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ELK Jun 2018
(For Eric Killmonger)
A little boy stared in the clouds
Forgotten tales screaming loud
His word small and nothing wrong
It all shattered after too long
Stories of cities that touched the sky
Clans of people untouched by time
Hope soon filled his boyish dreams
But not everything was as it seemed
One night he came home and saw
His father dead, struck down by claw
Weeping over his fathers head
He begged him to stay, not leave him instead
Shattered dreams and shattered hopes
He held the myth achingly close
Alone, no one there to guide
He locked his humanity deep inside
Battling for a way to free them all
Seeking power and in deaths thrall
The world had taken everything away
And all in one single day
So he would take everything away from it
His soul a star no longer lit
Now he lay there quietly dying
His enemy close, no longer fighting
The world it seemed would take him too
His glittering eyes full of rue
There was nothing left for him here
Breathing ragged and full of fear
Finally he took his very last breath
And slipped away as his life left
And as the sun left the sky
The night descended with a sigh
The little boy was dead and gone
His life a sad and weary song.
-Roguesong-
-Esther L. Krenzin-
I loved this Eric in the Black Panther movie, and I felt so bad for him.
His whole life he believed in a dream.
His whole life he believed that he could make a difference, and fight for those who are oppressed.
He just wanted to help.
Chloe Jun 2014
She’s known as Riotous Rose.
Never has she wanted for company
in the intimate spaces between sheets.
His voice, it calls to her, guides her
down below to rapturous desire.
A carnal growl achingly echoes
inspiring ravenous teeth and hands
that ravage in the gentlest of ways.
****** roses blossom in her cheeks.
With nimble fingers she picks them
before offering them to her lover.
Nadia May 2019
The Bride Test by Helen Hoang

If tomorrow is a big day with many things to do, here is your warning:
Read this book before bed and you’ll be reading it well into the morning

Esme, or My, is kind and clever, endlessly loyal and terrible at deceit
Khai is a complicated genius, steadfast and achingly, unknowingly sweet

Esme is determined to find a better life for the family she temporarily left behind
Khai is earning future freedom from set ups his mom can’t help but mastermind

A few scenes might make you blush - brilliant and perfect for this story
Bring lots of tissues, no reading on transit - this book is an absolute glory
I never remember to review books before all of the details are long forgotten (sadly it does not take long) so I'm making an effort. Bonus, it's more fun to review with a poem
Zeynep Çiçek Mar 2019
Can he cry
Knowing the winds won’t stop
Feeling his heart pulse achingly
Listening to the sounds in the other stalls
There are others crying with him
He still can’t cry

Can he cry
Knowing the failures will stick like duck tape
Felling his snot paint his sleeves white
Hugging himself in his time of fright
He still won’t cry

Can he cry
Knowing this is one out of too many
Feeling the burden settle so heavily
Breathing in timing to the tapping on his knee
The tears won’t come out

He can’t cry
Knowing it’ll always be the same
Feeling the drain on his psyche
Listening to the silence in the other stalls
He’s still the only one

And the winds still won’t stop
And the clouds will pass by
I’m pretty sure I failed my math test lol
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I was born a sickly, screeching baby, two months earlier than expected. The doctor and midwife did everything they could to keep my little limbs moving and to keep my tiny heart beating, fluttering like the wings of butterfly.
“Is it a boy?” my mother whispered through her pale lips, as they bathed my naked body in hot water.
“No, ma’am, it’s a girl” The midwife struggled to add on something that would make the wailing creature seem more desirable. “With exquisitely shaped feet, so perfectly miniature”
She let out a croak of conflicting emotions: the joy and pride of a newly-founded motherly love, the fear of presenting a girl as a first-born, the relief that the hours of agony in childbirth were over and the dread of facing her husband once he found out about me.

My mother was not healthy after my birth for a long time; and when I was only one and two months old she fell dangerously ill, and the house whispered footsteps running to her room late at night and muffled voices of different doctors. Mercifully, she survived but was left barren and forever unfertile.
I can not imagine my father’s fury. He believed in having sons to carry on his old last name of thirty-one generations; it was his religion and had I been a son, I would have been worshipped as a god. I can imagine how my mother prayed and thanked her ancestors that her dowry was of a large one.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room as me during my toddler years. Every time he entered a room I was playing in, nurse would sweep me to our garden out side; answering to my startled queries, “Be an obedient daughter, don’t bother your father and don’t ask questions”
My body had been born frail, but my natural spirit was as healthy as could be, full of inquiries, wonders of the world around me and everyday I would learn something new just wandering around the neighborhood observing things, with my nurse trailing with a worried eye behind me muttering, “Girls are not supposed to be exposed to this” she spoke the words as if they were sour, “you should be sitting at home and accompanying your mother.”

Every day at dinner, the two females of the house, me and my mother, were silent while my father ranted on and on. My appetite being very delicate, I often just sat there as still as I possibly could and listened to my father talking about politics, jobs, money. Things he called ‘men business’. I longed to ask questions about these ‘men business’, especially ‘university’ for I had an inquisitive sort-of nature but was refrained with a sharp, piercing look from my mother every time I opened my mouth and sometimes, she pinched me under the table leaving purple splotches which flashed, “Don’t question your father”
Sometimes, he would talk about the future he had decided for me, “You will marry off, sixteen at the latest, to some one rich and beneficial to our family. You will do as I say till I marry you off, and then you will do as your husband tells you.”
“Yes father, for I should repay everything you have done for me” I replied as sweetly as I could.
“Yes, you’re a good daughter. Bear lots of sons for him and your house will be one of happiness.”
I was proud that he had given me a compliment. “Yes father, for it will make you joyful as I always wish to make you so”
My childish heart did not understand why my mother turned her head down while her left eyebrow twitched, and why that night, as she tucked me into bed, I thought I saw a tear roll down her cheek and why as she kissed me that night she whispered, “Do not love me so; love your father. The men in your life are your gods.”

