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singing of beauty.some sing that there is beauty in the breakdown, but i have learned in the heat of your palms that the true beauty is in the rebuilding after the fall. you found me a city burned to the ground and you exhaustively rebuilt all of my fallen skyscrapers. you did not mind the singing and the stinging eyes. you never faltered at the quakes that ran up the base of my spine to the tip of the city limits. you just moved with meticulous, tenacious, loving grace.  you found me a forest cleared on a whim, an ocean polluted with the lies of the selfish, a sky darkened with the ache of a thousand breaks.

you found me ugly, and still, you found
pointless.the point is:
there has never been a point
i am drinking from an empty cup
i am wondering why i am still thirsty
i am writing with an inkless pen
i am angry at my hollow words.
my car is rumbling under its breath
i turned it off five minutes ago
it sounds alive even though it is not

the truth is:
there is actually no truth
my tongue is ripped from falsehoods
it is dipped in sin like a candle string into wax
my bones are black and white, but mostly grey
i am muted even though i am howling
i believe myself even when i shouldn't
i don't believe in truth anymore
none of this is true.

the beauty of it is:
the world actually
things they say_c.they say time runs wells dry and that passion simply cannot stand through years without bearing the wounds of the weight. they say that flames are diminished by the winds that create barriers amongst far-spread lovers. they say that hearts cannot settle in one place and needs cannot be met by single souls. they say a lot of things, a lot of doubts. they speak through chapped lips and they whisper fear into my bones. they tell me that love cannot last and that life cannot love. they speak a lot, but the way you are looking at me and the way my bones are setting on fire is telling me something different. I look your way and the only thing I hea
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
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
loosely applied.it is finding yourself in the miles that stretch between yourself and the end of time. it is in the spitting up of blood at three in the morning, spelling out their name and passing out in the gore. it is  in trying to find beauty in the uglies that follow you from shadow to shadow, their claws reaching out to swipe against the curve of your back, the width of your shoulders, the dip near your waist. you are breathing, but the term is loosely applied and it would be more proper to calling it gasping.

you are gasping. you are waking up without air and desperately wishing that you had it. you are waking up and touching the cold bed sheets 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
try to know me.if you want to know me, you have to read my words.

you have to let yourself slip into the sometimes boiling water of my ideas and let them blister and scar your skin. you have to touch the angry wounds and understand the serrated edges that placed them there. you see, i am more than syllables and more than vowels, but to understand the cracking of my spine, you have to decipher the noise that it makes on the way down. you have to close your eyes and listen to my soft-throated whine and listen to my blood-vessel-popping scream and understand the howls of joy that spiral up my chest from the shrapnel of my very stomach.

you must take the time
find me in the hidden life.i have this feeling in my bones that some call weakness and other call fire.

it's a driving need and a crippling desire, and it wakes me in the middle of the night with cramping calves and feet running among cotton though they reach nothing but the great beyond of the side of the bed. it's a burning that pushes me into the middle of rainstorms to dance among the cracking weather kissing the earth, and it's a spark lit under the gasoline pooled under my heart. some call me crazy and others call me sane, but if you look for me in the heart of winter, you will often find me curled under the dead oak touching the bark because i like the way life
hurricane eloise.Eloise's parents named her after a hurricane that destroyed their house in 1975.

She, however, had never destroyed anything (a friendship, a home, a heart) beyond the crystal vase she had dropped when her cousin jumped from behind the table and spooked her when she was twelve. This made her feel uncomfortable - as if she was a peasant wearing Cinderella's shoe or a woman squeezing into a girl's sweater. She once tried to tell her parents this, how her name was like a false second skin stretched too tight, but couldn't find the words and ended up sighing instead.

When she told them never mind, they smiled briefly before returning to the war-
heart of my heart.when the sky is high and the ocean is deep; when the wind is singing and the stars are sighing; when the trees are whispering secrets of life into open ears and when the soil is warming under the waking sun: these are the moments in which i know. these are the moments in which i can tell. it is the moment between the silence and the breath between the words. it is the moment when time suspends and the pencil stills and the sentences don't flow, but rather clog and jam and fold unto themselves so that they are impossible to pick apart and understand.

these are the moments in which i know.

it is the moment when you first wake and your first m
the art of waiting.goodnight moon, sing sweetly to me tonight. the curtains are drawn and your light is spilling under heavy cotton. i am lying with the windows open, and the shutters are drawn. the world is revolving around me and i am not moving an inch. i am still. i am the pinnacle upon which everything turns. with every breath i fear avalanches of mountains upon unsuspecting villages. you are too far away. i can't feel you, but i see you illuminating wooden floors. sleep hides from me in the back corner of abandoned closets. i am a statue and my heart is breaking down the concrete in my palms. i am fearless, yet i am carved from fear itself.

