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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
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
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
The Rhythm in the Roots, The Truth Behind the SunI'll warn you now: this is not romance.

These are not the words or cries of a star-crossed lover or a withered soul.
The blood in my veins is not the churning frenzy of adrenaline and obsession.
The shiver of my bones is not the quaking of mountains, or the rattle of time.

This is not a eulogy for kings or a warsong for nations. These are not the dreams of waking djinn, nor the schemes of sleeping ghouls.

My fingers do not reach the sky.
My tears do not crack the stars.

No, this is not romance.

These are the half-breaths and whisper-thoughts of groggy lips and wandering hands.
A lost memoir of twilight nothings and foggy apologies.
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
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
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
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
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'll be dead by morning.you've got quick hands and dangerous lips, but everyone knows that the liqueur is quicker and the night is nothing short of fatal. you swallow the sugarcoated freedom, press your body through the band and wind around the writhing torsos like smoke. you are light and you are flame - you are a body without bones and a tongue without words. the lights flash across your face and you're pressing truth into the necks of nameless bodies, feeling hope in exposed hips, digging for faith in sweat-slicked back rooms.



your mouth is numb with regret and you are swallowing the past with every shot. reality has buried a hatchet in the back of
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
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
i begin and end with you.How do you go about explaining love to someone who has never felt it? How do you put into words the sweetness of the first kiss or the bitterness of the first goodbye or the hundred pinpricks of emotion you feel each and every time lip parts lip? If I were to try, I wouldn't start with the first embrace or the first touch or the first time your tongue swept the top of your mouth and you breathed my name. I wouldn't start with the first time nail bit into hip or teeth into shoulder or the first time you cried my name and I cried yours. I wouldn't talk about the first time that we held hands under the branches of the willow, limbs interlaced as
runi am the oak tree that crumbled into dust after giving my branches to make the paper that could hold
words that set your soul aflame.

i am a runner. i run my fingers through your hair and the tears run down your cheeks. i run run run.
bring me to the forest and watch me burn away with the leaves, let me fall to my knees and rest with
the bones of deer. i am a creature of this wood, a wild and untameable beast.

the remains of nights spent awake and breathing collect on my shoulders and around my eyes, sagging
both, bruising both. look at me; i am a compilation of wrongs and sad songs, the mixtape of a lost
boy speeding down the highway.
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
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writing about you.Today, I am not going to write about you.

Instead, I am going to write about the saltwater licking up on the beaches outside my grandfather's house. I am going to write about the way that the waves look at dawn: mercurial and vivid in the early morning rays. I am going to write about the time I ran into them fully clothed in the dead of winter, how the cold stole my breath, froze my skin, numbed my limbs. I will write about the only memory I have – being tossed from wave to wave, like a child flipping hot bread from one palm to the other. My legs bent, my spine curled, my hair knotted in front of my eyes – excruciating, frightening
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
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
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
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

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what we call war_c

:iconcorina90:

I 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 you are next.

If I were anything but ash and molten hopes I would worry too. But I have lost myself in the cracks between desperation and shame, and now I find myself drowning, pouring out your devil's cup into my wanting throat. Scalding my teeth, numbing my tongue, twisting my spine until the heat of it breaks me down, and knocks me out. I am falling into dark dreams, and all the walls are painted with your curves and your oaths in a language I no longer recall.

I am a reverse phoenix who finds eternal death instead of everlasting life. You see, life is survival of the fittest and I am nothing if not a survivor. Life is survival of the fittest and I am the strongest one of all. I have fed and found nourishment in despair. My life stained with regret that even the strongest bleach cannot rid me of. Excuses may bubble in your throat, but I know the truth. With every day, this second skin stretches tighter and I can hear the monster bubbling under the surface. I wake in the middle of the night and run wild-eyed down the street with bloody footprints in my wake. Running from the fear that one day I will turn on you, find myself with my teeth at your throat, my knife at the tenderness of your belly, my gun pressed cold against your temple – and that, oh that is just a thought I cannot stand to bear.