My physical health would constantly limit the desires of my free spirit. I could not to do what others who were as free of spirit as I was could do, and couldn’t socialize with them and the rest of the children in my neighborhood had their siblings to mingle with, causing me to become the pitiful outcast.
I saw children around my age, around seven or eight, climbing trees and wanted to do so as well, but my white feet did not have grip enough to grasp onto the fat branches.
Father caught me once trying to propel myself up a tree and his expression was both of a resigned anger and sadness before he turned him and his face away and back into the house without a word.
That night, mother told me not to climb trees ever again. I noticed a faint bruise on her cheek bone that had been covered with white powder.

When I was eleven or twelve, and was allowed to wander further out into the neighborhood with my nurse I saw the boys fishing in the nearby pond and wanted to do so as well. Starting that day, every week I pocketed the three coins mother gave me until I could buy the best fishing rod in the little store and ran as fast as my skinny, weak legs could carry me to the pond. I mimicked the way the boys flung the fishing rod out over the water but the metal pole was too heavy for my pale, shaking arms. I tried over and over again as my nurse watched, biting her lip in anxiety. I held the fishing rod with trembling sore arms till  I felt a bite; I pumped my small arms to reel it in, but they were so tired and I was far too slow, losing the fish I had spent half the day trying to catch. “Ah, just bad luck, don’t worry! It was a smart fish, I tell you!” nurse exclaimed, though her eyes flashed a look of pity and I knew she knew it wasn’t just bad luck or a smart fish.
In anger, I sold the fishing rod to one of the boys for two-thirds of the price I had bought it for. He was delighted with the bargain and I watched with a lump in my throat as he caught three fish with the tug of his healthy, muscular arm within fifteen minutes. “This is a beautiful rod, and the pond is just filled with fish today, Little Sister!”
Wanting to spend the money jingling inside my pocket, money that to me was just a reminder of a painful memory, I headed off to the collection of little shops close to my house where I was guaranteed distraction. Nurse, sweating and complaining of the heat, followed me.
An ageing man with a bunch of filthy hair working away on a piece of thick, rough paper with wondrous colors inside a shop caught my eye as I peered inside the window. He turned the picture upside down and continued blending in the dark colors of the shape to create a shadow along the curve of it. I entered the shop. “What is that?” I asked of him.
“A face” he replied back absentmindedly.
“Doesn’t look like one to me” I confessed with my honesty.
He looked up at me, “No, it does not to you, and maybe, neither will it at the end. To me, it looks like an angle of a faded face. But slowly, with time, it will become clearer and clearer, yet only to me, and as it does, I will be able to choose more colors to make it yet more beautiful. The outcome of this painting is entirely up to me.”
I felt my challenging self rising up. “But what if you imagined a certain color in your head but couldn’t find it or be able to mix it to your mind’s perfection?”
“Then I would create my own paint color.”
“You know how?”
“No, but if I could not find the paint color already made I would make it myself, and no matter what, would learn how to. So far I have always been able to compromise and mix different colors to please me.”
“You do an awful lot of shadowing light colors with dark colors”
“Why do you think I do so?” he questioned me this time, with bright eyes.
I pondered for a moment to give as good an answer as he had given me and then told him my answer.
He nodded with impress, “Yes, yes, absolutely right. I never thought I’d hear that from a child” and looked at me with his head cocked in curiosity.
“What would you like to buy from here, Little Sister?”
Still deeply interested in our conversation I pulled out the coins I had in my pocket. “How much stuff can I buy with all this money? I’d like those crayons, I’ve tried them once before and they are so creamy and smooth.”
“Oil pastels?” he asked, a little confusedly.
Feeling ashamed of my ignorance, I nodded. The tutor father hired evidently bent to father’s strict rules of what should be taught and what would not be taught. Father disapproved of women painting, and would’ve dismissed nurse had he known that instead of taking me out for a little walk to smell the blooming daffodils, she in fact let me explore the environment around me to the best of my ability even in disgruntle.
The man gave my red-patched cheeks and undeveloped translucent frame a sympathetic look and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Little Sister, I’ve a whole basket of oil paints that I’ve used but rarely and so are still in perfect condition. Would you like to carry the whole basket home for all the money you have in your pockets?”
I handed him all my golden coins, “But first I must see if I like it.”
“You won’t be disappointed” he chuckled and walked with an imbalanced limp to the back of the store. I noticed a wooden stump protruding from the bottom of his long, black pants. My heart throbbed achingly; he was ****** limited too. I turned to his painting and smiled from deep inside, a smile I rarely wore.
He came back tugging a huge brown basket filled to the brim with sticks of oil pastels, some longer or thicker than others. He lifted an orange one up and showed the tip of it to me, which was stained with a black mark. “Sometimes when you blend colors this will happen, but it’s easy to rid off. Just softly, and patiently rub it off on a cloth until it disappears.” He demonstrated upon his black pants.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you. But...I can’t carry this home myself. It’s heavy.”
I turned to nurse and smiled my best pleading smile.

The basket was toiled up as nurse undressed me from my shower and father and mother were otherwise occupied. That night, with my precious basket safely under my bed, I cleaned all the multi-colored oil pastels on an old shirt, and as soon as the house was ringing with silence, I locked my door and flicked on the lamp light, and started pressing the smooth colors into the paper to blend and make a picture of kissing colors on a relatively large piece of white paper. A thrill ran from my finger tips and along my arm, and made my palms tingle as I held the colorful sticks in my hand to the paper. I hid it underneath my bed just as a rosy sun was rising.
*
I was sixteen, and I was thought beautiful: for now, at this age, it was considered beautiful to be so pale of skin, so small of feet and hands, graceful to have tiny limbs and charming to have little strength for it was now considered ‘feminine’.
It was three weeks after I had turned sixteen and for dinner, father had brought over an ugly man with a bulging waist and shiny bald head who continually made ****** jokes at the dinner table while he believed I did not understand them. He was infamous for the two wives he had had (before they died from sickness), and how he not only hit them but kept other lovers too. Yet he was desirable for his vast richness. He leered at me obnoxiously, in an attempt to smile.
Father caught him looking at me, “She’s incredibly silent, never says a word of defiance and will be a most dutiful wife.”
“Yes, she is beautiful”
My heart froze and my brain was stimulated to work twice as fast. Him?! Him?! The man who’s wives were killed through an illness called ‘abuse, neglect and disloyalty?!’
I cast my eyelashes down in order to appear a calm, modest young lady while my heart hammered in fury, disgust and a rising hysterical panic. I shot a look at my mother whose left eyebrow was twitching as she stared down at her dinner plate, and I knew she was having the same thoughts as I.
“I would be glad to have you as my son-in-law. You would have no trouble with her, and would be embraced with open arms into our family.”
They continued this path of talk through dinner while he eyeballed me in a way that made me cringe. I felt his foot nudge mine under the table and in haste tucked it under the chair with a little gasp. His eyes glittered at my gasp and I was furious with myself for letting him feel a rotten triumph. Though I had always felt an extremely strong dislike towards him from what I knew of him and sometimes saw of him with an immoral lady, something pushed in the pit of my tummy, and I knew it was pure hatred.
When mother tucked me in she was being strange. On closing my door she whispered, “I love you… so I wish you to know… don’t ever contradict men”

