"corvine" poems - Hello Poetry

We told our stories to the demons that hid in our ratted hair and carved out secrets beneath the black bark of trees, They bled every stroke and our secrets were never told. In the night we collected the broken pieces of corvine hearts and kept them warm within the casing of our pillows Every night that our mascara fell became a lullaby for the love birds to sing in their mourning. We danced with lilac vines we kissed endangered ivory we loved evergreens we flirted with death Monarchs came to our slumber and whispered sweet nothings to the demons and in the morning the bark regrew on the trees and ever since it hasn't been quite the same

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May 21, 2013

May 21, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC

nissa-arsenic

JaNel

We told our stories to the demons that hid in our ratted hair and carved out secrets beneath the black bark of trees, They bled every stroke and our secrets were never told. In the night we collected the broken pieces of corvine hearts and kept them warm within the casing of our pillows Every night that our mascara fell became a lullaby for the love birds to sing in their mourning. We danced with lilac vines we kissed endangered ivory we loved evergreens we flirted with death Monarchs came to our slumber and whispered sweet nothings to the demons and in the morning the bark regrew on the trees and ever since it hasn't been quite the same

21

Loving is hard Loving is brave Loving is extinguishing fear long enough to breathe And in that breath, comes a truth Whether good or bad that truth is unshakeable Unforgettable From yourself, to another, to a path in life Loving is so much more than words or actions It’s the continued choice The always present lawyer The kind eyes The strong words that calm tidal waves of worry Loving is an extreme sport Skills honed in terrains as difficult as life itself Those who love are hard They are brave They extinguish fear long enough to breathe Until it becomes their only set of lungs Who is more broken than a lover Emily Dickinson was wrong about hope It asks not just a crumb, but a blood sacrifice With no warranty to speak of Hope and curiosity are the devil’s best weapons A heart has more of a chance against a blocked artery than Irresponsible hope Disappointment Who is more beautiful than a lover Who gambles Satan’s toys In longing eyes In restless fingers and aching arms In the taunting playhouse of time they spend in their dreams Away from life itself They gamble it away for their numbers to come in Sitting on old and ugly chairs across old and ugly TVs Waiting as the announcer picks each arbitrary ball Reading the numbers as their round bodies corvine their way down spiral roads Lips silently move in a flash mob fashion in those who care for you “Everything happens for a reason” A false truth Falling into place violently slow The lottery of your life is victorious in finding home

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Jan 31, 2019

Jan 31, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC

SadiaRoseDavenport

In Loving Memory

Loving is hard Loving is brave Loving is extinguishing fear long enough to breathe And in that breath, comes a truth Whether good or bad that truth is unshakeable Unforgettable From yourself, to another, to a path in life Loving is so much more than words or actions It’s the continued choice The always present lawyer The kind eyes The strong words that calm tidal waves of worry Loving is an extreme sport Skills honed in terrains as difficult as life itself Those who love are hard They are brave They extinguish fear long enough to breathe Until it becomes their only set of lungs Who is more broken than a lover Emily Dickinson was wrong about hope It asks not just a crumb, but a blood sacrifice With no warranty to speak of Hope and curiosity are the devil’s best weapons A heart has more of a chance against a blocked artery than Irresponsible hope Disappointment Who is more beautiful than a lover Who gambles Satan’s toys In longing eyes In restless fingers and aching arms In the taunting playhouse of time they spend in their dreams Away from life itself They gamble it away for their numbers to come in Sitting on old and ugly chairs across old and ugly TVs Waiting as the announcer picks each arbitrary ball Reading the numbers as their round bodies corvine their way down spiral roads Lips silently move in a flash mob fashion in those who care for you “Everything happens for a reason” A false truth Falling into place violently slow The lottery of your life is victorious in finding home

41

My shackles are tight, my body is tired. I think of my plight, and feel I'm mired. I watch the approaching sunrise, I wearily close my eyes. I remember the work I've done, my efforts not for a meager one. The esurient corvine looms so dark, I look into it's eyes so cold and stark. With great avarice, it lunges into my flesh, rapidly tearing as if to thresh. I feel myself slip away, I wish that this was my last day. I wake to see the approaching sunrise, this endless death is my prize. The esurient corvine looms overhead, my only wish... ...I wish to be dead.

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Aug 9, 2016

Aug 9, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC

TheBlackHoundOfBaskervilles

Between A Bird and A Hard Place

My shackles are tight, my body is tired. I think of my plight, and feel I'm mired. I watch the approaching sunrise, I wearily close my eyes. I remember the work I've done, my efforts not for a meager one. The esurient corvine looms so dark, I look into it's eyes so cold and stark. With great avarice, it lunges into my flesh, rapidly tearing as if to thresh. I feel myself slip away, I wish that this was my last day. I wake to see the approaching sunrise, this endless death is my prize. The esurient corvine looms overhead, my only wish... ...I wish to be dead.

16