[x]

Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.

IcarusSun girl,

the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.

Do not let anyone
clip your wings;

you were made for the skies.

Definition of a Writerwrit•er

noun /rītər/

A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery

They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish

A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own

They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone

i got flowers oncei am lonely.
i received flowers once
and i placed them
in a vase til
the petals all browned
desiccated
and turned to dust
on the glass of my bureau.

i have never gotten flowers since.

i spend my days
with a boy
a man
whom i love far beyond reason
and he holds me in his arms
and holds me together.

i bite my nails
and pull my hair
over the moment when he
inevitably
feels the disenchantment
fall over his body,
all clean lines
and smooth shapes,
and realises that leaving
the worst thing
would be
the best thing.

i am lonely
and even with a hand to hold,
and even with a cloak of security
bunching around my shoulders
and hiding my thighs,
i feel

Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.

The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress

Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.

A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.

Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu

moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:

giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --

burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.

it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.

L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
Saving myself
Being who
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that

Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs

I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight

I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family

I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push

I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"

I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says

I can't trust anyone because they do

Missing piecesMissing pieces

There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk in pieces, howling
around my heart.

-SophieCT, 2012, 2013

field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.

MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings

Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee

van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
crying
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
bullshit.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
in hell.
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
misconception.
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
a crowd
of murmuring lips of
god's will.
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
could hear.
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
with chiv

blood-red wine and skeleton jazz i.
the day you left,
your cobweb dress clung to you in ways
that i would dream about for years,
in hot, fevered nights
when the moon thought it might burst
in the sky,
and even the wind wailed your name.

ii.
i remember how you called make-up war paint,
and you drew it across your face like a message
i could never decipher;
i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard
your heels clicking across the floor at 3am
when you finally got home and slipped into bed;
i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,
feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor
and your fingernails dug into my shoulders
and your toes curled

thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns are midnight requiems
That tell me to look beyond the
light and have &

The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.

And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.

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Picking up the pieces. CH 1

Chapter ONE
All too complicated

A long time ago, when I was much younger, a boy in my class asked me what sorts of days do you like best, rainy, cloudy or sunny? He asked me with such enthusiasm that I really did want to answer him then and there, but I couldn't because I've never been good at making my mind up on the spot and so I told him that I needed to experience each of them with his question in my mind before I could give him my answer.

So a week later after a usefully hectic forecast I went to the boy at lunch time and stated simply and plainly that all weather is best for different reasons and that I may choose one today and feel

Photo faces"1,2,3, now smile"…snap

That is the only photo I have of you. You never did like having your picture taken. Not a good thing when your best friend is a budding new photographer, but I never minded. It was enough having you next to me when I took the pictures; I never needed you to be in them. But that day, that photo. I couldn't not have you in it. I never liked staged photos but well sometime it's the only kind you can get. You miss so much with a photo like that. Everyone (no matter what they say or how hard they try not to) can't help but put on what I call their 'photo faces' they only let the camera see the side of them

RealizationYou know the moment,
when you fall.
And time slows,
it's like the world is holding its breath.
And you know.
You're going to die.
You're going to hit the ground and die.
You expect your whole life to flash before your eyes.
But it doesn't.
You don't see the smiling faces of the ones you loved.
And hot wet tears spill from your eyes
and you watch them fly away from you.
Leaving you to fall.
Escaping.
You realize that you've already seen your life flash before you.
It was called living.
And, well compared to the rest of eternity.
These few short years don't amount to anything.

Not ever.Tick tick tick…

That damn clock it never stops, it never moves on. It's been stuck like that for far too long now.

Tick tick tick…

I got sick of watching it, waiting for it to move on. Taking me away from this moment in time.
It stopped like that the instant the door closed. As soon as the realization hit me.
It just keeps on going over and over. Jumping back on its self like that. Its driving me crazy.

Tick tick tick…

I can't help but want to smash it up, anything just to make it stop. But I can't reach it.
You were always so much taller than me. Able to reach place I never could.
You put it up there. So high, at t

How do you do?How do you do?
You with the hat pulled down over your eyes
Why do you hide yourself away?
Like that. Like your scared of seeing, or being seen.
What is it that you don't want,
To see through those eyes, or for others to see in them.

How do you do?
You with the head phones on.
Why do you have the volume up so loud?
Like that. Like you could ever drown out the voices in your head.
What is it that you talk about?
When you think no one else can hear, or are even listening.

How do you do?
You who smiles at things no one else could understand.
Why do you never laugh at the funny things in life?
Like that, Like you can't remember what

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Harmonious Discord

by ~LittleAppleThief, Sep 16, 2012, 3:29:39 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

She dreams
of making music
but it's not music at all.

There is no melody,
no rhythm to her song.
Just the repetition
of the same-
disconnected notes

over
and over
again

As if the orchestra is
forever
tuning their instruments.

Waiting for the tap of the baton
to bring the mess to order.

But she,
for one,
hopes that the maestro never arrives.

She loves to loose herself in the fuzzy-buzzing
twanging confusion of it all
The busy white noise
that fills her ears like cotton wool

She knows she could mend it
with the snap of fingers
[bring the rhythm back]
the tap of a foot
[give it a bass line]
the rhythmic clapping
slow, purposeful.
[Make a beat for it to follow]

Start something bigger
than anything previously experienced

In this small static word of
TV snow storms and dial tones
Of broken space filled with
empty frames and fogged up lenses

But she won't.
For this is her harmonious discord
filling the darkness in her head
with thick white noise.

Harmonious Discordby ~LittleAppleThief

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

31 words prompt challenge

#17. White Noise

#16. Eyes [link]
#15. Skinny [link]
#14. Waste [link]
#13. Love [link]

#12. Fuck [link]
#11. Habit[link]
#10. Distraction [link]
#9. Sunrise [link]
#8. Mother [link]
#7. Nosebleed [link]
#6. Abandoned [link]
#5. Circus [link]
#4. Immortal [link]
#3. Birthday [link]
#2. sticks and stones [link]
#1. Letter [link]

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Harmonious Discord

Harmonious Discordby ~LittleAppleThief

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