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HarlotThese wounds are bitter nights --
every line marks the memory of
another faceless man
each with the voice of her father
-- where her skeleton had clawed at the stars in her eyes
until the sky went black with cloudy unconsciousness
And she worships her physique --
every curve holds the fingerprints of
caressing delinquents and hardened criminals
each with an agenda of his own
-- where she molded her frame from broken ivory
until the marrow could flow into every artery
Her body is a temple
and even Jesus was once a man
Without YouMy Cleopatra, forgive me
I cannot be your Mark Antony
brave enough to love you
[only foolish enough to try]
no matter what the cost
I built our bed of mahogany
from trees in our secret garden
[hallucinated summer tragedy
laughed at its prospects
Now your giggles are echoes
trapped inside our wooden grave
[half full of lead and beauty]
because you were never worth the bullet
ReformIn recent memory, our reality has morphed:
We make claims of innocence
when we should be planning funerals.
Our spines are weak
and we forgive nothing.
Occasional bubbles of insight
show an antidote to our fear of failure:
We can combine our ammunition,
draw a few deep drags from a cigarette,
and meet halfway to an upbeat ending.
DriftwoodLove and forgetting
might have carried us
but impulse led us
to follow the washout
Each slide of the earth beneath our footsteps
poured forth more nights of longing
and left rocks at our sides for comfort
Love and forgetting
might have carried us
but resentment left us
too curious to stop our descent
WhipThe moonlight weighs heavy on my tongue
like the chains that aid your bloodlust
and the red silk that muffles your name
I'm lost, somewhere between you and the oak tree
that still stains palms red, even years into the future
after the axe first learned of its taste for rich sap
Splinters cut into my flesh, drawing blood and egg whites
to carry the secrets of life to your lips and to my belly
where they fade as quickly as the light held in my eyes
Teach me a lesson
only the broken ever learn
one of humiliation and murder
Nursery RhymesThe night had gone red with ribbons -
They flowed from the veins of her
as she held the throat of her last born son
like a teddy bear for comfort from the storm.
and the itsy, bitsy spider crawled through her heart again
HistoryDandelions and cobwebs battle to expand their territory
into the crevices of a child's corpse --
His past is a cracked sidewalk crawling
up his spine, carved from the lash of his father's belt
that once struck the inside of his skull.
Memory lane is a place where dead things lie
BeautyWe were beautiful--
a memory long dissipated
but still held, somewhere
in the breath of a dream
You taught me how to love
with the catharsis of your tongue
blooming a butterfly from your throat
to eat at my soul with its larvae
but you still kept your beauty
And I was beautiful--
a delusion held in my whispers
and carved into a canvas of white flesh
held pure by nothing concrete
I had forgotten how to love
anything that could reject me
I buried myself in insect wings
and pretended to be colorful
but I was still monochrome
We would be beautiful--
but I plucked the wings from your butterfly
spread the dust on my fingers
and blew our future into the wind
WaitingWe are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.
MotheatenIt's louder still
but you don't hear it
(and that has to be okay).
Darkness holds me close again -
so safe like warmth and
I am hypothermia
Then it gets louder.
My ribs overflow with moths
they devour all my light.
It is the fearful thunder
shooting down my arms,
too uncertain for one place.
It vibrates blood and scars
until my fingertips are earthquakes
cracking open famine soil, and
I curl them tightly -
control the fear.
Then it gets louder.
It starts small -
the little things -
stabbing away at the vitals
of what ifs and could bes...
it's always just the little things.
If I blinkA blink ago I was sitting on the playground
My sunny red hair pulled into two little pigtails
With the ribbons I had begged my mother to tie into my hair
Because I didn't know how to tie a bow yet
A blink ago I was hiding behind my mother's leg
My first time experiencing something new
A brand new world, a school of new people
But it was then, when I peeked around her knee
When my big brown eyes caught sight of my first love
A blink ago I was on the playground again
When my first love told me that he liked me
I ran away screaming "Gross!"
Because I still believed boys had cooties
A blink ago
he held my hand for the first time
And a blink later
he kissed me cheek
A blink ago I was in a hallway
Trying not to be trampled by the giants around me
Suddenly aware I was nothing but a speck
Aware that everyone wasn't each other's best friend
A blink ago I walked the hall with my first boyfriend
Followed by the curses of the witches and dragons behind us
Gripping to that
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skin
metallic, halting, smudged vibrato
wavering note stretched out far beyond
the edge of the universe tucked in your front pocket
breathing out in time with your heartbeats.
All along the wall I find notebook pages
old teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirling
while you sit in the lean of the willow tree
and watch the play that is my life
chew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.
You pull your scarf in
and wrap the scars in burnt umber
while the show goes on
Her love was bone white,
[ but never like diamonds. ]
Truth then became water to
pruning fingers and splitting lips,
while she drowned
in the mouth
of a liar like me.
DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane
all we remember
is the numbness
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,
graced again by feeling.
The God Thiefyou’re not used to your eyes
being starved of serif font words,
trying not to grab up the lost napkin
that tumbles like a library book page
you linger in the smirking midnight coffee and empty chairs
inebriated on dead poets and chemical highway headlights
hoarding misspellings in your lungs
rubbed pink with words
and wishing your name
was something worth remembering
but you've heard the razor's song
d r a g g i n g
and you've seen you no longer bleed ink
and you walk drunk
across the shadowed corners of your corneas
that are yellowing like the newsprint you want to forget about
like a terrible first kiss
you've fallen asleep inside
at the bottom of July
without believing this poem is any good
but somehow still believing,
while listening to siren chorus,
that chest and
are two separate injuries
you think about how
to some place on second avenue
while you trace the table edge --
Let the Sparrows InI.
Blackbirds rest on the power lines,
their silhouettes form the notation
to a dawn song set on the sheet music
of telephone poles contrasted by the sun.
Curled leaves are land mines littered
on the lawn where imprints of twigs
and a nurturing robin's tracks collect.
Branchlets and leaflets stem from
porch step railings and mailboxes;
the numbers read odd on the east,
even on the west side of the asphalt:
The engraved letters on
the siding reads, "Davis."
This house is home to family
so let the sparrows in.
with its branching hallways
furniture rooted to the floor
family, friends, the occasional
out from home.
Let the sparrows in; let
Let the door's
loosen—let the door stand ajar
be let open
the night owls and
let the doves
in pairs in the iridescent
Let the sparrows in.
Framed on either side
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
broken boy, you still
infect my poetry,
tangle my vocal chords with your half-meant promises.
there are scars on my fingertips where i touched you.
my mouth still burns with the doubt i tasted on your tongue.
you have to miss me sometimes.
you have to miss the way
i smiled into your kisses
as if they meant something.
you have to miss me because
a month after i woke up in your bed and realized
it was for the last time,
i keep your "i love you"s hidden somewhere inside me,
folded and folded and folded in on themselves
like notes passed in school,
creases frayed and ink smudged into illegibility.
we were never good for each other
like the cigarettes we passed at midnight
as we leaned on the church's locked front doors and
pretended we could save ourselves.
we were insane and reveling in our insanity,
half mad and in love with our madness.
but broken boy, you've broken me, and
last night i dreamed i kissed you.
MakarI am discovering poetry in lines of genius --
fragments of a broken existence
where only misfit pieces build the puzzle
and discarding the words like carbon dioxide
They are drowning me in a dictionary of experiences --
inhale a panicked definition of life
and exhale an ocean of ink and paper
with no surface in sight
every artist should die for their passion
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More