i am asleep i
love will burn this city.it's the same old fire, the same old burn; i'm building castles from words and watching as the flames swallow mortar and stone. the walls are breached and ascending armies are slipping on my heart as they race up the winding stairs. i am locked in the tower and pushing my head into the pluming smoke clouds just for a chance of clean air. i am quaking with fears and devoured with doubts, my spine is a puzzle i can't figure out and the second i have it straight is the second i'm spread-eagle on the floor once more.

my palms are the source of the wildfires in the western hemisphere and my heart is the spawning ground of all the eastern plagues.
you whisper my name.morning birds flock
to the window and we
are two prayers encased
in cotton sheets: pale,
freckled limbs tangled
like the dawning willow.

(bom dia bonito)

you whisper my name
into the peachfuzz curve
at the base of my neck.

(mi corazon)

you whisper my name
in the goosebumped flesh
in the valley of my navel.

(ma chérie)

you whisper my name
into the meeting arrows
of angel blades

(amore mio)

you whisper without a sound
as we sink deeper, you murmer
with anchored lips and stilled
tongue and your voice is a river
as we inch towards cherry
wood headboards.

(du är kärleken i mitt liv)

i am drunk off
bleeding ink-throats_c.I'm forgetting how to pump these rotting thoughts through my grasping, skeletal fingertips. I'm a well run dry and the only thing left is the bucket at my feet, cracked and aging; blank, broken pages with nothing left to say. And all my body's wishing for is a way to spell the words that will write you back into my arms. Because you're a thousand miles and a million wishes away and I'm starting to believe I've just got no words left to say.

I am bleeding syllables and pulling phrases from between my teeth, but they're broken and empty. I know if I breathe my poisoned sorrow into your mouth, your lips will dry and your flesh will crack and th
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we're burning down.it’s like you look at me like this:
with your hair falling in your eyes and your
smile crinkling in the corners so that i could crawl
and tuck myself into the folds of your skin. it will be
beautiful there, but i won’t be surprised.
when really, you’re looking at me like this:
with your hair framing your jaw as you
turn your head to watch long legs and spiked
heels down the boardwalk. you’re beautiful
but you’re empty and i’m surprised as hell.
it’s like you touch me like this:
with your fingers painting symphonies
along my arms and your lips brushing the
verse next to the chorus as you make you
torn pages, worn places_collabdear cal,

today i woke up and i decided no one was real. my mother is air. my father was just a fairy tale. and you, you are just gone. if you told me you loved me, i'd tell you i spent an hour and a half washing dishes yesterday. i'd tell you sometimes when i drive, i close my eyes and envision that our cars crash. i'd tell you sometimes when i lie in bed, i feel the collision. i'd tell you i love you, too but that with us, there are just too many "but"s.

-

dear autumn,

i decided that i am nothing but a reduction in the making. today, i am a heart, but tomorrow i will be reduced to lust. today, i have a soul, but tomorrow i will be a pil
i'm living when i'm sleepingi’m counting the dayshoursminutes until i get to see you again.

do you still taste like sea salt? do you still look like the tragicbeautiful dream i had when i was fifteen?
when perfection was a pair of ripped jeans and a quick smile.

but you’re more. i know that now.

you’re the only wish i’ve ever kept tucked behind my lip, scared to say out loud as if it might dissolve in the sunlight. you’re the only memory i keep folded and creased behind my eyelids to revitalize during the night.

you’ve always been more.
are you still?

[ofcourseofcourseyouareofcourse]

-

did you know that when we touched, your finge
i'd put you on repeati’m living on stale memories.

and you’re painting me into a corner with a frayed brush, sticking me in the space between ‘yesterday’ and ‘today’ so you might remember me but never have to relive me.

[because i am a toxin, because i am a carcrash, becausebecausebecause-]

-

when i open my mouth, you smother it with a hushbabyhush kiss that tastes more like regret than affection. you press a finger down on my spine, say i looked beautiful bruised and like heaven when i choke.

like sticking fingers in a blender and calling it a masterpiece. like jamming steelwire down a throat and calling it a kiss. like brandin
promethean hearts_collab.I reached out with unworthy fingertips and stole
fire from heaven to create a heart beneath these
shuddering ribs so that I could make music in time
with your golden heartbeat. Your fingertips are

blessed with the touch of a thousand eternities that 

I want to spend lost in these velvet touches with you. 


