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october by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

october

there are buildings with no motivation to grow any taller than two stories, with no ambition to reach for anything but telephone wires and the sun just before it sets. i wonder what their mothers tell them— probably something about there being beauty in their size or something about how not everyone should be as gluttonous as the skyscrapers. you know, buildings that small don’t even have fire escapes. you could jump from twenty feet and (probably) survive— buildings that small have windows that look out onto people who are close enough to look like people. perhaps even scarier: those people can look right into the windo

ski slopes by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

ski slopes

i want to cut through flesh with my collarbones yes i want them to be that sharp making habits of ripping through skin with bone my skin your skin my sternum is hidden beneath skin my ribs beneath skin—i have back fat but can you see my spine i think i can see my spine cutting through skin my knees touch; my ankles tough; my thighs touch: i wish my thighs wielded swords or guns or atomic bombs something scary enough for them to be so terrified of each other they’d split like two negative poles of magnets covered in skin repulsed by the fat and the identical charge and the flesh i’ve fallen in love with the ski slopes of

gas station by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

gas station

you walked me down an aisle of the grocery store on 58th and 9th at noon on a tuesday we had to do two full laps of the the entire store because i kept forgetting what i was going to be forgetting to eat you held on to the front end of my cart and you led the way making sure it was my hands that cradled around packaged raw chicken and loaves of whole wheat bread i managed to not break down, not to cry in front of the children drooling in front of the lucky charms you managed to soothe me by looking at me, your blue eyes allowing me to not think about all the food around me, about the sorry excuse for a breakfast that i had, about hav

toothpaste by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

toothpaste

i. i found you in the trees and in the blades of grass that invaded the space between my toes ii. i always hated the green of summer— how it blinded you and forced your muscles to relax, how green sunbathes on your eyelashes and inundates your lungs with branches growing down your throat iii. i fell in love with green when i found it in your eyes— not the green of summer instead the green of the ocean on one of its bad days or the green of the toothpaste you left on my sink iv. your eyes are only green sometimes because they know how overwhelmed i am by change, how i can only agree to the blue to green transition on the d

doused by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

doused

i wrote the other day about my parents about their love and how it was an inferno i wrote about their flame, their smoke, their wildfire of a marriage about their burns and their scars and their ash i wrote about how i feared i learned to love from them how i feared that my heart is debris doused in gasoline how i feared i was the one lighting a match for a while now, i’ve been afraid that no one could handle my fire i’ve been afraid that i’ve been so good at burning, at consuming myself and others and then you you with eyes as calm as the Hudson and hands just as steady you with your soft tongue and your inflammable words

noise by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

noise

i’d like to think you went to heaven— i’d like to think you went to heaven with flower petals in your hair and stars in your eyes and my words tattooed on your skin knowing you, you’d invite god to tea parties and force the angels to dance to billie jean knowing you, you’d walk on clouds wearing converse heaven’s supposed to be bright and you, you bringing both your red wrath and your warm beauty could only make it brighter i’d like to think you went to heaven but we haven’t believed in it in such a while; remember how we stopped believing in tea parties with god and dancing with angels?

dark sheets by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

dark sheets

she was tired and always seemed to be with her mind moving slower than her hands her hands still trailing behind others she was beautiful even with bags under her eyes, there was so much warmth to her face, you’d want to make your bed within her cheekbones she was smart but managed to forget to turn off the stove and burn her hands on curling irons she was tired because she refused to sleep refused to succumb to the strength of the dark sheets you ruined her under she was not weak and will say so, everyday, until you can hear her

women by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

women

i remember noticing your breasts how they were larger than mine how i imagined my hands fitting over them or if they could fit over them ; i remember asking myself if this is what lust is if the memory of your hair smelling like clean sheets and cheap conditioner if that was enough to convince me i was falling for you ; i had never kissed a woman before you— before you I was wrapped up in used condoms and masculinities as fragile as my words now i’m wrapped up in you and when and if and how i can touch you ; i'm wrapped up in you an

to the therapist with no fucking clue by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

to the therapist with no fucking clue

you didn’t know how much weight was behind those words; how gluttonous they had been they wobbled over to me with skin folding over stutters folding over meaning they sat on my lap and you didn’t see the pounds or the curves crushing me, you didn't notice the fat absorbing your words, your sentences imprinting themselves as stretch marks on my skin you smiled a warm smile as if that would burn away the calories hidden in your words, i smiled back a cold smile, i think it was as cold as my fingertips

chapped lips by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

chapped lips

a hodgepodge of stars and planets and burning meteors and promises that escaped chapped lips we were supernovas, exploding words, exploding skin our glances across rooms would douse walls in chemicals send cinderblock up in flames i gave you candycane chapstick for christmas, smooth lips didn’t put back together the promises instead they decorated the black hole where i think all my love ended up we danced on the rings of saturn well you danced, poorly, and i drifted, so slowly you didn’t notice at first there's no oxygen in space, my last breath wasted on licking my lips or were they yours there’s no oxygen in space

