­                              ripped
And now I lay barren.

© copy right protected
793 · Feb 2013
Error Message
Icarus M Feb 2013
"Thank you" died on pasted lips.
A hairsbreadth length from freedom
flew up and rattled
strumming vocal chords like guitar strings,
'til struck into a barrier
like lapping waves against stone cold concrete
flopping on land
overflows, in flows of oxygen
can't breathe,
like a fish out of water.
can't break through,
like water trapped by a dam.
cannot forgive,
to give a second chance.
by a little secret               I love you.
decrease the time step
and let the iterations skip beats
get there faster
with less accuracy
end.   ­                                           % for loop termination

Error in line 18-unknown message.
"Do you even code, bro?"
© copy right protected
786 · Feb 2013
Strong Waters
Icarus M Feb 2013
_ cannot write what _ want to say,
_ cannot paint the image in _ mind.
Or the feelings bound inside with thickened ropes,
used to hold a steamer ship to dock,
with diameter of a sailor's mid-waist,
encrusted with salt from the ever pressing fault
pulling its weight down compressing faces to frown
scrunching together in depressing formation as a flock of gull feathers
incessantly wash ashore bringing round to the lessening image
that draws you back from the metaphorical,
analogical, imaginary
oceans edge,
to the starboard side of a deck on a steamer ship,
to the battered ropes
that suppress emotions under.

Under an ocean,
occasionally escaping through thimble-sized samples
freed from the depths to race upwards in streamlined-bubbles
to break the surface and burst
that released
category three, Hurricane Miriam
which harmed no one but herself
because though she roared at one-hundred twenty miles an hour,
no one took warning.
Because who would be wary of her,
when she didn't even break land,
she didn't even break surface,
didn't even break in,
even break through,
break her,
My friend shared her name with a hurricane this past season. Took the chance.
© copy right protected
779 · Oct 2014
Cut off
Icarus M Oct 2014
And then comes the torrent:

Of hidden shame,
and cursing blames.

But only for a moment.

Of weeping trees,
and pulled-in-close knees.

Only for a moment.

Of screaming swa
The thing I really like about this poem is that I cannot remember if the word cutting off at the ending was intentional due to the title or I just couldn't think of something else to say.
775 · Jan 2013
Hidden Daylight
Icarus M Jan 2013
I gaze upward
Knowing the sky will lighten soon
inklings of sunlight
now trickle through cheap plastic blinds
dappling the floor with pockets of filtered yellow.
Opening flowers with its fluorescent glare
feeding, eating, replenish.
File darkness into a folder
effectively beginning the day that
echoes with whitening shadows
launched, the golden king rises.
Lick the recycled air in
initiating start-up sequences
kindle drifting thoughts with mental lashings
etch bolded clarity over italic haze in order to
Sever the entanglements of sleep that
croon you back with features
retaining the warmth of your ghosted visage
engulfed in a flower patterned duvet
and the promise of bliss, but
mind the time now
if the alarm is singing...
On a cold morning, the sun says hello, but the bed beckons your attention.
© copy right protected
770 · Jun 2013
Floating Sense
Icarus M Jun 2013
Less and less
as addiction breaks
and connections appear
like sidewalk cracks
that allow grass
and weeds to wander up and through
to grow
like dandelions.

Providing little spikes of sunshine out of a darkened place
and floating messages once they die;
carried along by the wind
and breaths of the wishing hopefuls.

Soaring across the sky
like clouds blown by wind
and drafts entering windows
that blow curtains fro
and to lift hair back and breeze in
(breathe in)
the scents of summer.
A summer poem brought on by a sudden urge to write and express that required me not to think too deeply about what I wrote while I wrote it. One might even call it a "happy" poem with no hidden meanings save those of "good feelings: and whatever you wish it to mean.
765 · Jun 2013
The Winnings
Icarus M Jun 2013
Her breast of broaden chest
uncovered slight
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.

And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
and clench
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.

Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.

Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.

as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
and always,
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.

And she
I tried to write something a little different than my normal. Any suggestions for improvements or new ideas would be appreciated. © copy right protected
710 · Apr 2013
Icarus M Apr 2013
I am about to go down again,
like the creaking old elevator                            into
                                                                ­               the
                                                                ­               basement.

I know it
because I see it                    in my eyes                      gone dull.
In my lips drawn tight                    instead of                        smile         it was there for a while.
                                                          ­                       my usual

For a time         it felt nice           to feel nice.
For a while                                                            ­ I was happy.

I know this feeling
like I know myself                        because this is me

                                                             ­         depression.
© copy right protected
703 · Jan 2013
Red Down Left
Icarus M Jan 2013
I am the raven
Awaiting the rodent to take its last breath
masked into darkness
Sidled into the shadows.
under the great gleaming golden disk
perched on a branch rotted to its roots
eyeing the future
ragged heap of sticky sweets.
Death minds its pocket watch
enjoying the rhythmetic tick
preserving the static balance
ridding the rind of its fruit

eyeing the sky
slips away
easy is the end
© copy right protected
645 · Mar 2013
Icarus M Mar 2013
Delete me from this life, oh please.
Borrow time,
acquire it from me,
Just press the top, far right key.

Delete me right off the page, oh please.
Carry forward in place of prime,  
forsake a single division towards normalcy,
acquitted free.

Delete me from this sentence now.
To let me stay would be a crime,
staying here stationary,
atop, alone, and windy.
Oh please.
                                                         ­                                                *Erase me.
Needs revision.
© copy right protected
630 · Feb 2013
Little Ticks
Icarus M Feb 2013
It's nothing but a tickle
a little itch on your left thigh
actually your knee
scratch, but now your ear prickles
and your bangs flop in your face
it builds up until you can  no longer ignore
so you pull over...and go crazy
nails biting into your flesh
tracing white lines of chalkboard scraped skin
the short lasting burn gives way to relief
from the daily reminders
intermediate notions hinting
hey, you're alive.
So while your mind wants to meander
through marauding thoughts
of mutiny of your ship
your foot will develop an insisting itch
that you just have to scratch
till it hurts
and satisfies.
Till you realize you are alive.
599 · May 2016
The Wild Circle
Icarus M May 2016
Yes or No, The Crow Cawed(./?)
What Does it Entail, The Fox Chuckled as it enticingly twitched its hindquarters.
Who, crowed the Owl?
No. What, cried the Crow.
Is it For her or For him, questioned the quail.
This drew the eyes of the Predators and The quail hurried along into the long grass defining the other side of the clearing.
It made a point, chimed in the vulture, Which startled the cat Who Was Lying at the base of the tree, grooming itself as if To Seem to not be paying any attention at all.
But with a flick of a paw, the Cat covered it up, and reached Back to scratch Its Ear.
That Would Be the Question, wouldn't it, yowled the cat suddenly, Startling everyone In the Clearing, save the fox, which glinted with a bit Of Light Just for a moment as its jaws split into a Small smug Smile.
As it It were Expecting it, Harrumphed the Cat,
Settling back down across the roots to resume Grooming.  
It certainly is the question, whispered the human in the clearing.
All 6 pairs of eyes turned toward the center, the Sixth seen just outside the clearing. Do you have an answer, whispered the quail.
I don't know.
The fox chuckled again, but the rest stayed Silent. Until the human looked up and the animals had faded away.
Only one pair of eyes remained,
looking back from the mirror,
reflected from the human's own face.
I don't know yet, the human whispered again.
Icarus M Oct 2014
In one day,
she discovered herself.
In the next,
she restarted her life.
She put books, movies, and mementos on a shelf,
and in the bottom desk drawer, she secured away her knife.

In one month,
she was smiling again.
In the next,
she could see, for herself, a future.
All of her sadness had suddenly disappeared, like bathwater through an open drain.
A new approach to living, she felt mature.

