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[x]
mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u
Verifiedsometimes fear is a little black monster that waits in your closet
nursing all your skeletons back to health, tempting you
with tightly wound lies like bitter almond candies

and compliance is second only to believing that maybe, just maybe,
the words slithering out of its mouth (then around your throat,
choking you when you are finally alone enough to be convinced truth
is objective) are something real, something worth believing in

unlike all the other things that have forsaken you,
there's a certain comfort in knowing that fear is
a constant, it is a shadow, it is as concrete as the bags
you carry excess time in under your eyes;
SensesTo: you,

saying Sundays are never beautiful
counting fallen meteors as wishing stars. we
dream the inconsistencies of space- timid
chemistry mapped between your rough skin
and my boneless fingers, breaking outlines of isolation
in constellations, dwelling in the abodes of time lost
beneath tearless skies.

To: me,

living amid painted strokes of genius, between
colors communicating to trebles and records in collective
urgency. let us crush the aftermath of our damaged
liberties, breathing the dire fumes of cremated guitar strings as
Van Gogh enters the centre of the last field, aims his cocked
gun and forms the sixth instance o
Agoraphobic
He would often catch the coursers of a newly printed page
or lock upon the wingspan of departing poetry.

But once the years corroded and the pages crumbled,
fantasizing was no longer enough

Soon he found that these shallow fabrications had all the depth
of a black and white page.
a love affair.(blessing: noun
a favor, benefit or mercy;
a gift bestowed).

she was never
meant for man;
nor woman.
she loved another.
a being brought forth
from the tip of her tongue
and stored away in every cell,
awaiting in anticipation
with dragonfly trembles
for the day to be called forth.

she loved language;
bespoke of lexicon and linguistics
with a caliber of wonder that
often caused her diction to run away.
words filled her,
consumed her,
strewn like a wildfire
stirred up by a tempest wind.
and oftentimes they tore her asunder;
bleaching her skin like newspaper print
and coating supple curves with endless discourse,
and carvi
a knot of cold desirei. acknowledgement -

i woke from the slumber of growth
when i was ninteen,
and realized i could not go back
to the beliefs of the child or
the fantasies of the dreamer,
or the hopes naivety persists with although
they're fruitless.

part of me wanted to take your hand
because i was afraid of the inevitable drift
which accompanies two bodies parting
physical ways and metaphorical hearts,
and perhaps if our fingers were intertwined
we'd stay that way, too.
but we've never been affectionate;
and although i can say what you're thinking before
you think it, you don't know me
half as well as i know you.

so we sat side by side
and
she hardly ever sleepsthere's a girl i know who wakes at four a.m.
to watch the sun stir and the birds rise
the clouds form and the moon be lulled to sleep.
they haunt her in the small hours of the morning;
eyes wide awake she sees the universe through
her bedroom ceiling and itches to glimpse past
the atmosphere into the great sea that is space.
then she'll stay up late to see aurora light up the night,
mars shining bright and stars making connect-the-dot smiles.
(her marble eyes make a picture frame in the sky)
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
and dreams
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
of not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
criss-crossed veins for the trigger girliii.
"you're not okay."
"I'm fine."
"no, you're lying. i can tell. everyone has a trigger."
"What's mine?"
"you smile."

ix.
she's walking around in circles
and trying to pick up her broken pieces, but they're
not fitting like they used to,
something's damaged beyond repair.

v.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"because i've forgotten what it feels like to heal."

viii.
she regrets not cutting deeper, when she sees the life
still running through her veins, and her parents asleep
on the hospital chairs.

ii.
she comes to school the next day with a bandaged hand
and blue eyes that seem a bit dimmer.
"i broke a mirror."
an
Androphobiai was stitched lips and a flightless raven heart-
all sex and a contorting spine;
his own lips engraving 'kiss me's' on empty stars.

& between you and me: i feared his teeth,
& tongue, & honest organs-
with skin that begged, 'please, don't touch me.'

don't touch me.
don't fucking touch me.

i am not soft.

there is a war raging in my lungs,
screaming through the uncharted galaxies
of my wanderlust heartstrings.

i am not soft.

i am lust, & war, & envy—

i am sin,
        
         crooked, misshapen,
& the kind of prosetry yet to be proofrea
vices.there's hell in your eyes, painting them black cesspits that could eat away the stars.
you tell me you need out of your head. the moon pulls higher in the sky, quietly marking the hour. our feet hang over empty air, the tracks below an open casket. you inhale nicotine and exhale burning buildings. smoke curls like fingers into the body of the night.
we're breaking like an ocean. eggshells on pavement.
i can't hold you together,
so you down handfuls of little white pills like peppermint candies.
like if you just keep swallowing, they'll whitewash the walls of your ribcage and purge your dirty heart.
you drink like you're always thirs
untitled 01life writes stories on the skin;
told in blood and bone,
stamped across the body.
inadequateyou can try to preserve people
in stories, in books, in poetry,
in formaldehyde,
but it will not make them breathe
again. it will not make them the person they were
or those things they did;
it will not sound right
and it will not seem right,
 because
it isn't right. you miss
the details or at least the right ones:
people are not made of hearts and lungs and limbs
they are ankles and hands and tongues and eyelashes
they are fire and fury and friction and fear.
i cannot say that i miss you the way you want me to.
i can't. just can't.
and that is the difference between you and me:
you say what you think you're supposed to and i,
well,
i don't say much at all.
Clichei. true love