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october by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

october

ski slopes by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

ski slopes

gas station by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

gas station

toothpaste by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

toothpaste

doused by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

doused

noise by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

noise

dark sheets by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

dark sheets

women by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

women

to the therapist with no fucking clue by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

to the therapist with no fucking clue

chapped lips by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

chapped lips

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Untitled by Monocephalized, literature

Literature

Untitled

Standing with my knees bent over Looking into, looking in Foggy glass and faded clovers Holding up to, looking in All the lenses opted soldiers March without me, duller din Pointed ores returning boulders Tumbled so I’m looking in Felines when I bay the moonlight Pass right by me, pass right by A figurine leased to a coned kite Tied so finely, spider line Fire rises to the soft sight Pit of angles, pontoon sky Whisper embers so I ignite Light enough to pass me by

mother's little cataclysm by your-methamphetamine, literature

Literature

mother's little cataclysm

i was once colored to smithereens, prior to the greenstick fracture of the sky - before the yellow gave in to the red, bruising guiltily, into night. i remember when the words birthed between approximated vocal folds, hissing when they touched along the vertical, were open wounds. i remember the ache, bittering when it reached my tongue - more salt than relief. always, less comfort than deceit. cheating into the hollow breaths between my ribs, pretense branched rootless. not once reached for the kiss of my spine, just refusing the simple rebellion of growth. its tangles reaching like aerophytes for the collar of my lungs, always fruitless

psychosomatic serenade. by comatose-comet, literature

Literature

psychosomatic serenade.

Schrodinger has been writing me love letters, and he hasn’t. he catcalls me from closed boxes while I flip coins trying to figure out what’s breathing, what isn’t. your coffin, floating in earthen rivers, hinges gleaming iridescent as salmon scales, I am sitting here guessing if the cat is dead or alive in that imaginary vacuum, ignoring Pavlov’s set ringtone on my phone - the bells make me think of your throat, how your Adam’s apple rang when you swallowed down another of my placebo promises. I love, loved, you. and I didn’t. Freud keeps dropping business cards through the letterbox asking my mother t

hell is real (i kissed him) by pansydiv, literature

Literature

hell is real (i kissed him)

he tasted like sins and regret and wasted septembers and burnt-up gin and his eyes looked at me like nightmares, i promise this was never a migraine for the insane nor was this me at midnight, all curled up against the mirror sobbing a spiraling hymn. i say, hell is real, i’ve felt him; hands touched, fingers interlocked; i’ve seen the way he looks at me like he wants to curl up next to my heartbeat, like another mellowed down pop song on this dysfunctional radio. boy, we hurt, we hurt, we hurt. hell is real, i’ve made love to him watched the ruin flood bodies over west coast, worst coast ah. i curled into him curled out of

Sorry, I'm not a good poet by amirunthenoob1, literature

Literature

Sorry, I'm not a good poet

Tell the birds I have no wings To fly around the sky But I have dreams To fantasize my world Tell the sun I have no light To shine the world But I make poetry To brighten their mind Tell my family I am not what they're expected Cause I am what I am But I have love To create the happiness for them Don't tell about me to my God Let me confess my sins to Him I have to repent Before I sleep forever in darkness.

this poem is worth $3.27 by chromeantennae, literature

Literature

this poem is worth $3.27

who says you don't get paid for poetry? i'm getting paid eleven fifty four to sit in the corner of a building, red detroit diesel rusting, meters fussing. automotive, loco-motion and motives, h building buzzing, my brain lame and lusting for romance; melancholic motor i'm running in place, pumping my lungs leaning towards failure, tripping on cables and wires. cables and fables (because they don't exist) wired and exhausted, my bloodshot eyes are flossed with lights, that my eyelids can't protect me from. i don't smile enough and i won't cry a lot because my sadness is no longer an event.

September Feature and October Prompt by LualaDy, journal

September Feature and October Prompt

Oct 1, 2016

Hello! `LualaDy (https://www.deviantart.com/lualady) for OurDreamsWillCome (https://www.deviantart.com/ourdreamswillcome) here! Our monthly feature includes: the best of the month consisting of pieces that have been copied to the featured folder the currently featured deviant the best of the monthly prompt news and articles from our members Thank you Amarantheans (https://www.deviantart.com/amarantheans), our founder for helping me with the litterature selections. Please note that the selection is highly subjective, though I try my best to come up with something great! Now, let's begin!!! The best of september Current featured deviant :iconhiyokoss: September prompt: Autumn October prompt: ink Accepting all media made with or relating to ink such a

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he by pages-of-poems, literature

Literature

he

i wish i could tell you that every poem is about you, that every kiss drawn in adjectives is being sent your way, that the mysterious He who dances in every verse walks with your gait talks with your Jersey accent and i wish that you knew that your face, your smile, your name hides behind every metaphor, that every simile is like the first time we looked at each other is like the first time we spoke to each other is like the first touch, the first kiss and i wish i could read these words to you i wish that my stomach would stop churning long enough for me to feel safe opening my mouth i wish the fear would flee from every goosebum