My inverted acceptance of your shadow-terrors and night-screams is a madness. It is a jagged nail pressing into my thoughts; crawling, burying, squirming into my skull. Stealing its way into the soft underbelly of all that I am and unraveling my sanity. Behind my glazed eyes your venom spreads into the gray, and from the inside I burn. It eats at my veins until I am empty. hollow. broken. But there, among the scars and the bones, though I drown in my own silence, though I am riddled with holes and torn from navel to throat: my dementia distorts and becomes something more.

Your eyes glaze and your mouth thins. These are the things I notice in the morning when the sun slants through our windows. I can't help but notice the scratches down your slender torso – the red marks that mar your otherwise clear skin. I have put them there. Like the puckered flesh under your jaw and the burn behind your right elbow; these are the battle scars of what the world calls love and we call war. When the world looks at us, all they see is lovers with dipped heads, mouths praying gently against one another, but we know the truth. (We know the vases against the walls and the shuddering cries against throats.) Still, when you sleep curled loosely next to me, touching my hip nervously as one might tenderly hold a trigger, I cannot help but love you. I am to blame for this battleground, this warzone, but still, I cannot help but love.

In the aftermath of every struggle you believe your vicious tongue and ragged nails leave me dizzy, weak and raw. But you'll soon find that this is the silent annexation of everything you've ever known. You pour your malice and your violence past my lips, gouging canyons into my skin and thinking, always thinking on the damage you have done. But you have missed the whispers in my coughing, the secrets in my fingers and the poetry I dripped into your blood. So hush now and listen:

A demon cannot stand the flame or douse the ancient sun.
Love, you cannot win a battle, if the war has not begun.
:iconcorina90:
{"and the blood will dry underneath my nails
and the wind will rise up to fill my sails
so you can doubt and you can hate
but I know no matter what it takes
I'm coming home, I'm coming home
tell the world that I'm coming home"
--skylar grey

collab with the love of my life, =tramirez89. it was fantastic to write with him again :]
you can find his at [link] - if you like mine, make sure to favorite his as well.

(my parts are in italics, he wrote the stuff that's actually good)
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:iconaieren:
~aieren Jul 20, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
The images both of you paint go so well together that it is difficult to tell where one stops and the other takes over, and I think that is part of what makes your collabs so breathtakingly beautiful. There are sentences scattered throughout the whole thing, which sent chills running up my arms from sheer excitement at how wonderfully they are written. I love the reverse phoenix-part!
I think my favorite part is the last two lines. It is so stupidly difficult to round off a poem, but those two lines manage to sum up the whole poem in a way that creates new meaning behind all that came before. And I love how they rhyme and how that element of poetry only seem to make them stand out from the rest of the piece and enhance their importance.
So thanks to the both of you for writing and sharing. You are creating magic!
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:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Nov 23, 2012
i agree - i LOVED the way that he ended the poem. it was amazing.
thank you so much for the lovely comment, i'm so sorry for the late reply!
Reply
:iconaieren:
~aieren Nov 26, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You are very welcome :hug:
Reply
:iconloveisacolor:
~loveisacolor Jul 4, 2012  Student General Artist
you guys write together so well, everything fits perfectly. your imagery is perfect.
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Nov 23, 2012
thank you so much! <3
Reply
:iconnymphe-ar:
~Nymphe-AR Jun 29, 2012
Maybe it was the title, but honestly at first I wasn't as into it as with all your other works (and didn't realize it was a collab 'til the end :P) but then I read on and finally realized(v.) the imagery behind all this and wow, just wow. Now I gotta re-read it. Simply amazing. You never disappoint, and neither does he :)
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Nov 23, 2012
i'm glad it snuck up on you eventually. :] :]
and hopefully i never disappoint you!
Reply
:iconnymphe-ar:
~Nymphe-AR Nov 24, 2012
Oh goodness, no! You never disappoint :)
Reply
:iconbreezybrutality:
~breezybrutality Jun 14, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
I love it when you guys colab ♥
It's like a whirlwind love child ^.^
Reply
:iconcorina90:
=corina90 Nov 23, 2012
whirlwind love child. i love that! and thank you so much.
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