[x]

then i changed.Home used to be a place.

It used to mean quiet mornings with loud sibling voices, sunlight streaming through the dust speckled windows to paint the room with summer. I remember being seven and waking up to my parent's laughter, stumbling into the kitchen of oak to watch them leaning into one another over the coffee table. The tile on the floor was cold, but I remember thinking that the house was warm.

Home was a place of safety during the storms, where rain could batter but could never get in. It was the cream colored carpet and the fire blazing during the winter months. It was where I chased the small lop-eared puppy up the stairs and wher

matchstick heart.the tree outside my window is starting to blossom and sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I touch cotton sheets, the grass, my skin, but don't feel a thing. it's not that I think I'm dead inside, but I can't help but imagine that my ribs are kindle and my heart's a match. you see, I have this feeling that one day I'm going to forget to watch my feet, trip and start a wildfire. start an inferno. burn the stars out of the sky until the world is aflame and the heavens are naught but smoke. oh, but I can't stand the thought of burning you down. I can't stand the thought of watching this home you've so carefully built turn back to ash: sandcastle t

i am there.if you put the wind against your ear, you won't hear the ocean.

you might, however, hear the poem of a landlocked girl with wordless noise slipping from her fingertips. you might hear the way that my breath touches the edge of my lips. you might hear the old glories on my shoulder in the way that veterans talk about the old wars. if you listen hard enough, you might hear me talk about the scars and the way that they've faded, but how on cold winter nights, they still twinge. how they're old but the still bite. you won't be able to see me, but if you could, i would wink and tell you that i like the way that they pucker my skin, i like the rem

dissolving language.words on silver strings that hang from cosmic lights, dipping low into oceanic bellies late at night. they are the type of words the breathe lightly upon the back of your neck, scrape gently against the small of your back. they are the type that causes your scalp to tickle and your calves to twitch, the sound of an echo deep within your clavicle that somehow reminds you exactly of home. it's the type of word that causes you to sit quietly on summer fields covered in winter frost because you're worried that if you move, winter will leave you. it is the kind that presses against the back of your eyelids when you're gently waking and tempts you

wait and write to me then.don't tell me about the best way to capture the ocean in your mouth. don't whisper to me late at night about the salt crescent moons behind the bend of your elbows or the way that the breeze is tangling my hair around your ears until you're deaf from the wind. don't, for you see it's easy to whisper poetry when the starlit sky is a cliche over the slumbering world; it's easy to be a poet when the ground is rising up to cradle your shoulder blades and the earth is whispering love notes to you in your sleep. this is when it's easy.

so don't write to me then.

instead, wait until the world is rejecting you from her breast and leaving you breath

you missed a spot.sometimes i wonder if you like to shoot your gun just because you like the sound of the bullet.

other times, i am left to wonder if it's the heavy metal in your hand or the metallic taste left singeing your tongue. cruelty of a child wrapped in the gilded tongue of a liar, the pettiness of eve's snake, the deceitfulness of an ocean hit by the first storm. you are all smoke and mirrors - dragging the earth down with your fingertips simply because you no longer can feel the sun.

still, even when soaked in my thoughts and rooted in my wonder, i am dragged to surface. i am pulled forcefully back to reality (an artist's work must be enjoyed and

seaside gifts.this is what i would give to you:

i would give you sea castles during high tide. i would give you an empty beach and a storm rolling in, the sea flagging the danger and the sky rolling in anxiety. the ocean was deepen to sleet gray and i would be waiting in it, the cotton of my dress soaked to my ankles. we could find release in the storm, slipping the silent killers from our bones to wash out with the dregs of the hurricane. the rain would come in with a crack across the sky and we could hold each other through it. our clothes could be sopping wet and flapping in the wind, but we would be rocks. screaming, kissing, unlocking our chests and

way back when.back then, i thought i knew it all. i thought i could sit on the cliff edge, jump and call it flying. i thought i could kiss sea air with chapped lips and call it love. there was a beautiful pain that i associated with life, an aching burn that i was foolish enough to embrace. my bones would light on fire and i would dance, dance, dance until my feet were dissolving on the shoreline and i was throwing the remnants of my words like breadcrumbs into the wind.

it was fast and dangerous and loud. it was like cracking your bones to know the sound of heartache along with the splintering marrow. it was like touching your tongue to acid just to feel

Inexhaustible.Sometimes, I long for the breath of sorrow that once guided me.

No longer is the twisting wind and the gnashing teeth of mourning cries guiding my fingers to my pen and my heart to the beat. No longer does my spine twist at dusk – tying upon itself as my hands press against the small of my back, pushing my pelvis forward as I arch back, back, back into the great beyond of darkness and light. No longer is my sleep punctuated with awakeness and my days punctuated with sleep. I no longer am curled into the shadow of myself and plucking words from heartstrings that have long since bled dry.