As I was secretly drawing a picture as I did every night till dawn, I heard my father’s voice roar in the dead of the night. In a sudden, I shoved my portrait under the bed and threw all my oil pastels into the basket, hid it, and switched the light off. I heard his voice roar again, accompanied by a thud. I was wild with fear as I crept to my door and pressed my ear against it, barely even shocked at my own daringness as my instinct, love, took over- my instinct of must knowing what was happening to my mother.
“How dare you say I’m wrong!?” there was another thud, and this time I heard a soft whimper. “She is worthless to me, not a son. And I will marry her off to a rich man who can actually benefit this family.” He roared.
There was a whisper which I strained to hear, “He will **** her”
“From the moment she was born she wasn’t made to live!” he yelled.
A hiss escaped my tongue and I coiled like a serpent, flinching as a thud was heard yet again and an immediate cry of pain escaped from both my lips and my mothers’.
A fire awoke inside me, burning my temples and my whole body and my eyes stung with hot tears; tears that burned my face as they splashed down. My whole body was shaking and my tightly squeezed eyes were going through spasms. I was no longer wild with fear, but with anger.
I turned my light back on and tugged my basket of oil pastels out. I yanked my portrait off from a thick of pile of different pictures I had drawn.
My breath was coming in quick short breaths as I finished my portrait to the utmost perfection, using every oil pastel in the basket. Every time I heard a thud, I colored with more fiery… shadowing my jaw line with the fat black oil pastel, in the crook of my ear, the corner of my mouth… where the light shone upon my fore head, how it reflected in the color of my eye and glowed on my cheeks.
When I was finished, the house was deadly quiet again and dawn was breaking. I looked down upon it and realized something that changed my life.
In frenzy I swatted out all the things I had ever drawn and stared at them in an awakening.
The colors on them were the events of my life, the things that characterized it, the decisions. They were beautiful for they had been chosen and controlled by me … I had chosen the colors I wanted and thought best for my pictures; and spent thought over how to blend different colors to the color I wanted.
And everyday, as I worked into the drawings with time, they became clearer and clearer on what was the right thing to do, and how it should possibly look like in the next stage.
I leaned over and kissed the thin lips of my portrait that didn’t look exactly like me for not even the most skilled artists have complete control over what they draw.

Then I remembered what I had told the one-legged man in the shop a few years go:
“Lights not only illuminate, they also cast shadows. The contrast makes you able to appreciate the power of both.”
Now it was time to truly let the light illuminate my life, and let the shadows let me appreciate the light that shines upon me; I color my own life, and choose my own colors.

To pull out the colors underneath the darkness of my bed…
And spill it to the world outside.
the whisper of failure hangs in the sky
her frantically beating chest pounds her breast achingly erratic & raw
they urge the *******
but life crashed & crushes as she screams her head barely above water
woman why should you feel this way they ask
this is your dream
a cry echoes through the cold languid air
He told me that I'm achingly silent
That it torments him
He stares, he waits
But no answer
Just watered black eyes gazing back at him

I said
That's because we don't mean anything we say to each other, anymore
Parveen Sagar Jun 2011
I fell in love with a ghost
Upon whose grave I have committed great travesties
She was silent and seemed lost
And my feeble heart could not sustain her futile tragedies

The tragedies of millennia past, gasping in in-articulation
The suffocation of a future already always lost, without observation

I fell in love with loving a ghost
Who saw past my eyes into a formless ocean
Limitlessly there, she sunk and she rose
But alas was not of my wanting nor creation

She who is of minimal infinity
Taught me nought about nothing, nobody
I only recognize that it was her that never wants me
And I who longs achingly to be in her vicinity
weaver Oct 2014
I am fuming about the world I am so upset with people who think their beliefs entitles them to hurt innocent people or worse their children I am tired of people thinking they have some sort of right to tell us that it’s not love we are fighting we are fighting with all our might to transcend over 2000 miles while at the same time trying to keep hate from other people at bay we have been together almost two years we have learned and grown together we have battled distance and illness and tragedy we have committed to each other what more information do you need to know it’s love oh is it for one of us to have a ***** because here’s news for you I can get one of those online I can get one of those from a doctor because *** is merely a quirk of skin and chemicals and gender is all in our heads and if you would rather base love off of genitals than feelings I think you need to take a good long look at yourself and your god because if he is so shallow as to dictate love by X’s and Y’s then **** your god I am not going to try and please you I do not owe you to cater to your hurtful and hateful beliefs anymore

let me tell you it was taught by your messiah to keep your piety to yourself and to love everyone you can’t tell me that god made me this way and then turn around and claim oh no I am messed up that is hypocritical that is not a religion that I can respect and you are a shame to those who actually try and follow this faith, I can admit that much that there are those who do it right and I thank them but also keep in mind that religion is a human cultural construct and it has been separated from law for a reason because it is recognized that belief is individual and cannot be used to control masses since that causes empires to topple so why are we listening to the heretic fanatics claiming that my love is wrong when I don’t even believe in that god I don’t even believe he exists I don’t believe in heaven and hell and even if I did why the **** do you care so much about MY damnation if I am going to hell I honestly don’t give a single **** I would rather go to hell than spend my time here alive and breathing in misery without her what about that do you not understand

my life is more important than whatever afterlife there may be because I KNOW what’s happening now I know what it’s like to live and I won’t hinge my happiness on what YOU think is wrong and will happen to me my beliefs will dictate my outcome and I can tell you right now that you are wrong to think love could ever hurt anyone your hate is going to spawn your ticket to the hell you believe in while I revel in knowing that love is a universal truth and love is never wrong and I am not scared to love her because something that opened my soul so profoundly cannot be wrong I planned on being alone forever until I met her and your obsession with reproductive organs are not what I will make my choices off of