In one span of time,
she made a mistake.
In the next,
she had plugged the tub and uncorked a bottle.
A tidal wave of rolling destruction left in the wake.
From bad to worse as more pressure added to the throttle.

And one day,
she hopefully will figure out,
whether she wants the lights on,
or to take a different route.
536 · Jul 2016
Just Hold, Strength Will
Icarus M Jul 2016
Why are you settling for me? tumbled the rocks. All gathered up in a pile were they, now fallen all over the ground in a seemingly terrible pattern or even no pattern at all.

There was silence.

Why are you waiting for me? Sprouted the vines as its stems grew round the side that had saw no light. Saw no nourishment. No survival. And soon those arms withered and sagged and littered the ground.

Only a soft breeze caused a leaf to move and a light scrape was heard. Then. Nothing.

Why do you continue to stand with me? Creaked the fence. Wooden and withered. Partially stained and patches of white. My innocence is gone and so is your patience. I am splintering into a thousand pieces that only seem to harm you. The sealant wears off after a single storm. The paint is sun bleached within a week and cracks are appearing revealing the crumbling wood inside. I'm infested with feelings of instability as termites devour the fiber of my being. I remain a skeleton. A crumbling memory.

So why?

A slight tap. Tap. TAP. as the rocks were picked up one by one and placed back into an organized pile.


A slight rustle. Rustle. RUSTLE. as the dead litter was swept away and arms of vines were redirected towards the sunny side.


A slight schwick. Schwick. SCHWICK. as the lacker was applied and reapplied followed by a layer of paint, topped with a weather proof sealant guaranteed to only slightly crack

Why do you love me? Cried the girl.
And he gathered her up in his arms like he did with the rocks.
And he reoriented her face toward his like the vines to the sun.
And he stared into her and gave her what she needed to be strong (and like the layers he applied to the fence he's rebuilding her).
And she looked around the garden and saw her thoughts organized, her energy and motivation radiant, her self confidence and bravery enhanced. All she needed now was to love herself too.
455 · Jul 2013
Icarus M Jul 2013
I have thirty.

Thirty ways to tell you who I am.
Ways that I didn't know I was.
To be who I never thought I'd be.
Tell me I was a better person then.
You don't even notice me.
Who are you?
I am me.
And now I have thirty one.
. © copy right protected
397 · Feb 2013
Happens To (10w)
Icarus M Feb 2013
Everyone is asleep
and here I am.
Not sleeping
I always seem to write poems in the early morning. When I can't sleep, but I also can't go anywhere.
395 · Aug 2016
This Is
Icarus M Aug 2016
You always told me that you were going to hurt me.
You told me that you were going to hate me.
You never warned me that you were going to love me.
369 · May 2018
A Single Murder
Icarus M May 2018
"To ruin,"
she cried.
As her thoughts condensed and curdled
like souring milk.

"To giving up,"
she thought.
As her mind twisted
into the gnarled roots
of ancient tree.

"To death,"
she muttered.
Speaking to the reflection of herself.
As the pond's surface rippled
with every stone she threw.
Sending shivers through her chest,
as she gasped,
"Too late."

And her eyes watched as
from a deadened log
to a branch
that snapped
as upward
and she wished she
had said
"I love you,"
before he flew away.
185 · Nov 2018
Metaphors Are Dead
Icarus M Nov 2018
There it is.
A bubble
Buried in the metaphorical rubble.
Alive, yet dead.
target sighted
I'm still wrong, not yet righted.
Phasers locked, loaded, and ready to scritch
Entering the level of crazy...*****.
And scratch. Penalty shot.
And it's GOOD!
Though truthfully, I've been here a while. And it's bad.
I already lost.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's a bug bite ya fools.

It's been quiet for quite some time.
Because I always come back to it.
Because it's actually not a bug bite ya fools.

Metaphors are dead
and now the smile wears my face like a simile.
Thoughts in my head
unravel faster than a sweater string all pily.

— The End —