You are the pitterpatter of my pulse, the floor dropping
out during the pauses between my breaths and no
matter how many times I turn shooting-star-words into
ropes to hold myself together, they always burn away
and I fall to pieces at your feet. I would pick myself up,
but my comet-dust-bones have finall
caroline dreams in technicolorcaroline is the type of girl to keep her eyes open when she kisses.

she is the type of girl who has an ‘open-twenty-four-seven’ heart. she draws swirls in empty spaces because she says all the white on the page makes her feel lonely, as if she might fall between the lines and never get up again.

she is the type of girl who thinks the idea of sitting under trees is more beautiful than actually doing it, because no matter how poetic you think you look, at the end of the day you’re still itching, covered in ants and hot.

but she’ll still do it, because looking poetic is all she has.
[sometimes, caroline thinks falling in

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in these words, i will live.

:iconcorina90:

this world spins fast, and still, i wonder at how i spin faster.

i wonder at how i dredge words up recycled from my lungs and unravel them into the air without care for the final product. i wonder at my love for the act of spinning, for the exhilarating, light-headed feeling i get when exposing every hidden flaw and every not-so-secret desire. you see, i am constantly coughing up my heartache and i have to wonder at the addicted high; the need to tell every sting and every warmth. the need to break open my ribcage and spill out these emotions onto canvas and paper, smearing the colors with dirtied fingertips before moving on.

yet, i do not come and look back at what i have spun; i do not have the time or inclination to come and ponder the mess and the best way at which to fix it. i simply move on. a wildfire with no care for the burnt hillsides in my wake. call me heartless, but i saw the wonder in the young boy's eyes when he saw the flames. call me heartless, but in the heart of my chaotic life, i can feel the undercurrent of my pulse, and that has always been enough for me.

you see, i have touched the soul of the willow and i have slept curled in the stars, and i can come to tell you that both are beautiful and neither are free. no, the heat and the bark and the biting edge will leave those brave enough to touch them scarred in their wake. they will leave the daring crippled for their efforts – will leave them with badges to remind of the cost of beauty, the cost of freedom, the cost of courage.

i am scarred and i am flawed, and i will stand before the world with stained fingers to tell my story. i will sing off-key, write with blood when i have no pen, and i will revel in the telling rather than the final story. i will strip the words from my bones and i will dry the ink with my final breath. i will live with the red ribbon of my voice trailing behind me, marking each tragedy and passion and place of sorrow. this trail of my words will litter my history across the world, papering each apartment and each city street with the adjectives of my tongue. you will be able to mark my life and where i have touched for the mess i have left behind. for the burnt landscape, for the paint-smeared walls and the ink-splattered lives i have touched.

i will live as i die: spinning faster than the world and burning hills in my wake.
i will live as i die: spinning and burning and telling stories with no end.
[because the words are my life and in these words, i will live.]
:iconcorina90:
{"my secrets for a buck.
watch me as I cut myself
wide open on this stage.
yes, I am paid to spill my guts"
--brand new
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:iconvelocity07:
!velocity07 Mar 11, 2011
i am scarred and i am flawed, and i will stand before the world with stained fingers to tell my story.

me too, dear. :heart:
Reply
:iconzenessiness:
~ZeNessiness Feb 11, 2011
sometimes i wonder if we writers really all have the same soul
Reply
:icontifa-amy-lockheart:
~Tifa-Amy-Lockheart Jan 20, 2011  Hobbyist General Artist
i will strip the words from my bones and i will dry the ink with my final breath. i will live with the red ribbon of my voice trailing behind me, marking each tragedy and passion and place of sorrow.

beautiful :)
Reply
:iconloveisacolor:
~loveisacolor Dec 15, 2010  Student General Artist
i have no idea why i love this so much.
i guess i don't know because i'm not good with words, but i still love it.
Reply
:iconsailorichigo:
~SailorIchigo Dec 14, 2010
fantastic!
Reply
:iconmeghamuffin22:
~meghamuffin22 Dec 13, 2010
b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l. :heart::heart::heart: gorgeous.
Reply
:iconswrybeck:
~Swrybeck Dec 12, 2010
Absolutely, unadulteratedly pure, brilliant writing. Reminds me vaguely of adolescence, and so many other things. If I was wearing a hat, it would certainly be off to you, back on, and then off again several times over.
Reply
:iconjulsiedee:
~julsiedee Dec 11, 2010  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
You have beautifully expressed the beauty of self expression. How much more awesome could this get?
Reply
:iconalicedanielle:
~AliceDanielle Dec 7, 2010  Student Writer
<3 amazing.
Reply
:iconarchelyxs:
*archelyxs Dec 7, 2010
If looks could really kill, then my profession would be staring...la di da...

"this world spins fast, and still, i wonder at how i spin faster."
Brilliant.
:heart:
Reply
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