I think our similarities are so many blessings I love her curves I love her voice I love how our bodies match and our minds get it there are no barriers on gender there is only knowing there is only understanding my issues are her issues and that connects us on a fundamental level that I don’t know how I could ever be so comfortable with a man I have a deep deep reverence for women that resounds to my core and how you could think that is anything less than achingly beautiful is astounding but for all this I will not pine for the approval of a stranger if you do not know me than keep your ******* opinions to yourself and let me love her in peace and if you are someone we care for then the least you can do is love us and let us be and rejoice in our happiness we do not affect you in any form so why would you go out of your way to hurt us

I should not have to hold her while she cries about wishing she could hug her mother I have never wanted children yet I know more about unconditional love than that woman does or apparently her god does the fact is I would never scare her as much as they have I would never make her cry like I have seen her do all I want is to love her with all my heart but by a simple fact of nature my loving her rains down hate and all this is not something I should have to carry.
i'm so ******* tired.

this is very stream-of-consciousness i just let a lot of what i've had to think about the past two days pour out of me so i hope the message gets through

twitter.com/cunningweaver
1.

A star-shaped
patch of snow,
achingly white,
rests against the base
of the little white
pine, wrapped
in glittering
golds and reds, gifts
for the Christ Child.

No claw or paw
or beak or wing
has touched the snow.
Only a hidden pitch
of grass pushes
it skyward.

It shirks
its shrinkage
north
of the pine.
It will not
winnow until
the bright star burns.

I pass the snow
and think of nothing
.

2.

Lightning split
the hide
of the 80-year-old
oak that shaded
our little tan house
each summer.

Its bark ripped
apart like
wallpaper,
life leeching out
of its crooked limbs
in sap-soaked
streams of sorrow,
making room
for the little white pine
to thrive
in the dead of winter.

Nature is not
our friend
.

3.

The pine prays to preserve
some piece of the oak
I used to love. Its needles,
like shark’s teeth,
fend off friend and foe
alike, granting it
the right to grow
wherever it likes,
even here,
at the foot of giants.

Dead, the pin oak loans
its beauty to no one,
boasts only of its hard,
straight wood,
an abiding abode
for birds and squirrels
and barking boys.

I climb to its top
each Christmas,
straining toward
the Epiphany star.

The tree sways, and
I think of nothing
.

 4.

The burgeoning pine
pines for such power.
You cannot cut it
without exposing
its darkened knots,
like aging spots
on my hands
and face.

It rises bright with
anemone-like cones
dappled on its coat
of single color:
      evergreen,
      ever young.
      Ever gone,
my pilgrim oak.

I stretch toward the star
of Bethlehem,
dreaming my way
to Heaven, saying No
to the punishing
star of snow below.
Hanging high
above the Earth,
I sense the Christ Child
in my branches.

Wet, wild grasses
brush His cradle,
push me skyward,
His star my home
.
Written on a rare Epiphany Sunday.
Sophie Kim Jan 2018
sunflowers lean in the direction of the sun
although this sunflower leaned in the direction
of the warmth that came from the moon

the mysterious light that attracted the flower
not from what it was familiar with
a new experience and a new way to bend

--

although the moon sung with the flower,
pampered its petals with faraway words and
danced through shadows that felt so close

the moon was in the sky
the sunflower danced, lone
in its own lonely patch

the sunflower was the sun of its own
danced to its own tune, smiled, laughed
was so sure of the world and its offerings

but the moon had its own tune
a slow, cautious, steady, unsure
dance.

the sunflower thought to please the moon
whenever it could with its own light
to dance as the moon's stage and to love

but the sunflower could only dance
for so long, until a petal fell
from its yellow petal crown

the sunflower could not evaluate why
it danced for its love. it simply had
to keep dancing

although the sunflower knew that
its petals were falling off
and the sunflower had bent too far

the sunflower had its own frustrations
but the moon hurt wherever it shined
the moon's songs were so achingly
tearful

the sunflower hardly had any petals left










when the moon began to shine its light in another direction
the break is because it took until this date to finish this poem.
Marsha Singh Apr 2011
I wrote a poem you'll never see –
a masterpiece; it took me weeks.
I love you and I wanted you to know.
I achingly described your lips
with tender, breathless craftsmanship;
it was a soulful, sinful epic wracked with lust.
Poetry herself, intrigued,
shook her head in disbelief;
no mortal girl could ever love so much –
and so, enamored by my words,
she decided to ****** you first.
I'm sorry, lover, but she had to go.
Lora Lee Sep 2017
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfill Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)
Thank you, PP, for your time, flexibility and patience! This has been a lovely creative process. The end result was worth waitng for  :)
Elissa Gregoire Jul 2014
My heart achingly yearns for a time which never was.
Earl Jane Jul 2015


Your love is as sweet as the sugar,
                   That  I've been addictively indulging,
             For so many years.



        Every piece of you,
                      Is just the most gratifying that I have tasted!





                                   But when together we've been drowned with tribulations,





                                    You just gave up rapidly...






And dissolved!




                                   Integrating and going with the flow,

                         Of those torments and allurements,





Now where are you?




You are now a part of those afflictions that drowned you,


                                            I can still taste your sweetness,


                      Every time I sip through the trials,
                                That we've face,
          Resulting to weaken your knees,
    And been defeated,





       I was totally in great pain,


        To know that your love,

Can be just greatly surmounted,

                            By miseries in life,



But what can I do?

                                            I fight, you relinquish,


And until then,

You just become a memory,

Of an achingly baleful chronicles of my life.


                      © Earl Jane
                         ♥ E.J.C.S.
Tamara Fraser Oct 2016
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.

Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.

I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.

In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.

As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.

….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.

You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.

But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.

Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
.
Pain should be written beautifully,
achingly displayed upon a page.



© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)
.
Murakami Jan 2019
With my windows tenderly open,
the moonlight, a pale marble phantom I admire
The dark light rests beside me,
unveiling a vivid urban gleam

A jet black silhouette transpires
He whispers in the dark
Porcelain lies, radiant yet feeble.
His words achingly deceive
the lights that disdain me;
belittling my affectionate delusion

Pitch dark silence, I weep as I grieve
My tears filling in everlasting secrecy of
this tragical devotion blurring out the stars

You speak with a passionless passion
Yet my world doesn't fall apart-
It makes the whole universe perish.

That night, the stars seemed to blemish.
"My first rejection"
winter sakuras Jul 2017
The newborn shock and delight of a handlit firework stick
can dissipate in less than 3 seconds.

The patience in an hour standing in line for a 30 second thrilling roller coaster ride, is what everyone thinks living in the moment is.

But sometimes I don't mind the longing and emptiness that remains long after

because I want to be a splash of exurbance in people's lives, disappearing in a flash when love is finally settled.

I'd want people to miss me for eternity, but at the same time I'd escape eternities full of flaws and misunderstandings with them.

So if goodbye is what it takes to be remembered or longed for so achingly,

Capture the person's smile and all your favorite things before
letting go.
07.04.17
Mikaila Aug 2018
Blue stage lights on skin
The curve of a jaw
Eyes glittering in the dark,
Raw and human.
Something swells with the silence
A truth never spoken
Like a ****** of music only half heard,
Barely remembered but achingly lovely.
Some marriage of sweetness and savagery
Courses beneath the shadows of this place,
An intimate wound
It scrapes at the hollow parts of hearts and lungs
Demanding
Purchase,
Demanding breath-
Famished in its brevity.
It is made here and it dies here,
Witnessed, at least, if not inhabited.
Every other face- white as bone and as hard-
Stares, blank,
And they do not understand
But sometimes,
They feel.

Fairy lights
The trees glow and fade
Shadows stretch long, reaching for feet that scuttle back
Afraid to let light soak them
Because here it has substance.
Others bathe in it
Nourished
Faces bared to the blue and the red
Upturned as to rain after a long and bitter drought.
They know it as water
Hold it as water- it slides away from them,
A thought half formed, a memory half loved
A step toward
God
That falls into a stumble.

I am always afraid that nobody treasures this place.
Always sad, somehow, to suspect that many don’t.
They say the magic will fade with time.
They do not know magic.

Hands, gentle,
The hands of a stranger
But known, known as water
As light.
Contained within one fragile touch, the idea that hands are not weapons
The cautious testing of fingers against flesh
Innocent, a connection between beings
Who were born of blood and will turn to dust within seconds
And who only just now have become aware
That their palms are miracles.

Safety- a contract,
A careful consent  
To reveal,
To be vulnerable for a moment-
If the moment is scripted and choreographed,
The bow and curtsy of a dance both partners know,
The permission a mask gives
To tell the truth.

It is eyes which cut deep, not hands
Wounds that last for years
Resurfacing as prayer.
Silent in the mirror of another's eyes,
A vision of what we could be
If we shed our disguises as Ordinary People and rose to our forgotten grace,
If we let others in not as lovers or as owners but as fragments of the soul we all share.

That loneliness- the grief of contact- crescendos in the corners of this place.
It is loud
Louder than music,
Louder than shouts and screams.
It grows by the moment, reaching its fingers along the walls behind footsteps, digging its heels into the fragile fabric of whispers, wrapping its ghostly arms around shoulders and tracing collarbones with cold tenderness.
It is the grief of closeness, and the grief of isolation.
It breathes here, unsmothered by the roar of subway cars, the murmur of smalltalk, or the burn of a liquor that tastes like forgetting.
This is the feeling of remembering, of being, of a truth long lost but not quite gone-
Something far away enough to be painful
But close enough to be
Unsettling.

That is why people laugh here
Why they grab what is not theirs
Why they run.
That is why they shut the door and don’t return, content to float above the surface,
Desperate to,
Terrified that if they sink even an inch
They will fall forever into themselves
And, groping for an edge
Find none.
(Terrified to realize
In becoming endless
That they always have been.)
They turn away, and call it nonsense,
Begging to remain small inside.

Not me.
I could sew my heart into the shadows of this place and not be close enough to the world it holds.
Instead I press my palms against the walls, hoping to take some of it with me each day when I leave.

They say the magic will fade with time.

They do not know magic.
Tansy Roake Jul 2017
I am burdened with,
And consumed by,
Visual poetry.
When the surface is scratched,
Or even just lightly bruised,
My eyelids are stretched,
Far beyond their natural capacity,
In wonderment,
At the terrifying beauty,
That exists,
In the minutia,
Of the achingly ordinary.
AprilDawn May 2014
Allegiance

Hot biscuit of cheesy pleasure
come hither
I shall greet you with parted lips,
lust apparent in every cell.
don't shy away-
for you are mine alone
to savor ,
this  achingly empty basket
soon awaits my
lonely countenance.
****************­**
Laine G and I   shared a common love  of   Red Lobster cheese  biscuits   ,  after a visit to the doctor  ,  my   friend was told her cholesterol was too high, and she would have to  cut way back  - I  wrote this for  her  :
****************­********
Sworn Enemy