Still, on nights where the moon is hollowed again

the impossibility of apollo.sometimes, it is like i am silent and i am just trying to find my voice. it's like praying in an empty room and choking on the echoes, like singing underwater and trying to untangle myself in the ripples. most of all - oh, most of all - it is like finding a truth that i just can't understand. a truth that wakes with the first morning light, stretches with the dawn. a truth that is part of the earth and yet not of it - one of stars and constellations. one spit from the heavens and yet lying patiently on my front lawn.

this is the truth that i have found. this is the truth that i have swallowed and felt warm in the pit of my belly. it is the t

winter heart.maybe it's the weather. maybe it's the steam in the morning and the fog in my lungs that brings these words to life. i can feel them stirring under my breath like a second life; i can taste them in the december air that teases nostalgia from the pitter patter of my winter heart.

it's like life is a faded photograph. its like time is a frozen lake. it's like i'm sitting on porches wearing oversized sweaters and holding cups that burn the tips of my numb fingertips. it's like i'm in a forest and it's damp. it's dark. it tastes like a memory and the rain looks the way it did two years ago when i was broken. it's like remembering something perfe

time withers (but i will not break)they say time withers, but that we would never bend. now, i'm not so sure. friendship once forged in fire is growing weak at the base and arthritic at the joints. love cast in steel is now rusted and stained, dissolving at the mere sight of the sun. i trusted you. i did. i wore my heart on my sleeve and bled my tongue from my mouth just to show you the truth of the matter. i swallowed the guilt until it threatened to chew away at the strings holding me up; until i woke up screaming, my lungs giving out in protest as i writhed between cotton sheets, teeth biting the pillow to suppress the next anguished cry threatening to rip from my throat. i

we love - i dreamwe are swimming in the ocean and our lungs are turned inside out. we are creating black holes with the tips of our fingers and pushing in our doubts into the center of the void. we know that truth isn't a truth so much as a guess and we are therefore given the liberty to create our own. we are the truth. love is the truth. we can stand in fields and hold the falling sky on our shoulders and call spring our truth. because  

love is a spear and it is bracing my spine from yielding. my mouth is stumbling on the words i have always known and i am teaching the phrases to my lips once more. your palms are resting on the skulls of resti

writing for me.What if today I chose to write for myself?

What if I didn’t pick metaphors that would pull the heartstrings of readers or make sense to sensible minds? If I did choose to write for me, and me alone, I think that I would talk about how cold pools always make me feel sad. I would say that chlorine reminds me of tears because both always manage to sting your eyes. But I wouldn’t talk about the day when I was seventeen with my feet dipping into the side. I wouldn’t talk about how my dog walked up next to me and was licking my face when I was told that she had died. How I couldn’t think of anything but the shriveled skin o

secondhand inspiration.i am more than a girl with dirty hair and burned fingertips.

i am more than the insecurities that pile up and fog my mirror, and more than the cowardice i write about so lovingly on my fractured clavicle. i am not just this freckled skin and i am not these cramping feet that twitch under mahogany desks. i am not the girl that sits in the corner and allows the world to draw a box around me, and i am not the girl to sit and allow the world to thieve my words and plant them in their own private gardens.

i have my poems in a headlock and i am holding them under water until they breathe inspiration again. i am chasing down shadows and demanding

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 2.0 KB more ▶

More from =corina90

these words.take a look: these words are beatbeatbeating just below the surface.

these words are living things with hungry mouths, souls with voices loud enough to echo against the canyon walls of heaven. they are splintering my bones and demanding more breathing room, filtering through my pores and piling at the soles of my feet. they are reckless and impatient, knocking against my conscience and demanding i set them free. they are flocks of birds and herds of mustangs, loose cannons without an idea of where they'll land but shooting forward regardless.

these words are pulsing with the life i've been feeding them, stealing my sleep and gnawing on the

breathing hope eternal.the spaces between your ribs are just deep enough for me to fall in.

it's there i find you are the nectar of honey and the salt of the ocean, fading magnolias and withered vines. i discover you are the scent of sunshine and freedom, the simultaneous flame of desperation and redemption. you are everything my heart has ever desired, everything my dreams have ever imagined.

you are tender lips and calloused hands, poetry whispered between crooked teeth. sometimes, i imagine you sitting on the wharf with chalk smeared on your palms. i imagine you trying to capture the sunset between mortal hands, breathing life into sketches, dreaming ideas int

saving hope.tangled within heaven's gilded lies,
you sleep choking on the decay of
a thousand perfumed promises

you are a wildfire: something crazed,
something feral, something dying
slowly with every poisoned breath

you are dissolving as fast as you're
forming, leaving silt and cells strewn
haphazardly in your saltwater wake

you are a supernova: igniting the skies,
setting the constellations aflame with
the final beat of your unruly heart

oh, and i am nothing more than a
simple maiden wading into the
murky waters of your destruction

i am nothing more than a foolish
girl attempting to sing hymns that
will lull your demons to sleep

show me the inglorious truth.With the beginning tied to the end, I finally understand: there is nothing easy about this.

