"sternums" poems - Hello Poetry

It was the heavy breathing I think that I liked the most our mouths made no movement as our faces dried and sternums rocked planted kisses in a chalk line wet florettes on my chest pretended to worry about potential marks on my neck such gentle aggressive manners heart rate raised resulted in the breathing

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Oct 21, 2012

Oct 21, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC

liz-paola

boyfriend.

It was the heavy breathing I think that I liked the most our mouths made no movement as our faces dried and sternums rocked planted kisses in a chalk line wet florettes on my chest pretended to worry about potential marks on my neck such gentle aggressive manners heart rate raised resulted in the breathing

14

257 days. For the first time, I don't want to shower him off my skin. No need to scrub; Your lips leaving delicate traces, Your hands entangled in my hair, No need to rinse Feeling you, Sending shocks down my spine Fingers brushing against skin Electric impulses No need to wash the memories of; Bodies intwined Kissing shoulders and sternums (whatever has been left exposed)

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Jul 2, 2018

Jul 2, 2018 at 3:25 AM UTC

tsunami

July 01

257 days. For the first time, I don't want to shower him off my skin. No need to scrub; Your lips leaving delicate traces, Your hands entangled in my hair, No need to rinse Feeling you, Sending shocks down my spine Fingers brushing against skin Electric impulses No need to wash the memories of; Bodies intwined Kissing shoulders and sternums (whatever has been left exposed)

15

Poetry is written. For some it is forced, bled from dehydrated veins. The words are awkward, looking at each other with shifty eyes. Poetry is expelled. For some it tears free, shattering sternums as it flees from the heart. The words all scatter, cacophonous on the wind. Poetry is crafted. For some it takes time, looped together thread by thread. The words are a set, glittery and sticky with glue. Poetry is caught. For some it is gathered, alighting in nets as a taste on the air. The words drift together like dust in the sun. Poetry is subdued. For some it is hidden, held tight with ribbon and barbed wire. The words huddle close, silent, unborn. Poetry is. For me it just leaks, oozing from my pores, leaving damp fingerprints on the page. The words stand still and mourn, then gossip and dance, refusing directions from me.

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Oct 20, 2012

Oct 20, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC

emily-grace-1

Poetry Is

Poetry is written. For some it is forced, bled from dehydrated veins. The words are awkward, looking at each other with shifty eyes. Poetry is expelled. For some it tears free, shattering sternums as it flees from the heart. The words all scatter, cacophonous on the wind. Poetry is crafted. For some it takes time, looped together thread by thread. The words are a set, glittery and sticky with glue. Poetry is caught. For some it is gathered, alighting in nets as a taste on the air. The words drift together like dust in the sun. Poetry is subdued. For some it is hidden, held tight with ribbon and barbed wire. The words huddle close, silent, unborn. Poetry is. For me it just leaks, oozing from my pores, leaving damp fingerprints on the page. The words stand still and mourn, then gossip and dance, refusing directions from me.

32

I tried making home of other men. Front doors of their sternums Two story foyers of their torsos and porcelain stairs of their ribs. Tracked myself in and out of their memories looking for space for my baggage. Had conversations with my echos as I screamed I LOVE YOU into hollow atriums. Made my bed on diaphragms and felt each draft of inhale exhale pieces of me to...somewhere. I tried making home of other men. Hang memories on occipital lobes Affix my name to Broca's areas so the world knew I found home in another man. I am tired of making home in other men. Foundations thought solid grow legs and wander way out yonder Take my memories and love leaving me nothing but my empty. I am tired of making home in other men. Tending hedges shining floors and making welcome for those deemed worthy of home - not me. I am tired of making home in other men so I will make home in myself. Put my hands on every crack lay smooth my rough edges and plant beauty in my own yard. I am tired of making homes for other men, so I will make this home for me.

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Nov 14, 2016

Nov 14, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC

chris-tyler-young

Symphony #10: The Help's Chorus

I tried making home of other men. Front doors of their sternums Two story foyers of their torsos and porcelain stairs of their ribs. Tracked myself in and out of their memories looking for space for my baggage. Had conversations with my echos as I screamed I LOVE YOU into hollow atriums. Made my bed on diaphragms and felt each draft of inhale exhale pieces of me to...somewhere. I tried making home of other men. Hang memories on occipital lobes Affix my name to Broca's areas so the world knew I found home in another man. I am tired of making home in other men. Foundations thought solid grow legs and wander way out yonder Take my memories and love leaving me nothing but my empty. I am tired of making home in other men. Tending hedges shining floors and making welcome for those deemed worthy of home - not me. I am tired of making home in other men so I will make home in myself. Put my hands on every crack lay smooth my rough edges and plant beauty in my own yard. I am tired of making homes for other men, so I will make this home for me.