Cheese- riddled biscuit denial
discs from Hell
demand my unwavering allegiance
no more
for only in my dreams
are you innocent.
I wanted to tag these  poems" explicit" ! Love of  food  can be just  that ,  as well  as,  being told  you can't have it anymore...
Melissa Hardie Sep 2012
Hundreds, no thousands
Regardless, a crowd
Pulsating, flowing
So achingly loud
Ripples against me
So close to my skin
Coming apart now
I’m screaming within
Obviously many
I’m never alone
So very lonely
It chills to the bone
Speak, hearing echoes
Reflect from white walls
Stretch to forever
Like long empty halls
Mouth may be moving
I know I’ve made sound
Nobody hears me
There’s no one around.
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2013
Preponderance gifts so weighty costly in this regard the truly hard part to step forth and be
Truly you because others are so important you give beyond price achingly so their glory is
Bestowing in them the undertow real life crushing all pretense gone triviality what airiness
Weightless worthless what times when compassion diligence of thought buys unheard of
Pasture lands fields black soil you stir up the deepest regard you exhaustively search your soul
And find seeds that are worthy for the planting it will flourish golden grain that is beholding
They will lift their eyes see the swaying harvest an all knowing concentration will grip them I
Have left the common the austere will cause a shaking a piercing knowing this is an open heart
Speaking giving how we yearn for such times here is the opportunity to sink our most tender
Thoughts deep the entanglements every twisted destruction that puts on the show and claims
Such rewards that only prove to be more disappointments bow you bow inwardly hard clay like
Soil is passed and all the choking devices are over powered you feel a new surging it explodes in
All directions falsehood in all of it disguises wither under this purity of emotion commitment I
Detest the former existence I called living from now on my words my life will touch you reach
You at the hurting points you will receive health beyond what a physician can give I will speak
With fire yes divine that is never at a loss it knows everything it evokes joy peace and triumphs
In the hardest places of the heart your tears that in some cases are a history of years of sorrow
These seeds that are going to be sowed eradicate they are pure and healthy to the point they
**** the poison seeds planted by enemies whole time periods of your life will be renewed some
Will for the first time in many years see how beautiful the sun really is darkness and gloom will
Be driven from your life you fought valiantly but it was only in your power you didn’t die but
You have only survived as a wounded tormented one a golden life will replace the tarnished
One we all have even brought accusations against ourselves creating more feebleness we have
Lived in the most apprehensible circumstances there is no escape from this prison when you by
Loyalty to falsehood think you are doing right but every decision cast you deeper into the pit
The Key I found that is the seed I speak of that provides and gives all freedom is profound but
Simple as blind but now I see an antidote talk of sometime by many and by others ignored
Almost completely but open all you are to the greatest power we can and are at different
Degrees snarled over time one trouble sets it in motion wrong reaction kills our defense in this
World that is most dangerous and deadly everything about this season distils down to this fact
Every malady every life ending hope can and will be restored in this gracious copious fact He is
The embodiment of all virtue I don’t have to live a life of disappointment and failure never
Reaching the hurting the potential for glories’ living is yours and mine it all rest in just this act
You must decide I could say don’t be deceived by all the lies and misconceptions I have to give
Up all the things I love this is not true this word of truth will set you free the things I once loved
I now hate the things of God I hated now I love this is the real truth and value of Christmas
While hear enable yourself to bless and truly love others here lately I have struggled with so
Many public and private people dying I wanted an answer I wanted to see the real continuance
Of those that I love I found it this piece gives revelatory exact true expression look around we
Need a provision an escape from what’s coming I will not look at you in judgment with tears
And say you just weren’t worth it your worth everything you don’t need to know but I know I
Will continue in the fire of affliction and I will through him reach more as the word says pluck
Them from the very burning
Lucky Queue Jan 2013
Why do we sentient beings,
We intelligent masses of flesh and bone
Feel an inclination to wonder?
To admire and collect and ****** beautiful things?
To pluck a flower from a forbidden garden,
And to taste  lethal meat?
To see and feel and smell
And hear and taste
Until our synapses overload
And we experience nothing more
Than an achingly painful
And powerfully unsurpassable joy?
Maybe this is what it means to be human...
harlon rivers Oct 2017
Penned on watermarked cotton paper
Cursive letters script the words
of a surrendering rhythmic rhyme.
The ardent sonata was written
by the light of a Blue Moon’s shine.

The blood red ink bled through
the white wrinkled cotton pages;
musical notes dried by the warmth
of glowing Moon Beams radiance
in the subtle pollination breeze...

The maestro Coyote’s howl cried out!

Instinctively rousing the stillness of the night;
       a feral essence echoed
       through the eerie silence
       of the distant horizon,
bringing helpless lovers to their knees.

The words to the Cabernet Sauvignon
       stained midnight  lullaby,
       were emotions quilled,
       blending an aura accenting
       organic warmth of tones...

       The native maple trees'
flowering canopies of Spring
released a dusty yellow pollen
onto the watermarked cotton sheets.

In a moment of rapturous intimacy,
       an elixir of intoxicating bliss
illumined the achingly euphoric moments.
A natural untamed wildness was exhaled;
       savored ecstasy released
       into a passionate song of love …

That poignant melody forever lingers,
       like hieroglyphics on the walls
of some long lost abandoned cave.

Engraved, etched, brushed and stroked
       onto the brattice canvas
       of a musical Minstrel’s
            melodic montage ...

       Watch the artiste’s fingers
       prancing graceful ballet
       Worn down catgut strings

                                *
moan
          
     ­                  weep

              purr
**

       crying out lustfully.
     as if it were
    enraptured lovers'
  breathless sighs

  the rhythm’s cadence
whispers a masterpiece
       in an infinite
       harmonious time...

       The tempo’s lines
                Phrasing…

                 ...hush...!

             ♪♫♪ ~ ♫  ♪♪

        Listen to the pictures flow...
Listen to the weeping guitar strings
      of the passionate troubadour
stroking the metaphorical canvas scene.

       The ebb and flow
       of the musical rhythm's throb
arouse the Blue Moon’s hypnotic  allure,
    throwing incandescent shadows
    that dance around Moonbeams.

Joyfully twirling, blissfully embracing
in the blossoming Forget-me-not fields;
            Bluebonnet Lupine
               swirl and tango
       with the moonlit breeze.

       Lilacs fragrant aroma drifts
with spring’s churning romantic haze;
rekindling this fleeting memories recital.
The Minstrel and the Minstrel’s song
         now yearn to be set free ~

      Timbre without reverberation …
The twilight serenade was never penned
  to be hidden from the Nightingale

A romantic moment’s sorrowful lament
to be abandoned like a broken dream;
   fading unnoticed into forevermore ―
      Unsung,  unsaid, unreleased,
                     unrequited
                through eternity…

              The maestro Coyote
       is a wilderness troubadour
       illumined under the gloaming
               full moon’s spell.

                Howling soulfully...
               wailing impulsively ~
              ... crying hopefully
             pleading mournfully
                     lamenting
the Minstrel’s breathless cadenza ...

