[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.

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

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

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?

Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.

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.

Browse More Like This

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More from ~theolivethief14

censorship (second attempt)cross out every rule-breaking word.
who are you to say words have to follow your petty rules, anyway?
just because you don't like it
or there is the possibility that someone else
might not?
that's trying to protect yourself from every germ because
(even though it's impossible to evade them all)
some of them are deadly.
what you fail to grasp
is that these words you're crossing out
were written that way to express someone's most
raw, fierce
emotions. opinions.
feelings.
but those don't mean a thing to you,
do they?

(only yours do.)

13. MisfortuneYou took the vow,
You said you would.
By all accounts,
Your word was good.
You loved me,
That much was clear.
And I loved you.
You know that, dear.
So please explain,
Why did you leave?
So much pain,
With no reprieve.
Did our love end?
Not on my side.
Was it pretend?
Or has it died?
Alli know, I'm
A single mom
With two young kids.
I miss you, Tom.

44. HateI hate your guts, Friedrick Nietzche.

Blue StarYou've grown too big to keep going like this
Though others supernova, you ignore, deny
Don't hear what I say; why can't you just resist
You're much too young, I don't want you to die
Blue star, blue star
You're burning up, furious
Blue star, blue star
Can't you see your time has come?
The end is near, you will dissolve
I cannot change your firm resolve
Blue star, blue star
You're burning up, furious...
Unless you cool, dear, you will not survive
The hydrogen is running low, oh no
You don't believe, you're scared; just stay alive
I care, but I can't help what you control
Only the good die young, that's what they say
I promise you, don't have to be this way
Only the good die young, that's what they say
I promise you, don't have to be this way
I promise you, don't have to...
Blue star, blue star
You're burning up, furious
Blue star, blue star
Don't you know that you're dying?
The end is here and you dissolve
I coul

UnableThere's nothing I hate more
Than being powerless.
You can't do
Absolutely
Anything
At all
And as the tears of frustration begin to fall
I know why they say "never say 'I can't'"
And as the sadness threatens to crush me
I know why the angel cries
I'm not mad at you
I'm mad at this
"Dad, that sucks."
I hate it.
Even Mumford & Sons can't help
Wanting to help and not having the strength, means, or permission
Is torture

11. MemoryOut of the blue
You come again.
The brook, the tree, the memory
Unbidden:
A sweet melody
That wafts along my inner ear
I simply
cannot
bear to hear.
And when I, lone, attempt to sleep
My daughter questions
why
I weep.

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Submitted: January 27
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Sabotage

by ~theolivethief14, Jan 27, 2013, 10:15:19 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Furiously scribbling across the page;

My pen does little to resist.

What am I doing, writing this poem

At 1 am?

I have school tomorrow.

"Why are you still awake?"

Why?

Well, you see, it's just not as simple

As all that.

There are too many possibilities, ideas, expressions

To sleep.

(Of course I forgive you, but could it hurt to wait until morning?)

But I cannot explain this

To someone who has never before been driven to create something.

You'll just think I'm being

Childish, silly,

Dramatic.

So I simply say,

"Sorry, Dad"

Close my notebook

And get back in bed

Until you are gone.

Because it's not my fault I'm awake.

The writer in me won't leave me alone.

Sabotageby ~theolivethief14

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

A short blip, describing how my poetic brain cells have been screwing with my sleep pattern lately. Jeez. =__= But this is truly how I feel. Can anyone relate?
Also, any suggestions on how to improve the last line? I feel like "the writer in me" could be something better.
Sorry it's not longer.

Poem (c)

_{Be honest. Am I a lame poet because I only write free verse? ;__;}

love 1 1

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~~neutral 0 0~~

~coup-de-coeur Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

_{hah, i can totally relate to you. i always keep something on which i can write next to me so i can jot down my ideas, my rhymes, my particular metaphors that i think i'll still like. sometimes i get inspired in the middle of an exam and i'm like really? haha.

don't worry about writing free verse, i do too, and i think some of my strongest works are free verse.}

~theolivethief14 Feb 2, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Lol yes. It's like your ideas are trolling you. XD
Thank you ^//^

*Mikisakiiro Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Ahaha, this is exactly how I am with drawing.
But after midnight, sleep usually takes priority. I can always just scribble down the ideas for drawings and do them the next day.
Oh and about halfway through the poem--I think you mean to say 'could it hurt', not 'it could hurt'. c;
And you most definitely are not lame because you do free verse. Anyone can jot down words that don't rhyme and call it poetry but not many can put such heart and soul into it like you do <3