38

I have felt silence like boulders against my chest. It is not words that affect us, it is the lack thereof. I mean we can listen to someone who doesn't love us tell us that they do, and we can listen to someone who hates us tell us that they don't, but at the end of the day it is not those regurgitated thoughts that keep us awake at night; no it is the thoughts that remain thoughts and never turn themselves into words. Silence is heavy. It is so heavy that the breathing of an impassioned lover who has lost all passion speaks louder than the words they utter. It is so heavy that you can hear hearts break behind the thinness of paper hospital walls; you can hear the breaking of sternums and ribcages as caskets are lowered in the thinness of paper ground. He can lay beside you at night and whisper in your ear sweet nothings about how you are his and he is yours when you both know he's silently whispering to the owner of that lipstick on his collar, but the silence of his dreams are what made you open that wine bottle. The silence of his "I have to work late" made you not want to put it down. It is not his words that didn't come home last night and it is not his silence. It is him. And he is what created the silence in you. He is what took the words from you. This is for you. This is for me. This is for the silence and all that it encompasses. I am broken but I am whole. And it is him that taught me to tear myself apart so I could learn to put myself back together. This is for him.

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Nov 15, 2015

Nov 15, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC

mystic-orenda

silence

I have felt silence like boulders against my chest. It is not words that affect us, it is the lack thereof. I mean we can listen to someone who doesn't love us tell us that they do, and we can listen to someone who hates us tell us that they don't, but at the end of the day it is not those regurgitated thoughts that keep us awake at night; no it is the thoughts that remain thoughts and never turn themselves into words. Silence is heavy. It is so heavy that the breathing of an impassioned lover who has lost all passion speaks louder than the words they utter. It is so heavy that you can hear hearts break behind the thinness of paper hospital walls; you can hear the breaking of sternums and ribcages as caskets are lowered in the thinness of paper ground. He can lay beside you at night and whisper in your ear sweet nothings about how you are his and he is yours when you both know he's silently whispering to the owner of that lipstick on his collar, but the silence of his dreams are what made you open that wine bottle. The silence of his "I have to work late" made you not want to put it down. It is not his words that didn't come home last night and it is not his silence. It is him. And he is what created the silence in you. He is what took the words from you. This is for you. This is for me. This is for the silence and all that it encompasses. I am broken but I am whole. And it is him that taught me to tear myself apart so I could learn to put myself back together. This is for him.

1

Before the final Oath was born Two were riding toward, Locked in eternal war. Obscured was their conclusion, Giving mystery to the living Oath. Their teeth were in each other's throats, Spears run through the hated sternums. And ribbons of their blood addressed The royal stature of their lives. What happens when two kings lay claim To one kingdom Is a shame And infinitely many kings (I do expect) Would do the same.

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Apr 25, 2022

Apr 25, 2022 at 2:50 AM UTC

SometimesStar

Double K

Before the final Oath was born Two were riding toward, Locked in eternal war. Obscured was their conclusion, Giving mystery to the living Oath. Their teeth were in each other's throats, Spears run through the hated sternums. And ribbons of their blood addressed The royal stature of their lives. What happens when two kings lay claim To one kingdom Is a shame And infinitely many kings (I do expect) Would do the same.

15

The sea separates our skin. We feel closer to moon then begin to bleed again. Pulling ourselves in two. Hearts and minds, I promise you I won't resist or turn away in time. You remind me of a place I knew With no street lights interstates or signs. Who knows where we are going? Who knows what we will find? Take a deep breath in. Try not to drown yourself. I hate to see you scream. Your pain turns to suffering so quickly. I am trying to help you here. But you see me as ghost. A darkened figure in the night. Who holds you like a rope. You live in constant fear. Claim what’s beneath your bones. Aim for his heart with a sharp arrow. All we have in the end is our spines and sternums. The rest we leave to an exhausted sun. What moves your body, may not move mine.

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Nov 14, 2014

Nov 14, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC

Hewasminemoon

Boundless Fire

The sea separates our skin. We feel closer to moon then begin to bleed again. Pulling ourselves in two. Hearts and minds, I promise you I won't resist or turn away in time. You remind me of a place I knew With no street lights interstates or signs. Who knows where we are going? Who knows what we will find? Take a deep breath in. Try not to drown yourself. I hate to see you scream. Your pain turns to suffering so quickly. I am trying to help you here. But you see me as ghost. A darkened figure in the night. Who holds you like a rope. You live in constant fear. Claim what’s beneath your bones. Aim for his heart with a sharp arrow. All we have in the end is our spines and sternums. The rest we leave to an exhausted sun. What moves your body, may not move mine.

