#creativewriters - Hello Poetry

the ghostly whisper of despair lingers on ice-cold neck, like lead, creeping, like vines, crawling like veins on quartz. bash it. bash it. bash it on my wrists. lately, i try to write poetry but all that spills is violence; i am a woman possessed. tied up. all foul, sulfur scent. this lace nightgown is weary from holding together loose bones, loose skin, loose soul. and the sunless sky has buried its dead, all in bleeding, black mourning veil ensemble. and i am gray — gray as a body drained of blood. and with all these autumns i've spent bleeding, god, have i not bled enough?

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Aug 29, 2021

Aug 29, 2021 at 7:20 AM UTC

femininedeath

lana

the ghostly whisper of despair lingers on ice-cold neck, like lead, creeping, like vines, crawling like veins on quartz. bash it. bash it. bash it on my wrists. lately, i try to write poetry but all that spills is violence; i am a woman possessed. tied up. all foul, sulfur scent. this lace nightgown is weary from holding together loose bones, loose skin, loose soul. and the sunless sky has buried its dead, all in bleeding, black mourning veil ensemble. and i am gray — gray as a body drained of blood. and with all these autumns i've spent bleeding, god, have i not bled enough?

16

i can still feel it — the ghostly echo of storm clouds it in my throat, now dry and emptied of the softest sighs. they all had fallen on my flower-bed skin, pristine as the petals that once were. or so i pretend. i can still feel it in my throat: the storm, looming. the calm drowning itself, and its haunting, beckoning call to which my feet slowly walk. some days, it's just you and the uncharted depths of your own skin. some days, you can bother with poems — some days, you can only drown.

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Feb 26, 2021

Feb 26, 2021 at 8:51 PM UTC

femininedeath

alaska

i can still feel it — the ghostly echo of storm clouds it in my throat, now dry and emptied of the softest sighs. they all had fallen on my flower-bed skin, pristine as the petals that once were. or so i pretend. i can still feel it in my throat: the storm, looming. the calm drowning itself, and its haunting, beckoning call to which my feet slowly walk. some days, it's just you and the uncharted depths of your own skin. some days, you can bother with poems — some days, you can only drown.

3

We both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break, and I would've let you. I would've scattered petunias over the wounds you have re-opened. I would've carved you poems on flickering streetlights. I would've set sunrises on fire — kissed you as it died down. I would've skinned your neck open to know what turns my kiss into heartbreak, and what turns that heartbreak into poetry. And we both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break. It had been years, my love. It had been years on end. And still, I would let you. // "December has a softly cruel way of reminding me this."

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Dec 14, 2020

Dec 14, 2020 at 7:59 PM UTC

femininedeath

Winona

We both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break, and I would've let you. I would've scattered petunias over the wounds you have re-opened. I would've carved you poems on flickering streetlights. I would've set sunrises on fire — kissed you as it died down. I would've skinned your neck open to know what turns my kiss into heartbreak, and what turns that heartbreak into poetry. And we both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break. It had been years, my love. It had been years on end. And still, I would let you. // "December has a softly cruel way of reminding me this."

3

to lie down next to you in all of the perpetuity, moss will grow all over our skin — as if mushrooms, feeding on dying, young aspens and maybe the forest will claim us for its own. to lie down and watch light slowly go mad at the sight of the fog that festers, at the feel of the skin that rots: a macabre sight to the outside world, yet — a lively feast to a ****** of crows. soon, sweet one, candles will die and i'll be lying next to you — the feel of daylights, forgotten.

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Oct 29, 2020

Oct 29, 2020 at 7:22 AM UTC

femininedeath

bellatrix

to lie down next to you in all of the perpetuity, moss will grow all over our skin — as if mushrooms, feeding on dying, young aspens and maybe the forest will claim us for its own. to lie down and watch light slowly go mad at the sight of the fog that festers, at the feel of the skin that rots: a macabre sight to the outside world, yet — a lively feast to a ****** of crows. soon, sweet one, candles will die and i'll be lying next to you — the feel of daylights, forgotten.