A bitter sweet musical embryo of love
                 found and lost
                       below
           the full Blue Moon’s
               glistening light…



©  H.  Rivers ... 2012, 2013
           all rights reserved
Notes (optional)

"It's a marvelous night for a moon dance"
from the written pages of a hopeless romantic

Post Script:

An attempt to blow the dust off  the hidden archives and the aging tomes to bring my unpublished writing portfolio back into the light.

A friend from my musical past ask me to publish this once again and LEAVE IT published...how could I say no to one who uplifts the low (?)!
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfil Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea Nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)
.
To Lady Lora Lee : A long pregnancy, labour of love, and we have given birth to a wonderful story poem :) Thankyou for writing with me <3 PPx
.
Roberta Day Aug 2011
You were my first slow-dance

Gladly, my first true romance

So delicate, so passionate

a fruitful leap I took with you

With trust and beliefs

in whatever we do

You profoundly adored me

and I achingly cherished you…

Hovered over me high in the air

On that menial item we call a chair

Sadly, it was I, the one that put you there
Riley Nov 2014
I’m not me anymore. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do, can’t be. I am still, and silent, and sad. So achingly, horrifyingly sad. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts at all, because I’m absolutely numb. I curl up and try to keep all of everything inside of me from falling apart. I don’t even want to open my eyes.

Why is winter my kryptonite?
Harper Nov 2012
Flawless frequency
How can you conceive thee?
Dripping into each piece
Sweet moonlight cry
Fluid honeycomb high
Sensational pulsating glow
Genuine in each
Subtle divine reach
Each way unknowingly perfect
Unexpectedly urgent
Long lost and forever found
Soulfully free and heart achingly bound
Blissful blues
I found you
Flawless frequency
You move thee
Wednesday Mar 2014
I fell in love with you all over again in a hospital waiting room

I fell in love with the deep purple under your eyes
like delicate bruising

I fell in love with the paleness of your lips
from lack of nutrients

I fell in love with the way you moved slowly
and achingly wrapped in a white blanket the color of your skin

I fell in love with the deep crimson of your blood
as it ran through your IV

I fell in love with you again as I laid with you in the hospital bed at 3 am

we’d been there for 10 hours
and you had a little too much morphine in your system
and a lack of sleep
when you pulled me close and said

“I could really see myself marrying you some day”

and that was right before you kissed me with your dye stained lips
so they could see your insides better on the x-ray

I fell in love with you again when you looked at me with your
big hazel eyes that turn black around the edges

You said god had sent me from heaven
An angel to watch over you

I'm not too sure about that but what I do know is:

I Do
Leah Rae May 2012
Iron Jawed Angel.*
Unoriginal & Unwritten. Unseen, And Unforgiven. I Hoarded Words, Stashed Them In The Empty Rooms That Are My Body. Achingly Delicate Lyrics In The Spaces Between My Ribs, Heartbroken Heroes Behind My Eyelids, Folded Lines On Bar Napkins In The Space Behind My Knee, Or The Backbone *****-Stamp Of A Loveless Beauty. I Was Dying To Make This Skin My Own. Cover Myself In Metal Jackets That Could Scare Away The Sorrow. I Had Empty Promises In My Fingertips, Friday Night Serenades Pressed Into My Collar Bones, Recklessness On Repeat, Pleated Across The Lines Of My Tongue. And The Words Rose Up, Frothing Around My Wrists, Rising Over Scalded Flesh, *Popping
Balloons And Swallowing Bruises. Sought Out Landmines To Call Home, And Found Solstice In The Explosions Of Fading Glory.
Lightbulb Martin Aug 2014
Or at least thats what I always believed to be the Gospel Truth.
I was a true ***** believer in this supposed axiom
right up until the moment I
ceased drinking unceasingly.
And what did I have to believe in now?
I loved drinking.
Loved loved loved it.
I loved alcohol so much that I stopped noticing anything else in my life.
Eventually I drank so completely that I stopped noticing it as well.
Kind of like a Blasé blah marriage of addictive attrition,
alcohol was my infernal internal companion.
It never strayed nor ever cheated me.
'Twas extraordinarily dependable and pleasantly blendable too.
But you know what?
I'm happier now.
I have purpose beyond my elbow's reach.
Purpose deeper than the bottom of any bottle.
Alcohol may have been all of those things I just mentioned,
but it really became my life's filter.
But not the kind of filter that removes all impurities.
Rather a filter that kept any and everything out of my life that didn't include alcohol.
Devious huh?
My 'filter' worked like so:
If I wanted to Laugh?
I'd need a few shots before the funny could start,
and after a few more drinks the funny wouldn't stop...
Even when what I thought was so **** funny was
actually so **** painful it made everyone miserable
and want to go home and cry.
If I wanted Love?
Or ***?
I'm gonna need to be hammered
before I even attempt to express the former,
but not too hammered or there's
no recompense in attempting the latter.
Every facet of my life had to get in where it could fit in,
always sublimated beneath my HNIC
alcohol.

If a job didn't let me drink,
my drinking let that job go.
The list of let go's is breath achingly long.
Small sample?
I quit guitar, I quit family, I quit joy.
About the only thing I didn't give up on was cigarettes.

The inelegant mathematical constant made plain by my life was drinking. The proof would look something like this:

Me/T = S
to explain it as a constant:

Me over Time is always equal to *******.

It was a given.
That finally had to give.
It's only been 'less than a long time' since my last drink.
It's been a little while, but compared to the number of times I've circled the sun
it feels insignificant.
This means I need to keep the memory of my marbles being misappropriated by mixologists muy importante en mi cabeza.
That last sentence was mostly for me.
So is this next one.
Perhaps I can potentially ping-pong my perspective on
how long it's been since I drank.
I could make it seem like half a lifetime has passed since then.
And I think I could.
If I was a toddler.

Me Not Drinking?

Me Not Drinking Is The Sun Shining.
Me Not Drinking Is Zaria Smiling.
Me Not Drinking Is Broncos Losing Superbowls. (Sorry Colorado)
Me Not Drinking Is a Life Meant to Be.
For Me.

