×

Liquid Cityhere, at the bottom - lovers.
there are lovers disassembling
themselveslost in and to the
desperate motion in
of - waves.

- did you think the continents
moved themselves? see them slip,

in an open sleep. less go, come.
come and, and - again. trembling

here, at the bottom - their eyes
are lightless. hollow bodies left
restless,

the sea does not sleep.

Souls and SparklesTo write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.

There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.

We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we d

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.

WhitmanI am all that grows from me
and all that grows from me is sacred—
              my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,
fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents
              my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,
gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient
              my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,
rigid and ridged, elven,
innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily into
resounding with echoed cheers of courage wanting
as if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides;
              my nose, obdurate.
The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;
what walls are there to throw my body against?

tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft parts
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.

DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's—
it cleanses
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane

all we remember
is the numbness
the shuddering
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds

winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence

bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs

until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

I Of YouI want you to break
and never bend for me,

see my history
spiderweb your brilliance
till you belong to me
(and I, to you)
utterly and forever

and know
you cannot stop this.

preludesi.
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.

ii.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.

iii.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.

iv.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.

v.
perhaps today i will play dead.

vi.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.

October EyesSuch gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.

Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.

Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.

With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.

relearning i. stardust scatters with the
direction of my pupils –
maybe secretly i am an
astrology teacher, waiting
for a sign to wink
happily at me.

ii. excuse the rambling
nature of forgotten question
marks, but tell me:
would you like to be the
object of handwritten clichés
would you like to whisper
secrets in my palm
and would you
like to be the possibility

iii. air brushes against my
skin like the torn petals
of a flower still standing.
[ hold your head up high, honey,
and tell tomorrow to wait just
a while,

iv. so you can figure out
the difference between
patience and having all the

Insert creative title here.sometimes I hate the idea
of talking

I rather eat the autumn
skies crushing cold air between my molars
and hiding shaky hands
between pages of dictionaries
and clickclickclicking sounds of typewriters

you asked me why I wrote poems
on the soles of my shoes
and I told you

it was because I wanted to
imprint myself on the earth
then I can create beauty
even if I am not

Apologies to LaoEach day is its own microstep--
since I woke from my mother's womb,
I longed to mimic new words, trammel
the sound until it blossomed

like a newborn, and oh how I birthed
stories--told them how I wanted
the author's sacrosanct title
once I've grown. But growing meant

learning the practice of citizens
and their due contribution: beast-slaying
nature of please, thank you,
an apology: sincere

or not. Then there is time--the first
breath of nine, exhalation
of five, the suffocating mandate
of overtime. You grow used to it:

the cyclical disappearance of parents,
pervasive need of sleep, a home-
cooked meal's gradual transmogrific

Browse More Like This

More from ~grew-up-a-screw-up

hope?The sky is a blanket of darkness
And the stars light it with hope...

just a little moreJust another hit
Another sip of this delicate poison
Let it course through these bleeding veins
Never good enough
So I've been told
Just let me have a little more
Help a girl won't you?
These withered bones
This broken mind
What more is left
For this weeping soul?
This girl is a monster
A fiend
A theif
Stealing time
And tearing seams
So give me a little more, just another drop
What's a little more poison? A little more venom?
Your words are far more deadly
Than this toxic remedy

togetherLet's smile away this bitter pain
We can go outside and dance in the rain
We can laugh at their ingorance
We can sit together in this perfect silence
Under the blanket of stars
Showing off our now healed scars
We can pass the time
With this simple rhyme...

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups

Show all (12)

×

Monologue

by ~grew-up-a-screw-up, Nov 30, 2012, 1:04:07 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Spinal fluid seems to be seeping between the cracks
Of the dark hardwood floors beneath me
As if all the cartilage from my being
Has been used to paste together an arthropod heart
I’ve white washed my pupils and folded them
Into hazy envelopes and sent them off to strangers

2,608

182 29 218

Monologueby ~grew-up-a-screw-up

Favourite

Description Details Share

Download TXT download, 411 bytes

...

Details

Stats

Submitted on: November 30, 2012
File Size: 411 bytes

Views: 2,608 (3 today)
Favourites: 182 (who?)
Comments: 29
Downloads: 218

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-22

Monologue by ~grew-up-a-screw-up offers simply stunning visuals. ( Suggested by *Mrs-Freestar-Bul and Featured by `thorns )

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Love

*S0ullessly Feb 20, 2013 Student General Artist

_{"Into hazy envelopes and sent them off to strangers..."

You're quite the inspiration.}

Reply

~grew-up-a-screw-up Feb 21, 2013 Student General Artist

thank you

Reply

~IAmHereForArt Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

In just a few lines you seem to have created and elaborated so much on the insights of a character that it's nothing short of masterful. This is a very good read, one I shall cherish on days to come!

Reply

~MickeyFebruary Jan 22, 2013 Student Writer

Strong and vivid imagery.
Great piece!

Reply

~ChibiMikuSan Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Artist

Kinda creepy, but awesome

Reply

~blackstar707 Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Intriguing.

Reply

~Indigo-Moon-Shadow Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I can't think of something to say that no one's said already. So.... WOW.

Reply

~craazhy Jan 22, 2013 Professional Writer

Seeing something beautiful in nature is never quite as memorable as being in a car and watching it fly by. Beauty is fleeting, and so is this emotion. It's as if your words have flirted with my intellect.

Reply

`vespera Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I love how you carried on from cartilage to arthropod heart!

Reply

*BeyondJen Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Very raw and emotive. I like that closing line.

Congrats on the DD!

Reply

Previous
1
2
3
Next