13

i miss loving you; i miss the calm and easy and content way of just kissing in the blue hour — clothes, falling out of flushing skin; mine was a map of scars named after estranged people, and yours, an anomaly of carnelians breaking at the softest touch. and yet, nothing hurt enough. not the fading autumn days leaving us to fall apart in october. not the poems that painted this love to be more beautiful than it actually was. not the carnelians, breaking everywhere. and i miss loving you, but this october rain isn't cleansing — it just falls cruelly on a heart too eager to break itself. i miss loving you, but all these blue hours have corrupted what's left of your first tainted kiss. i miss loving you, but betrayal still rests comfortably on my skin: a map of scars named after people. a map of scars cut by carnelians. a map of scars named after you. and this october rain isn't healing; it's just cruel. it's just cold. — fray narte

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Oct 27, 2020

Oct 27, 2020 at 7:35 AM UTC

femininedeath

october and his blue hours

i miss loving you; i miss the calm and easy and content way of just kissing in the blue hour — clothes, falling out of flushing skin; mine was a map of scars named after estranged people, and yours, an anomaly of carnelians breaking at the softest touch. and yet, nothing hurt enough. not the fading autumn days leaving us to fall apart in october. not the poems that painted this love to be more beautiful than it actually was. not the carnelians, breaking everywhere. and i miss loving you, but this october rain isn't cleansing — it just falls cruelly on a heart too eager to break itself. i miss loving you, but all these blue hours have corrupted what's left of your first tainted kiss. i miss loving you, but betrayal still rests comfortably on my skin: a map of scars named after people. a map of scars cut by carnelians. a map of scars named after you. and this october rain isn't healing; it's just cruel. it's just cold. — fray narte

6

oh, to live with sadness, so deep — it has started spreading; i can feel its crushing weight: a stampede. my trampled bones have started to resemble wildflowers as they decay and the soil flinches at the sight of something so pure — something so tainted. behold, the lamb of god has become the big, cruel wolf; this is what happens to delicate things after they're done breaking — after they're done rotting. this is what happens to pure things after the sins and sacrificial rites. behold, the lamb of god — the scapegoat has become the wolf and one day, it will outrun the forest fog — spreading — consuming. devouring. one day, it will outrun the howling in its chest. one day it will outrun the ironic aching of ribs, long emptied. oh, to be a girl and not a wolf. to live with sadness and trampled bones. maybe one day, i too, will outrun myself

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Oct 22, 2020

Oct 22, 2020 at 4:27 AM UTC

femininedeath

omega

oh, to live with sadness, so deep — it has started spreading; i can feel its crushing weight: a stampede. my trampled bones have started to resemble wildflowers as they decay and the soil flinches at the sight of something so pure — something so tainted. behold, the lamb of god has become the big, cruel wolf; this is what happens to delicate things after they're done breaking — after they're done rotting. this is what happens to pure things after the sins and sacrificial rites. behold, the lamb of god — the scapegoat has become the wolf and one day, it will outrun the forest fog — spreading — consuming. devouring. one day, it will outrun the howling in its chest. one day it will outrun the ironic aching of ribs, long emptied. oh, to be a girl and not a wolf. to live with sadness and trampled bones. maybe one day, i too, will outrun myself

25

i have sealed all the papercuts on my skin; they have become unmarked, untended graves and the willows have long learned to do their weeping in the dark; and now, there can never be enough tears, never enough mourners dressed in all the shades of black to share all this grief in its most abstract form. oh, to hear the farewells, to feel the poems, to see the wreaths tossed all over the place and yet, there can never be enough flowers in the world to hide these wrists — all scars and lines for everyone to see and everyone to read as if epitaphs to a gravestone; these wrists — all scratches from a girl buried by mistake; the casket, the ground can only do so much. oh, such morbid thoughts from such a morbid girl; little one, you write way too much about death and his earthly belongings. maybe one day he'll do the same.

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Jul 14, 2020

Jul 14, 2020 at 10:23 AM UTC

femininedeath

funeral songs

i have sealed all the papercuts on my skin; they have become unmarked, untended graves and the willows have long learned to do their weeping in the dark; and now, there can never be enough tears, never enough mourners dressed in all the shades of black to share all this grief in its most abstract form. oh, to hear the farewells, to feel the poems, to see the wreaths tossed all over the place and yet, there can never be enough flowers in the world to hide these wrists — all scars and lines for everyone to see and everyone to read as if epitaphs to a gravestone; these wrists — all scratches from a girl buried by mistake; the casket, the ground can only do so much. oh, such morbid thoughts from such a morbid girl; little one, you write way too much about death and his earthly belongings. maybe one day he'll do the same.

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