30

Does not need to be present for this moment to exist We will not write soliloquies begging for guidance We can dance in the dark Let us embrace our presence We are not mistakes or flat line hospital halls Empty promises don't share our address We are light Falling forever upward Into everything we were meant for So step into this infinity Crack open our sternums Display our brilliant capacity Radiating life Between broken bird cages and forgiveness Let us love as the sun Endlessly expelling energy in every direction Without expectation of return

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Jan 4, 2017

Jan 4, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC

jwolfeb

The Sun

Does not need to be present for this moment to exist We will not write soliloquies begging for guidance We can dance in the dark Let us embrace our presence We are not mistakes or flat line hospital halls Empty promises don't share our address We are light Falling forever upward Into everything we were meant for So step into this infinity Crack open our sternums Display our brilliant capacity Radiating life Between broken bird cages and forgiveness Let us love as the sun Endlessly expelling energy in every direction Without expectation of return

17

I. communicating through the nebula an invitation to drink ***** and knit meditation surrounded you my jaw dropped when your satchel did II. sweat drips from a broken refrigerator my mouth forms the shape of your name and flows out rings through our noses sternums touching your lover didn't like that I bit your lip III. after hours slithering sessions a body built by god covered with satin and oils from the cosmos in those futile moments you were a mistake worth making IV. protecting my heart like bird and her young reaching out to me with clasping hands rocking you to sleep "don't be afraid to cry in front of me" I said as shimmering oceans expelled from your wooden pupils V. These were the good times we have to remember

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Dec 3, 2014

Dec 3, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC

chloe-fuller

peter

I. communicating through the nebula an invitation to drink ***** and knit meditation surrounded you my jaw dropped when your satchel did II. sweat drips from a broken refrigerator my mouth forms the shape of your name and flows out rings through our noses sternums touching your lover didn't like that I bit your lip III. after hours slithering sessions a body built by god covered with satin and oils from the cosmos in those futile moments you were a mistake worth making IV. protecting my heart like bird and her young reaching out to me with clasping hands rocking you to sleep "don't be afraid to cry in front of me" I said as shimmering oceans expelled from your wooden pupils V. These were the good times we have to remember

22

The poets have staked a claim. They are not always the type to decide or declare such things, but on the matter of the Season of Beautiful Death, they have unanimously put their dissociated feet down–– Autumn belongs to the poets. They plant their feet like roots and stand with limbs like bent branches in half-hesitant salutation of the low-hanging sun, and of the wind that smells dangerously like the citrus-salty sweat on the sternums of lovers who have long forgotten them, like smears of strawberry sunset-stained tears on sticky steering wheel leather, like caramel-amber irises that they could only then taste by licking the syrup off the cursive characters in their own love poems. Here, now, with these stacks of decades still decaying in the corners of our ugly, cluttered crowns, this is our ritual: squinting up at the lavender-blue sky, we concede that we are still broken – (alive, but dying) – and reinitiate ourselves as poets. We breathe in this different kind of death, this beautiful death – our sticky strawberry reds and caramel ambers displayed like artwork on these glorious twisted giants – and we can pretend we believe that we and our heartbreak, too, are beautiful. And we look on with aching solidarity as they burst into a fireworks display of a funeral.

0

Sep 15, 2020

Sep 15, 2020 at 1:09 AM UTC

sparklysnowflake

autumn is the poet’s favorite season

The poets have staked a claim. They are not always the type to decide or declare such things, but on the matter of the Season of Beautiful Death, they have unanimously put their dissociated feet down–– Autumn belongs to the poets. They plant their feet like roots and stand with limbs like bent branches in half-hesitant salutation of the low-hanging sun, and of the wind that smells dangerously like the citrus-salty sweat on the sternums of lovers who have long forgotten them, like smears of strawberry sunset-stained tears on sticky steering wheel leather, like caramel-amber irises that they could only then taste by licking the syrup off the cursive characters in their own love poems. Here, now, with these stacks of decades still decaying in the corners of our ugly, cluttered crowns, this is our ritual: squinting up at the lavender-blue sky, we concede that we are still broken – (alive, but dying) – and reinitiate ourselves as poets. We breathe in this different kind of death, this beautiful death – our sticky strawberry reds and caramel ambers displayed like artwork on these glorious twisted giants – and we can pretend we believe that we and our heartbreak, too, are beautiful. And we look on with aching solidarity as they burst into a fireworks display of a funeral.

40