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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

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

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

it won't, i know that.Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.

It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have noth

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

maybe you never belonged to meI can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.

I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will alwa

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

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

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

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

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

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

i'm not your symphony but i'm orchestrated anywaysit's not easy to explain --

but i'm a rushed symphony of heartbeats, quick breaths and hiccups. i'm not made of skin and bones, but a complicated sentence structure and thoughts that i spew out before i even finish them.

i'm messy in all the wrong ways.

and i'm not right in any of the ways that matter. but still you're always here, picking me up when i fall, kissing me goodnight, making a life with me one day at a time. and you haven't gone yet but i'm always moving so how long can you stay. how long can i expect it. how long is too long when you're living and loving and breathing and hell, if i can't stay still i'll mess this up for sure.

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

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

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More from =corina90

bleeding confessions.dear boy-with-a-solar-heart,

love songs are never enough, poems are empty carcasses of emotion when it comes to you. i've spent entire evenings rummaging through the backlit crevices of my thief's mind, trying to drag the proper words from the shadows, but they all flee. the words all hiss and spit and claw: words that describe emotions that have never once been exposed to daylight. words that have slumbered for decades in the hope they would never be touched. words with seeping wounds and open bruises and complications a mile-wide. words that lived in little fear until your warmth shone through the slats of my reality-prison. words that are

fractured clocks.Anxiety is a hummingbird in the throat of those who wait.

Palms wring oceans and pulses flood plains until time chokes on itself to leave the minutes battling on the brink of insanity. Each second is an entity that stands on its own, a demon to be fought and conquered. Each breath is a challenge, the air tangled in lungs before clacking teeth drag it forward to throw it shuddering into the wind. Heavy footprints echo fears on the walls, possibilities birthing and maturing and turning from fledgling shadows into heavy-handed fiends.

The door remains closed. Time ticks on.

Thunder coughs in comparison to the heart roaring across the deserted

play for keeps.spin around twice, count to ten and come to find me. listen to the wind twisting around the forest and the break of sun dappling the foliage. hold your breath and hear the misplaced air from where i was, where i've been, where i am no longer. break the twisted limbs of young saplings and duck the looming arms of the aging ark. use sonic radars to locate me curled sleepily in the elms' embrace. i'll be dust-covered and cobwebbed, my arms wrapped around the dam of my ribcage. climb the bark ladder and wake me with hesitant, wanting fingers. whisper truths in the maple-vault where i've lay dormant, lace your fingers through mine and pull me into

singing dreams to life.i'm waiting for you where dreams kiss
reality. where sweet mornings are spent
with the currency of light, salted breezes,
fluttering linen curtains and heartroots
sinking as they touch, greet, bind.

where you rest your sleepy head
in my lap so i might lose my fingers
in your mad curls, lose my sanity
in the peatbog of your eyes, lose
myself just in time for you to find it.

where my breath brushes the scar
on your jagged nose and my lips
brush, trace, linger on the border
of the wicked temptation, fatal
destination that is your mouth.

where my rusted tongue loosens
to find the rhythm of songs i've never
heard, the ancie

paint with love.close your eyes, darling, cross
your heart with my lips and listen
to me. play your favorite hymn
on the tapered flutes of my bones
until i'm an instrument fitted

to your devoted artist's hands.
draw maps of the constellations
on the raised edge of my scars,
translate directions to faded love,
before putting an 'x' on my left breast,

sealing the treasure with a prayer.
mold my hips like wet clay, sculpt
my pulse so i'm breathless with tension,
serene with knowing i'll wake again
tomorrow with cello-curves pulled

into the tide of your ocean-chest. sing
faith into my hungry arms, chisel hope
into my cynical skeleton, paint

less than a dream.i can't be the sun if i'm only a candle.

i can't be the myths of greece and the legends of troy if i'm only beginning to write my story. i'm not diamonds spread across the skyscape or dreams saturated with salty rain, i'm just a girl. i'm trembling fingertips and insecurities buckling down on my intercostal muscles until breathing becomes a labor of love instead of a hum of habit. i'm tearing apart diary paper because i can't stop moving and regretting; i'm curling my toes to withdraw when the stakes seem too high.

i'm not everything you're hoping for and i'm not worthy of poems getting scrawled in wet midnight sand; i don't des

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writing for me.

by =corina90, Nov 29, 2012, 6:01:00 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

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 on my toes and the wet tongue curling around my ear. I wouldn’t, because it would hurt too much. Instead, I would just say that pools make me sad. Pools always make me cry.

And then, what if I got the courage to continue? What if I swept the pen across the paper like a lover, letting the ink become an act of passion, not necessity? I think that I would write about lying in grass fields and watching the ants crawl over my thighs and how it felt like home. It wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me. Oh, but I would think about how she was next to me and how the ants bit my leg and she got up and swished them away. I would think about how it was a hundred degrees and sweat was dripping down the slope of her Grecian forehead. I would think about all of that and I wouldn’t feel the need to explain it because writing about the ants making patterns on my always-too-pale skin would tell the entire story to me.

So then I would get brave. I would get courageous. I would compose an entire poem about the smell of bleach. About the way it stings your nostrils and smells like a cover-up. I would rant about how it’s a fraud. How bleach just smells like something to hide. I would compose metaphors that made no sense because my three seconds of bravery wouldn’t lend me the time to write about the hospital on the corner of 5th and Main. How the hospital room should have smelled like death and decay but smelled like bleach instead. How it was just a lie and I hated it more than I hated the white sheet being pulled over her golden hair.

If I were to write for me, I would talk about subjects that don’t hurt.
I would write about driving at night and singing during the day.
I would write about broken noses and scarred lips.
I would write (and it would still hurt.)

writing for me.by =corina90

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

{"we saw the western coast
I saw the hospital
nursed the shoreline like a wound
reports of lover's tryst
were neither clear nor descript
we kept it safe and slow
the quiet things that no one ever knows"
--brand new

love 2 2

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~mariakurtidis Feb 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

this is absolutely amazing. wow.

~diablong-buang Feb 22, 2013

You should write for yourself more often, dear. We're only just spectators here.

~summerday27 Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Gosh, this is just amazing. It's got an incredible sense of reality, yet still so poetic and beautiful. And i love the concept. Writing for yourself. The way you describe it, is just chilling. It's really quite beautiful.

~LapisFey Jan 2, 2013 Hobbyist Photographer

Your words always bring tears to my eyes

~Lottie-Girl Dec 14, 2012 Student General Artist

I've always found it difficult to bear my soul and I've always hated the idea of having to write what you think someone wants to read. I admire that you've written this for yourself and though you didn't subconsciously structure this piece, it's written beautifully.