[x]

The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home

He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a

Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.

Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain

Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how

Riddle My tears fall,

like invisible

diamonds.

My heart beats,

like soundless

drums.

Unwanted,

because of the

strings attached.

What am I?

A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even

Why meI wanted sleep very badly
I tried my hardest to rest
I closed my eyes and laid there
But sleep didn’t come easy
I would doze off
And wake back up
Again
Why me? When I know I have to be up at 3 AM.

Seaside HolidayI am content
to stay
a caterpillar

Who says
you have
to change?

What's so great
about being
a butterfly?

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Conceptual Sound TouchThe concept is clear. The sign hardly signified this empty tone.
The pollution of d r i f t i n g gray planes
across fault lines made to doubt
tell more than literary reflection can haze.
The form is clear. The structure distinct from its opposite.
Fingblinds m a k e chaptersation
across frecklspines consuming touch,
where cells are kneaded into nailflips
and closenear continues a washwind.

Sound is not action here. Moving forward requires weight to words.
A supple mode of transformation
e m e r g e s from presence gone awry
along timbrelegs made to stick
as bark incapable of growing apart.
Whispers are no longer dense. Volumes

Aged Men of UseStumbling through a dry throat
of a most torrential set of days
has broken me before solitary peaks
once so sincere in apathy
as decidedly dreadful snows
might accompany eyes
while they gloss over in a directionless stew,
boiling amongst their numb captivity
kicking back the pebbles of tungsten,
trying to exchange minerals for molecules
and itching away at the base of a spine.

What finite passageways could clutch
have long since closed on the windpipe of souls
trying to evacuate a tired old mind
in years five through eight
and fifteen through twenty-godknowswhen,
as the children rushed to see a man
kissing away the ancient sk

The Imperfect PerspectiveThe perfect man closes his eyes
and feels what horrors of indecision resound
as form passes through hollow frames
of a hovel turning inside out to be home today,
but growing morose as bodies escape it
and finding harmony but a memory
of what has long since evacuated it.

The man opens his eyes
and what shines through is reason's dead shell
lying before him with hope of refrain
incapable of being comforted
as its words pour out
without language to behold its meaning.
And all he knows the world can have
is to have a word with him today;
though I know the scarcity of this depression
outlined on my carpet isn't here to be intense

Being and Sartre IsIs was more than atoms,
more closely kept to fingerquarks
ever clasping and funny
as shroedinger's valentine.

Is is lapsing and wanting,
whole nothing is movement starting,
pushing neutrinos onto shoulderphages
as strangers in the night.

Is is being, wholeness of meaning,
and yet fusion chain contracting
fluttering in molecules made to lip
and holding back from friction aligned.

Is it a coarse tumult on sah ketts,
arching back between spinal forms
readied in uncertainty but gaining mass,
diffused as it gains momentum.

Is lingering and kinetic face
shaking amongst anxious inebriation,
driving protrusions along vines erratic

Time Slows Down for InactionDry mouthed by the endless linguam of feelings,
pirouetting out to teach all the ears,
but acting more on a stage of wordplay
than a reality where direct actions engage.

Clocks slow as wordless waiting are mulled,
but all time's a sage of quick pressed wisdom,
flickering by when sustained light is all that's sought
and in this distance the photons are but memories
incapable of fluctuating speeds of brightening words.

Shining liplicks are but minute hands too slow
and each blinkstick calms the second hand
into absolute stillness, singular and wonderful,
but forever inactive, only swallowed passions of the whole.

The mingling colum

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So Much Stress

by ~dyrwen, Aug 15, 2011, 9:51:39 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

So much stress
I got it all worked out
So little rest
I got it all worked out
So much less
I got it all worked out

There's little left
and I'm feeling less
so I seem to second guess
whenever I feel happy
I stop and make a mess
fuck it all up
or wait for someone else to
because there's little left to do
when there's little left to be
when all the world's feeling
is fed up with this guy named me.

So much stress
I got it all worked out
So little rest
I got it all worked out
So much less
I got it all worked out

I'm feeling empty like a beer bottle
unbalanced and worth five cents
Got little left to work out
except for the labor that I'm paid for
and the more and more
that I never get time for
Whether I'm eating or awake
I got no time to prepare
for all this work that is coming to me
because I got to get it all done
or else I wouldn't be my mother's son.

So much stress
I got it all worked out
So little rest
I got it all worked out
So much less
I got it all worked out

I feel what I feel
and it isn't enough for most
so I do what I do
because it's always enough to boast.
I make it all work out
-feel the end coming at me-
whether there's time in the day
-feel the end coming at me-
I make it all sort out
-feel the end coming at me-
whether there's reason to stay
or not.

I got little left and there's hardly a step
that I have not taken
One step over this trip up
I wonder when I'm ever gonna get fed up
and try not to cry
and try not to feel so goddamn alive
when all I got to look forward to
is another attempt at normality
when all I ever seem to get
is reality.

So much stress
I got it all worked out
So little rest
I got it all worked out
So much less
I got it all worked out

I guess it could be worse
I could be paralyzed by this course
and feel my way out into a suicidal urge
but there's little left to trip me anymore
because I've fought all there can be
I feel no more envy
I just feel empty
waiting to fill up on what I can work out
so I work all day
and I make my way
I try to accomplish what she never could
and I know I'm doing the best that I can
so it don't matter how much stress I can stand
because I got it all sorted out
and there's so much less
that I haven't already beat
so there's not much left
to make me feel that shoulder stress
bearing down in Atlas, or earnest,
and turning me to scream
because there's not much left
that I haven't seen
yet.

So Much Stressby ~dyrwen

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I wrote this probably 3 weeks ago. I poked into it tonight to edit a stanza around and about to make it flow better. All in all I think it works out okay, but it feels a little crowded, like the words are crumbling into your mouth and you can't get all of them out. The rhythm is a little off in a few places, but I can't quite fix them all.

Been listening to a lot of Kanye West recently, so it's coming out in beats.

~Dancing-Treefrog Nov 29, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

Sounds like it would be a very effective song.

~erinightwind Aug 22, 2011 Professional General Artist

.....

~dyrwen Aug 22, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Dot dot. Seems like the poems I write these days aren't really for you, so much as for my psychological welfare.

Upon rereading it, it feels a bit like something I'd have written ten years ago. Not really one of my best, but the rest are still incubating in the editing stage.

~erinightwind Aug 25, 2011 Professional General Artist

I didn't trust any other response.

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So Much Stress

So Much Stressby ~dyrwen

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