I can see now just how drab & gray life's kaleidoscope
becomes when viewed wholly through an alcohol filter.
So i am sad to say goodbye,
but i am more sad it took us so long to part ways.
Alone I can smile and can sigh,
perhaps even cry.
(if I get something in my eye).
Because I am human again.
I feel all the feelings again.
I am a me again.
I am filterless.
**** Yeah!
Helloprose.com, I know, no judging, no condescension, I wrote this for me, If you get something out of it? Kisses...
Em Sep 2013
Still a child; fragile, undefined -
trembling, timid and shy -
a body curling inwards
- petals and moonlight -
we're magnetised:
this shared desperation and
fumbling adolescent shame.

A throbbing, suffocated silence -
lost hands and strangled hysteria.
Achingly tiny,
shattered-glass bones flutter,
colliding and entangling;
causing the skin to lift
and contort. To ebb -
a fluid - a pulse.

His shoulder-blades
(the crushingly delicate shiver
of butterfly wings)
cast splintered, mosaic shadows
(sharp and electric
to trace) along
the gasping, groaning spine...

Pharate, we're demolishing ourselves
in a gorgeous, stumbling,
careless collapse -
colliding in cold frenzy, desperate
to hide - burrow - entomb --
to bury ourselves - his mesmerising flesh.

Rasping out - teeth and lip
and tongue - ravenous,
animalistic despair.
With timid breath - to rip, devour, engulf --
to hiss and **** delicious venom.
An ache - a yearning - for absorption,
for skin, for blood -
to be consumed and to consume -
to feel every pain of it -
to be wrecked - to become
the same debris.

I spill out into his shadows,
his indents, his cuts and curves -
their fervent whimpers, electrified palpitations -
and he to mine:
It's as though we're eclosing,
these golden deodorant nymphas - we're quaking through;
tearing apart every sad smother of silk - and now
desolate; forever nothing
but drifting, lambent dust.

Skin like porcelain -
cold and wrong to touch -
yet stomachs hot,
hurtling hot.
Flesh winces - ripples - under
premature pain.
("I'm sorry. I")
He crumbles, cuts
my thighs
and leaves us both with
scars that we, as scars, forever treasure;
and with veins seeping Hemolymph;
to heal, to beat, to grow.
CR May 2013
everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues,
and this is mine:*

love is not blindness and his especially
his love was not blindness
he saw everything:
what was there
what wasn’t

nonetheless he rested at reading-glass distance
everything in hyperfocus and bigger, like he wanted
like a futuristic camera: oversaturated, overbright

love is not blindness—

love is literature, or wine, or a lens flare
his filled my gaps with what he wanted there
he saw more than the camera did

I cannot condemn, nor could I ever, his amber propensity
to imagine me. to beg literature is a dodge
of responsibility of which we are all
most equally
guilty

and the devil is in the details
that stitched up such an
achingly different forever
than the one he saw

love is not blindness—
his wasn’t, and mine wasn’t
—but it is literature: permission to fill the page
permission to distrust, like I did then
like I do still

forgive me my own amber propensity
to feel the paradox
there
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
Dear  Elsa Angelica,
So I have read through your poetry.
If you were made out of five words
Bent and tied with ribbons to shape your soul
Those words would be
Inspiring
Kind
Talented
Beautiful
Strong

I don’t know you
Your story
Your secrets
Your pain

But
I know that your poetry inspires me
Really it does
You are a kind person with loving words to offer at any given moment
You are so poetically talented it is outrageous
You are so, so beautiful inside and out
Your soul is beautiful
Your words are beautiful
YOU are beautiful
You are strong
To have held up so many others who were crumbling
You are STRONG
To have held up yourself
And been strong enough to admit when you are weak
I have selected some of my favorite lines of yours and responded to them.
I want you to know
I think you are a speechless and precious type of beauty that doesn’t exist anywhere else
Please keep writing
Because your writing
Changed me inside
And it keeps me going
Alive, not just existing
And I want to thank you for that
For fueling my smile
~Love~
Ember

I want to be
Happy once and for
All.
But how do I start
-Elsa angelica

What a lovely wistful wish verbalized for the rest of us who all wonder that same question. Pretty words, but also so much more than just pretty, so glimmering with deep meaning every syllable. You are so gifted with the pen.

I did not mean to hurt you.
I am sorry I caused you pain.
-Elsa angelica
You are so brave and should be admired and acknowledged for your strength in admitting you are sorry for something and apologizing for pain you may have caused. I have such extreme and overwhelming respect for you, reading this. Putting kindness and goodness before pride. You are wonderful.

Love is love
-Elsa angelica
So poetic, so simple, so brilliant. I can’t even say anything else, the line speaks for itself. Your work speaks for how exceptional you really are a person, as a poet and as a soul.

In autumn...
the leaves fall
like slow
motion rain
-Elsa angelica

I know this is an entire poem but I couldn’t split up specific lines I liked I was just so in love with this entire poem your wrote. Powerful imagery WOW.

Good bye
Fake love.
-Elsa angelica

You are wise to recognize falseness in love. We all struggle with that and we all struggle even more with farewells. You are admired and applauded by me for these lines. Magnificent poetic phrase. I adore this.

I know I was not a pretty flower
I know a few thorns I had.
-Elsa angelica
Oh, but even a flower with thorns is beautiful. As my close personal friend and Hellopoetry Poet friend Ena Alysopriano so wisely once said to me when I was calling myself a ****: Don’t confuse wildflower with ****. Well now I say to you, don’t confuse thorns with being unbeautiful along those same lines. You are so pretty on the inside and outside. Your work, your spirit, the way you choose to live, how kind you are, what a difference you make. Nevertheless, this line in the poem you wrote is gloriously delightful. Seriously. I am amazed.  

Cuz fear is knocking on my door
-Elsa angelica

Such an excellent metaphor, so achingly relatable to basically everyone and so genius. Incredible write by such an incredible poet. You. Are. Phenomenal.

Elsa,
Thank you for writing.
I just want to express my appreciation and gratitude for what you bring to the art of poetry itself.
Stay beautiful.
I think you are remarkably exquiste.
<3
Love,
Your ever admiring Ember Evanescent


EVERYONE SHOULD CHECK OUT HER SPECTACULAR WORK!!
EVERYONE SHOULD CHECK OUT HER SPECTACULAR WORK!!

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