[x]

Husks of the PastYellow Jacket flannel hangs
in the back of my closet,
an active memory hive.

I put it on sometimes,
deep pockets engulfing me
and buttons pressed to my skin
like a threat.

A trace of your cologne
still lingers,
the promise of spring
snatched away too soon.

I dream of being suffocated;
it always smells like you.

PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived

and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.

I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
steady indifference.

the leper and the lambbaby boy grew up and
the thorns left his crown;
his sides cry red,

it scares me to hear the
same stories in his sighs.

he is the kind of poetic violent whose
words are like calculated anvils; he
dissipates between my bones and

my heart will burst, I swear it. I am
afraid of balloons and the imminent
explosion of my delicate monstrosity
rising through my throat and suffocating--
but it’s really beautiful

when he turns over and rubs the galaxies
congested within his eyes. I believe in
shooting stars and intoxicated nights and the
prickled promises intertwined between our
fingers, as I miscalculate how fragile I really am

it&rsquo

VineyardLike a grape,
I squeezed until you
popped;
trodden at heart,
I smeared you on my lips
before tossing your skin aside,
warpaint glistening—

Your tenderness
hooked me and I fought;
your sweetness
roughed my palms,
begged for vengeance,
made me callous—

Nice
is a word
I can't mold around my tongue,
but you drew the summer wine
from our union:

you the sugar,
I the alcohol—

This love-hate
isn't what they said it should be—
it won't sweeten with time;
the bite of vinegar
bitters everything.

Damaged goods.Sometimes I tell them that
it's a birth defect,

that when they dragged
me from my mother's womb
they broke me,

that my mother left the hospital
with a cheque in hand to make up for
"the accident," of course.

Sometimes I tell them
that they said,
"she'll live,
but it'll hurt her."

Because I live and
it hurts me and I don't know
how else to say,

"I'm sad all the time
and I can't get out of bed some
days and I've considered that
not living might be
beneficial to my survival,"

and as they try to work
that out I'm heading for the door
with my head down and
my dignity scraping along on
the floor.

defeatheredand this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)

and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago

as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--

all I ever wanted to do was belong.

dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have len

Almost Perfectthe sun is melting away,
we call it romantic when
all good things die quietly;

I feel like I’m always transitioning
through different levels of sobriety:
spent up on the people in my life
like the girl who doesn’t remember
my name and the boy who thought
I was joking.

(I will care for myself, and
then the world will stop and
spin in the right direction;
the mirror will blur and
I will finally see me,
unfiltered and beautiful)

I just want to believe
that somewhere there’s a boy
ready to sing my bleeding ears
to sleep

with a cinnamon voice, he
will tell me I couldn’t
possibly be human: something
otherworldly,

Remembering: These Garden Hands IIIWe are not perfect people, no.
But I will hold the perfect moments,
the bits of you that shone,
in my hands like seeds:
watered and nurtured until full bloom.

Forget-me-nots and Morning Glories,
not a thorn in sight.
And you will bloom all the year long.

cagedother lovers saw
that i was a danger to myself
(i've always thought of it
as more of a challenge to trust).
they took their prison arms
to hold me,
to keep me from myself
(to keep me from hurting them).

some pushed my suicidal heart
from its shelf
thinking it was what i truly wanted
(to be free).
they watched, helpless,
unknowing of my thoughts,
as i stood on the ledge
with my calloused toes dancing over
and wishing on every feather
the breeze brushed
from my crooked wings.

but they had been clipped.
and how could i say,
"they should have known" -
who falls in love with a bird?

and you...
you fashioned a cage out of your chest
and set your

Star Swollen--C.The window, tinted with lost dreams,
fogs around my hand, palm print smears
blurring the constellations
into distant twinkle-lights.
Forget that the sky has bad days, too--
I take the stars for granted
when it comes to wishing for you.

Back, when dark days would come-
you were like the stars above,
desperate for my attention.
Silently you’d shine your light for me,
Even when I would refuse to see.
You’d shoot across the darkness,
stroking your splendorous beauty through the sky.
Still, I ignored your pleas,
your devotion went unnoticed.
Until now, now when wishing on a star is all I have left.

