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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 really do believe it.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 bitt

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

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

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

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

what we call war_cI have devil's water running through my coal-veins. Every morning, I get up and touch the mirror just so that I can fall into the reflection. Every change branded into the underside of my skin so that I can see their bitter stones sinking slowly through the uncharted rivers of my body. I am a façade. I am a lie. I have swallowed hearts and slung love at walls of destruction just to watch the plumes of smoke rise up the city atmosphere. I have watched my crumbling capillaries tie together into hangman's knots, my lips dyed red with lover and enemy alike. I worry with every bloodied swallow, with every collapsing groan - oh lover, I worry

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

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

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

dear apollo.your skin is hot enough to ignite this entire world and yet you sleep curled against my frostbitten shoulder blades. you burn in your slumber and i spend my night beating the sparking, smoldering edges of our cotton sheets. myths written on linen and stone describe you as golden with dawn-skin and honey-eyes, but lover, i know you for the truth. you are the charcoal of where the sun has pressed too close, the passion of the wildfire's wake. you are the olive branches of peace and the violence of the charred leaves. you are staining my forearms with the feral licks of your ink-hair and are painting my sides with the soot of your fingertips.

w

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 words and the silence_c.words are what brought us together. 

it was the sentences and the phrases, the way the vowels sounded when you murmured them over state lines. it was the way i could hear your tongue roll and your teeth click; the sensual sighs between the beginning and the end. it was the way i could hear the ocean in your voice and the way i could feel the typhoon at the base of my spine. there was no friction between your fingertips and my flesh. there was no raised hairs from the tide of your breath. it was the language and the way we forged it between upraised hands and a prayer. it was the promise of tomorrow and the carved stone we left on our p

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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

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

you are my prayer.we are holding hands racing from burning homes.

we are coughing as the walls melt like wax and the floor ignites and we're spitting up smoke in puffs of disbelief and horror. your palms are bleeding crescent moon wedges all over the sweat-slicked car door and i'm curled like an autumn leaf on your lap, my spine cracking like tennis shoes pressing down on fall. we're watching bombs detonate under our bare feet and wincing as the sparks crackle along the dry flesh. we're bleeding sweat, tension racing like split electrical wires in our veins. you call my name and i cry out and birds are dying around us and the ground is splitting open and when

intercontinental.when the world is quiet and the dawn is breaking, it's your hands that i'm taking. the world is caught in the moment our lips part, a dreamcatcher hung from the eyelashes resting like moons on our cheeks. we are capturing the globe in the spaces between our teeth and exchanging it on twisting tongues, tasting the continents on individual tastebuds. when we kiss, european flavors are mingling with asian accents and south american highlights; our mouths together are a world market of billowing fabric and exotic flavor that we could spend all afternoon exploring.

we are breathing in spice and the heady scent of bazaars and when we c

sheep-wool covered lies.i ate your heart and reveled in the way it smashed between my molars like ripe grapes, the way i could feel the pulse beating between my clenched jaw, the life squirming in and out to stain my lips. i swallowed it whole and felt it beating like a drummer boy in the pit of my belly, your sorrow the beat i danced my day to. your misery was a lullaby i sang to myself at night, the sheep i counted when my eyes were closed. i could feel it in the way it seeped into my veins and tangled around my bones like weeds growing too fast to contain. i gloried in the power it gave me, the way i could pull your strings and make you dance, the way i could blo

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splintering bullets.by =corina90

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

©2012-2013 =corina90

{"i'm coming up only
to hold you under
i'm coming up only
to show you wrong
and to know you
is hard we wander
to know you all wrong"
--band of horses

i hate tangible dreams.

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~smilewithlove May 14, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

it feels as if something just punched my heart.
an outstanding way to look at something that is very relatable.

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=corina90 May 27, 2012

thank you so, so much.

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Mood: Tender

~girlink May 5, 2012 Student General Artist

wow...

perhaps only in dreams she can get those feelings of sadness and loneliness,
maybe she is consoling herself.

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=corina90 May 27, 2012

i like to think she finds comfort there.

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~Lottie-Girl May 4, 2012 Student General Artist

This is beautiful.
Dreams are always astounding.
It was amazing you could put it into words.

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=corina90 May 27, 2012

half-words. someday, i'll figure out how to fully capture it.

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~Lottie-Girl Jun 3, 2012 Student General Artist

Well language does have it's restrictions and sometimes it is just too difficult to express something but I'm sure you will

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~aieren May 3, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Really beautiful piece of writing

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=corina90 May 27, 2012

thank you so much!

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!StrayNiko May 1, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Wow. This really got to me. You have such a beautiful way of writing... Really, thank you for this!

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