So many rest on their laurels of Love and proclaim it to be a fall, a drift, autumn-leaf-hearts simply riding the breeze until they kiss the ground and kneel before the oak of emotion. They describe it as an arrow of happiness, simply securing one's self to the golden bullet before being launched from point A to point B. There are no detours, no dead ends, there simply is the arrival and nothing more.

One moment one is standing on the brink of un-Love and the next second, their foot slips and they arrive at the next state of their being. There is no

wild hearts.I hope you realize that if man is created in the image of God, then the world is created in the image of you. The mountains follow the crooked line of your twice-broken nose, the valleys are the curve of your stubbled-jaw. Birds are nothing but your words set free from your chapped mouth, raging oceans are just mimics of your saltwater-eyes.

As you're sitting there with your Marlboro-lips pursed and the world dangling from your fingers, I hope you know that you're the kind of man that doesn't let go. No, you're the kind that tangles in every fiber of every thought, the kind of man that lurks around every corner, your face superimposed on the

it's written in your veins.it's twelve to midnight when i frown with my eyes, forty-eight past sanity when i smile with my lips. as i'm standing in the ocean, waist-deep in murky thoughts, toes dug in coral i arch my neck and watch the stars burn like hellfire. i imagine that they burn in me too, that somewhere buried behind my lungs or stuck between my ribs, stars are smoldering. i splay my hands on my chest and i can feel the heat, each individual fire warming my palms until the milky way starts melting through my pores. the galaxies are filtering through my skin, strewn across the top of constellation-water and in comet-tail whispers they say:

"i'd like to save you

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: April 23, 2012
File Size: 2.0 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 35
Favourites: 114 [who?]
Views: 1,519 (0 today)
Downloads: 9 (0 today)

[x]

i really do believe it.

by =corina90, Apr 23, 2012, 8:57:23 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Maybe I will write something sweet.

Maybe I will kiss your slumbering mouth, touch tongue to lip and sing of the taste of honey. It would be light as air – cotton sheets and bare feet. It would be nectar to aching tongues and water to the disbelieving. I would spin sugar into words and paint meadows on naked chests. I would dip my fingers into wading pools of hope and wash them over blank canvas, let the dripping acrylic tell stories of tomorrows with eternal sunshine. I would take molds of happiness and press my laughing mouth against the fold of the envelope as I send it onward into the great beyond.

Maybe I will write something bitter.

Maybe I will carve my heart straight from my poet chest, dissect the veins and put it on display. It would be raw and ugly – pulsing and grotesque with truth dripping from each and every flourish and curve. I could stuff my fist into the gaping black hole of my chest and grit my teeth, write of the pain that turns my vision black and causes my gums to bleed. It would reek of reality and each pain carved under the pressure of my pen will attest to the passion of every syllable and every word.

Maybe I will write something true.

Maybe I will wake and rip the yin and the yang from my life and press each like a stamp to the corner of every page. Maybe I will learn to trap shadow and light in the finepoint of my pen and capture them on canvas and bark. It will make no sense, be a contradiction that, ultimately, destroys itself. Audiences will tilt their head and ponder, touch chin, touch cheek and be unsure of whether they have been touched at all. They will wonder at the lies – wonder of the soul who ripped the fabric from heaven and earth to sew a new world. The audacity, the imagination, the confusion – the lies.

But, again, they won't understand, so maybe I won't write at all.

i really do believe it.by =corina90

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

©2012-2013 =corina90

{"send us a blindfold, send us a blade
tell the survivors help is on the way
I was a blindfold, never complained
all the survivors singing in the rain"
--metric

someday, i'll write a finished product instead of all of these half-thoughts and half-dreams. wouldn't that be something?

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

!KtheCard Jun 9, 2012 Student Writer

jesus you have a way with words, and they with you

Reply

=corina90 Jun 9, 2012

that is ridiculously sweet - thank you!

Reply

Mood: Approval

~TheNobodyofaSOLDIER Jun 3, 2012 General Artist

From a writer to another writer, wonderful work.

I feel like I know you already just from reading your poetry.

Reply

=corina90 Jun 3, 2012

aw, thank you so much! as a writer, i feel like the best way to know me is to read my work, so that wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.

Reply

~TheNobodyofaSOLDIER Jun 4, 2012 General Artist

Exactly! I believe that's the case with writers, especially those of poetry.

You seem like a very romantic, passionate, sensitive and loving person. ^_^

Reply

~cherryblossomrain Jun 2, 2012

Reply

=corina90 Jun 3, 2012

Reply

*AlterEgo1629 May 18, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I think whole thoughts and whole dreams would make me explode!

Reply

=corina90 May 27, 2012

ah, that would be bad! (but thank you!)

Reply

~Lottie-Girl May 15, 2012 Student General Artist

Nothing wrong with half-thoughts and half-dreams, because your craft is exquisite.

Reply