& you were that one famous line
of a love poem – 1863 sonnet
scripted down your spine, verses
of sternum & shuddering heartbeat.

i remember the sheets twisted blue
as the eventide, your eyes like thelassia,
that species of ocean grass. we swayed
to the music of galaxies colliding.
our song was the day the tides
finally curled round the moon's face.

ii.  cancer

eventides, thelassia eyes, moon
great and heavy as that one lucky coin
that refused to land, to grant a wish
or let luck decide for us. there were
star crabs scuttling under your
oragami skin. & i never realized
all the ways that you folded
until t
I'll Be There When the Wind Blowsi
one day I'll be nothing but a whisper
in the swollen sky, which ebbs and flows
whenever you choose to open your eyes

this voice will be lost in the onslaught,
and I'll fade into my greatest fears

ii
my thoughts have been known to shatter
on occasion, into fine powder
that scatters in the face of execution

I always worried roots grown in unstable ground
and remembering the way my body was built
would free the catastrophes sighing within me

it's easier to succumb to future's inevitabilities
that welcome you with undefined arms

iii
sometimes I release pieces of myself
because I don't like the story they tell
about the history
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More from *staphysagria

Sepia."you must
try,"
he said

"to lift the
grey, the
rain;
the
downward slope
of your chin."

and so I will.
Silica.And, oh

I wanted to write
not-quite-passages

           about how you

           exuded salt plus
           chlorine

           and when I
           tasted you it was
           skin plus
           octyl-methoxycinnamate
           plus

           silica;

           how you

           looked like
           pheromones and how,

           oh,

           I worried when
           you shook too
           much;

           how

           the ocean
           the ocean
           the ocean

           was calmer than
           your thighs;

           how

           I'll still paint
           
Rosemary.Lover,

to write
nothings

of Novembers and
Thursday evenings, just
before six

would serve,
in hindsight

to be
reminisced as
nothing less
than

not-quite-postcards
and

trains, impeccably timed.
Clair.and I need a release, an
epitome of

feeling, pouring through my
cartesian plane, minus
linear or parabola-esque
coherence

and with no
relation to

why and x and
maybe,

I could never, fully.

I need to
writewritewrite to
express, or
hammer the bitumen into the
flood-laden dirt with
bare feet, or to

simply run my fingers
over and over

-

anything that is not you; the
antithesis of warmth, human;
I need love minus
physicality, or perhaps self
coherence

-

eight octaves from lower
c to high, high high
g, where I will perform and
dance with notes splaying
from my forearms and
under my over-clipped
nails with a,e,b fla

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August 12, 2012
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[x]

Hubris.

:iconstaphysagria:

today
we're younger
than we're ever gonna
be.

i. and we finally did it,
drove to the mountains
watched meteors
and let the mattress
grow damp
under our love
under the stars

ii. there are things to
be reconciled

iii. my eyes sting like
chlorine, but from
crying,

I finally disappointed
them;
the highest order of shame

iv. but you cannot put
people into pockets;
good, bad
don't mix
with them

v. and I cannot choose
who I love

vi. your lenses are straight,
elite and proud
mine, open and accumulating
filth

vii. maybe
I should run away more often,
we never talk like this

viii. and you have to realise
that I live in a world
that you don't, and you
live in one I
cannot

ix. the respect is there,
but I cannot
be stifled
any longer.
:iconstaphysagria:
growing?

As I've been reminded, best to note the first stanza is courtesy of Regina Spektor.
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-09-21
The respect is there, but the connection between people is not. Hubris. Powerful poetry from *staphysagria ( Featured by ^NicSwaner )
:iconimaduckyrawr:
~imaduckyrawr Oct 3, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
this is so fantastic.
Reply
:iconkarinta:
~Karinta Sep 25, 2012  Student General Artist
It really makes one think, doesn't it?
Reply
:iconsmallsmiles:
~smallsmiles Sep 21, 2012
The whole of it is beautiful. :heart:
Reply
:iconstaphysagria:
*staphysagria Sep 22, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you, lovely. <3
Reply
:iconaddoodler:
~addoodler Sep 21, 2012
DUDE I LOVE REGINA SPEKTOR!!! PLUS I JUST LISTENED TO SMALL TOWN MOON!!!
Reply
:iconschriftsteller:
~schriftsteller Sep 21, 2012   Writer
This is simply stunning-- in the oldest sense of the word. Each new stanza brought my thoughts to a hault before letting them continue with the next. The break up the stanzas with the roman numerals is brilliant here. It could flow as an entire poem, I'm sure you're aware, but breaking it up makes it even better. This tells a story in the most wonderful way. Congrats on your very well deserved DD!
Reply
:iconstaphysagria:
*staphysagria Sep 22, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you, dearie. <3
Reply
:iconschriftsteller:
~schriftsteller Dec 26, 2012   Writer
Quite welcome! It's really a lovely poem. :)
Reply
:iconrataafalava:
~rataafalava Sep 21, 2012  Student Traditional Artist
thank you for the great read.
congrats on the DD!
Reply
:iconayumi-nemera:
~Ayumi-Nemera Sep 21, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
This sounds like something my mother would have told her parents when she left town at 18. It took me 2 reads to see the story behind the art, but you mesh them beautifully. you take what society calls 'young love' and turned it into something that helps open their eyes to reality.

I'm really touched by this piece actually. :')
Reply
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