Trace a comet's tail
across Hercul

Just PassingNot far from the cabin door the trail began. The lake, placid in the morning light proved a great mirror for its splendor. No shimmer awoke to break this spell save that which ringed the piles of a humble quay; the boats having been pulled ashore to mark the summers end. The present season is fitting for our stage in life. The ‘Golden Years’ it's called.

Our pace is slow – we amble on. She asks me if she still looks pretty. I smile and tell her she looks as good as she did in 1977; another fall day. I didn’t think to lie, her beauty shone through whatever humble exterior she resorted to for woodland walks at

FaithFaith sits quietly, with crossed hands,
Because she knows it's better
Than giving fear a voice
(Voiceless things cannot taunt you).

A little worm wriggles through
Crevices in her mind; time is both
Friend and foe (just a little more
And life will blossom
Opening up for your dissection,
Bidding rest to your inquisitions,

Only to have its paper petals collapse;
Your magnifying glass
Smolders its final, frail breaths).
"Recycled," Faith attests
As smoke swirls into her breast
While her lips adorn a smile.

"You've much to learn," she coos
And cradles the scorched offering on her tongue.
She swallows and you hear the sizzle
That follows the kno

Jackson Pollock: Number 8, 1949at a certain angle of my dread
I can see the motion of your hair
glomming onto chaos in furious tangles
slickened with existential after-birth;

i have faith in our confusion.

comtrails of protozoa
desperate for the exit
collide with vectors of a monarch
in a honeysuckle rage

and deep within the forest
of your dark and brittle neurons
i am buried to the eyes,
waiting for a seizure
.

Go Out and Love Someone2.27.13

They tell you, "Go out and love someone,"
and I did, I loved everyone I met
with everything I was
like I was the only one on earth
that knew how.
I loved anyone who looked my way,
even the beggars on the streets,
leaving embraces like spare change
and pieces of my heart
sprawled out like calling cards,
but they only call when they want
something, if they ever call at all.

They tell you, "Go out and love someone,"
like it's a one time fix, but
the high doesn't last long and
it's a life-long habit that will
leave track marks all up and down your arms
and sometimes they will crack
from holding on too tight
to love like it's cocaine,
b

Charlie B,Charlie B, you're drunk as always
and today, so am I
I see things all loose and clear
not fuzzed over with preconceptions
like every other day

There's something about that alcohol
that spirit
that makes a man see vision
without prejudice

you can see it ugly
you can see it beautiful
you can see the way it really is
for someone like you

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Family

by *RiseandBe, Feb 23, 2013, 2:11:29 PM
Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

When you run out of room to run,
when these endless roads feel more
like tireless cages, when you begin
to physically ache for a place to
rest your head: Come home.
With your mouth filled with fungus
and your stomach with disease, with
your head filled with dreams yet
unfulfilled, with your heart longing
hungrily for a love that's old and used;
I'll be waiting, with a room prepared
for you.

Familyby *RiseandBe

Literature / Poetry / Family Life / Free Verse

©2013 *RiseandBe

To my parents and my son.
My mom and dad always told me that no matter where I went in life, I could always go home. And no matter how bad it got between us at times, I knew it was always true. I want Gaby to feel that way.

#Glory-Be-Project Day 42

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~AnotherNamelessOne Mar 25, 2013

This is so beautiful, I want to read it out aloud to my beloved ones.

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*RiseandBe Mar 25, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you.

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~AnotherNamelessOne Mar 25, 2013

You're welcome.

Reply

*bloodawni Mar 11, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Beautiful. The poem and the situation too. I don't have it with my parents, but I want it with my children. I am creating this with my partner for his adopted daughter, and we want our children when we have them to feel this way too.

Reply

*RiseandBe Mar 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you, love.

I hope you succeed in that.

Reply

*bloodawni Mar 11, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Me too!

(But first I guess I have to succeed in that pregnancy thing.

)

Reply

*RiseandBe Mar 13, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, yea. Have you been trying to get pregnant?

Reply

*bloodawni Mar 13, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

In the past I have, but this time around not yet. I've just come off birth control but unfortunately I was on Depo, so that's not likely for around 6-12 months (and prior experience says more like 15 months) but never mind. It's the first step.

Reply

*RiseandBe Mar 13, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Ahh, gotcha. Well, good luck nonetheless!

Reply

*bloodawni Mar 14, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Thanks!

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