[x]

and as her frigidand as her frigid fingers beckon to me,
a sweet vernal lullaby in the arch
of her neck
and among the shadows in her
eyes,
I count the glacial atmospheres
dancing over flawless ivory
to be strung as pearls between her
lips.
"twenty-three,"
I whisper to her
softly,
the number of my days she holds
as ribbons twined around her
fingers.
she smiles as though she understands,
and I fall
deeper

MemoriesMemories return to the heart when provoked,
Like a punch in the ribs.
They ache you, leave you writhing in longing,
This lust for memories that are so far away.
They fill your eyes with hot tears
That scald your cheeks as they fall.
That ache, that longing,
Why do we return to writhe in nostalgia?
Why do we torment and tease ourselves,
When we know that the memories cannot return?
What a strange torment, so very bizarre,
But we do what we do
And must not assume it insane.
Time goes by quickly, but we cannot grasp
It by the collar and shout,
''Stop!'' –
For that would be wrong and unnatural.
But how, how we long to ret

MaskA smile conceals the wounds so deep,
Outside you laugh, inside you weep,
At night you cry yourself to sleep,
Upon a bed of broken dreams.

A tainted world of hate and lies,
Where love is gone, and laughter dies,
This rotten world before your eyes,
Is it as bad as what it seems?

Beneath the mask, it's black like sin,
But if we dig down deep within,
A beam of light, though weak and thin,
A ray of hope through darkness gleams.

Letters to Former LoversHere's a secret:

i.

you and I
must simply admit
that we
were never meant
to be,
belonging together
in mind, spirit, and dreams,
but never in body.

we are
ghosts of good intentions
splayed along
bathroom walls,
distorted reflections
that bend reality
until we are broken
with wanting.

ii.

I still
falter
at the thought
of you,
spoken code words and cryptograms
that will never hide
the sharp-edged memories
of distant one-sided desires.

iii.

I picked up the phone,
only to rememb

For The Love Of The WordsEven when she was small, she loved the words.
They would swirl around on the page; making pretty pictures for her.
She would watch and listen as the pictures formed tiny movies in her head;
That only she could see.

As time grew on, she loved the words more and more.
She figured out how to bend them to her will,
She could create and discover through them- and them through her.
In her childhood they called her skilled-
And watched her carefully.

Time passed, and she found peace in the words.
When she was hurt or afraid or alone- the words were there.
Soon she became dependant on them.
They could never leave or she would crumble an

never trust a writerIt's best to stay far away from us writers. We're double-agents, and can't be trusted.

You see, we just have this terrible privilege of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. We sometimes forget that the emotions in our head might not run with as much passion as they really do, and then we get disappointed in things that make normal people happy. We're afraid to get close to people, and yet all we do is yearn for human contact. That's why we write about it, and that's why we lose touch on what it really feels like to be in a relationship.

Writers often find that we don't fully comprehend the world around us, and,

Black, Echo, 144Black, Echo, 144

It was the garbage bag, (black), that broke
And retched its contents on the concrete floor
Not I.

Those flotsam evidences of what life
Had ensnared, what life
They called living,
Were strewn out like stars in a grey sky.

I heard the echo (echo, echo) of a mad bird laughing
Reverberating, ricocheting,
An assault on my ears
Striking fear like a match
In a sooted fireplace
Igniting a flicker where the fire
Had long
Gone.

The cars that belonged were out driving their shiny-shines.
What fun I had between the stalls,
What idyllic delight on my hands and knees!
Cradling each discard like the baby Jesus
Coun

Remember MeRemember Me
For who I am
Not who I was

Remember me
For the jokes I told
Not for the LIES I spoke

Remember me
Bearing a smile
Not fallen into shadow

We Are MothsYou and I
are moths around
the flame
of mutual love
respect
and admiration
we do our dance
by star light and in
the brightest of sunlight
I look at you
and I catch you looking
back at me
we both have lives
and we are not
the youths that
we once were
back in
the beginning
of this dance
why dont we just stop
this foolishness
we have done
nothing but
dance around
this flame
for over twenty years
and yet
I still see
the love and admiration
when I look at you
and catch you
looking back
at me
but yet we are
moths
dancing and dancing
forever

I'll Write it All.I'll write you butterfly kisses,
    coloured-in hearts,

late-
       night
               embraces

and hours of cloud-watching.

I'll write you our song,
our place,

I'll write you all
               the rest of our days.

I'll write all the things
         we'll never have
or
     do.

All the things
         you do

the thing about writingthe thing about writing
is that it gets lodged beneath your skin
like your favorite dress caught
and tangled in the thorns
and all you can think about is
how it itches, how it hurts
how out of place, yet familiar it is
amongst your skinny bones
and stretched muscles

the thing about writing
is that you get lost in the metaphors
too often and too carelessly
to make much sense of the rest
and everything suddenly becomes a
breathing poetic device

the thing about writing
is that every story gets shifted
to the point where it gets
harder and harder
to tell the difference between
dreams and reality

KeptThese chains that keep me captivated,
the way he moves does stir in me,
a hypnotic need to be beside him,
to have my flesh be his, oh greed.

The riveting way his words do echo inside my mind perpetually,
I see him in every waking moment,
and even in my tortured sleep.

I watch him when he is sitting near,
out of the corner of my eyes,
and openly when I can afford it,
which is quite often to my surprise.

My companions mutter to themselves,
the pity that they hold for me,
to love a man, and not be loved by that man,
the pathetic situation is all they see.

They do not understand my love,
is about my need to see him smile;
even if

A War I Had Lostthe memories go into boxes. pieces, one by one, of my life slowly fall into the building pile. childhood, friends, crushes, dreams, and such all stack high: all the debris from a war i have lost. I take a match, look at the wood slowly burn, glance at the memories. With a breath, a sigh, I let the match fall to my feet, landing in my combustible emotions, a trail the comes from and ends at the picture of myself at the bottom of the pile. behind lay frames of those people whome i held dear, those who appreciated me, those that i loved for years, and some for days. Each of them was lost in that war. each of them was...they each were a pa

I'll Be FineI breathe in, and I breathe out,
And I'm...I'm silent.

I can't see much of what's going on,
At least of what will happen,
But I know that right now...
Well, my mind is splitting.

But I feel fine.
But my mind is splitting.

Things never go according to plan.
No one is ever left satisfied in the end.
This seems a lose-lose situation.
My mind is left a wreck.

It's all my fault.
But I'll feel fine.

Or am I?The outside is feeling black,
no light that reaches the soul,
the mind consumed in darkness,
unbalanced and not whole.

No stars creating white light,
no moon to guide my hand,
covered in complete darkness,
covered in black sand.

A shadow moves upon me,
trying to split me apart,
but then I can feel it,
a bright light in my heart.

A wave of light emitting,
through my heart upon they,
wave after wave hit them,
blasting the darkness away.

The outside is feeling light,
darkness gone from the mind,
clear thoughts through the head,
I am no longer blind.

Or am I?

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 814 bytes more ▶

More from ~hannahdavies666

PyromaniacI looked up, and such were the flames that met my gaze that I felt blazing heat searing my vision like a million pinpricks. Playing like mischievous children among my so familiar surroundings were flames, licking the doorway and the shelves that lined the walls. The pranced and curled around my possessions, destroying everything.

I had not much time. The next few seconds however, passed like a thousand lifetimes. The smell of petrol was keenly filling my nostrils, and smoke was enveloping my senses now. Flames sprawled across everywhere that I had drenched in petrol. Faces in the fire; my own, smoulering silently. A little girl, was she real

The Bus Shelter -edited-It was a rainy bus shelter where Katy first saw her. The rain pattered against the scratched glass, like a puppy begging to be let in. A small group of scowling faces, peering out from under strands of straggly hair, surrounded her. She tucked her own hair behind her ear, an artful gaze spread upon her face, like an artist might tuck a pencil away. She licked her lips and could taste the cherry lip balm that she had applied a moment ago. It tasted like the sweets from the pound shop down the road, the artificial flavour filling her mouth with plastic fruit.

She looked down at her bitten fingernails. She never knew what to do when she waited

KeyholeIn the wooden door a thousand secrets keep,
Heavy from the years but never shall it weep.
Between planks of wood lies that mystery place,
A deep and dark part that is no pretty face.

Long shard of brass thrust into delicate wood,
Explores the special places that no other truly could.
That place, blacker than the shadows of fifty souls,
Strung up tight and terrified with the secret of the ghouls.

This bed where key and hole do lie,
A filthy sight for a fair maiden's eye,
Is quite the rich epitome of black
But in unbound violent lust it never lacks.

The Bus Shelter -unedited-It was in a rainy bus shelter when Katy first saw her. The rain pattered wetly against the scratched glass, like a puppy begging to be let in. A small group of scowling faces, peering out from under strands of straggly hair, surrounded her. She tucked her own auburn hair behind her ear, an artful gaze spread upon her face as she did so, like an artist might tuck a pencil away. She licked her lips and could taste the cherry lip balm that she had applied a moment ago. It tasted like the sweets from the pound shop down the road, the artificial flavour filling her mouth with plastic fruit.

She looked down at her bitten fingernails anxiously. She

When She Said SilenceDo the ears lie? Or is that very thought absurd? This was not silence as she said. There was the purr of the machine like a well fed cat by the fire. There was the clearing of a throat like a bird singing in the dew of the morning. She could hear a chair scrape back, the very sound like the feet of a mouse scraping down her throat. She could not move, for if she did she could feel the needles in her skin writhe like worms in her sore flesh. Each breath she took broke the silence and left her struggling to drift back into the haze of drug induced sleep. She had asked for silence, and now here she was, trapped in a vortex of inferior noise?

S

TeddyTeddy holds me close,
Wipes my pearly tears and says,
'Love, you're not alone'.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#PoetsClub
Let the Heart speak out...

#writingclub
write it for real!

#ink-slingers
Writing Community

#AL-Writers

#AuthorsEscape
escape to a world of writing~

#StoriesAndPoemsClub

#PoetryPlus

#Candlelight-Writers
Writing by candlelight

Show all (12)

Details

Submitted: May 4, 2010
File Size: 814 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 30
Favourites: 56 [who?]
Views: 548 (0 today)
Downloads: 11 (0 today)

[x]

Writer's Syndrome

by ~hannahdavies666, May 4, 2010, 7:46:20 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Writer's syndrome

My mind seeps with words,
Ideas and thoughts, titles and themes,
Merging and courting with incestuous turmoil.
Vocabulary, phrases,
Mazes of sentences.
Cooking at different temperatures
On the same toiling stove,
Until they may be decanted by way of pencil
Onto their clean paper dish.
Quotes scream deep into my ears,
Their beauty distracting me from my tedious task
Of storing a million ideas in a poor memory.
And now here I sit, still writing,
My mind still boiling with words, phrases, more!
I must write until the pencil lead is gone,
And when that day comes,
I will decant my words
In blood.

Writer's Syndromeby ~hannahdavies666

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

How I feel at the moment, trapped in a hurricane of creativity...

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

sad 1 1

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~XUniquelyxWeirdX May 27, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

I feel the same way sometimes, I think they should invent something where you speak into something and it writes it down for you. That'd be awesome, as long as it isn't cheap.