[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

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

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

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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Creeping FearDo you fear the monster inside?
It follows you wherever you roam,
Never letting go nor leaving you alone.
Can't you see it's creeping over your heart,
Tearing your mind till it falls apart.

This fiend will seek out where you hide,
It'll haunt you even in your home,
Just stay calm and cold till he's gone.
Won't you accept he's taken over your sanity,
Moulding you into his slave of insanity.

If only you could see from outside,
How enslaved to it's will you've become,
Forever a puppet or a pawn he'll hone.
Don't you wish you could be free once more,
So get up and dare yourself to open the door.

FragileHow could something so fragile,
As the humble heart of a lover's longing,
Be so easily torn in twain?
Was it his desire to deal in danger,
When he first gazed upon your glance?

How could something so fragile,
As the sweet soul of a valentine's virtue,
Be so tragically annulled once again?
In his honour and humility for you he did hunger,
But never did you care or give into chance.

How could something so fragile,
As the flickering fire of a sweetheart's seduction,
Be so pathetically ruined in the rain?
His amorous advances are all but asunder,
With malice you've split his love with your lance.

Innocence of the LostLook at the little girl,
Who wishes to be a beautiful ballerina,
In a dream where she'll twist and twirl.
With happiness in her childish laugh,
And no inkling of the meaning of wrath.

Look at the little boy,
Who wishes to be a courageous commander,
In his fantasy all the demons he'll destroy.
With ignorance in his youthful mind,
And no warning of what future he'll find.

Look at the weary woman,
With a frown on her fragile face,
She's doing the best she can.
All hope in her heart is gone,
But for all her woes she'll carry on.

Look at the moody man,
With a grimace upon his grim grin,
He's tired of his life's plan.
Now he sits

SimplicityI only need to close my eyes,
And your by my side.
I could stare up at the starry skies,
Nothing could kill my love for you,
Yet my heart I will never hide.

I only need to hear your voice,
To wake from my despair.
I'd never lose this dream-like daze,
Everyday I will always be around,
A friendly face that will always care.

I only need to know your smile,
For me to start the day again.
I'll walk until my feet hurt for awhile,
But I'll continue on under the moon,
Because knowing you stops the pain.

The Angel Who Fell From HeavenThere was an angel of the honest skies,
Who's white wings were struck,
By the lashes of lightning cries.
She fell from above into earthly muck,
To the wistful wonder of two youths of yore.

With her face in distress of her plight,
She took two feathers of fire,
And gouged out her eyes of eternal light.
In the dirt this heavenly being did tire,
Until she was awoken by the prodding of paws.

Two days rolled past her corrupted visage,
As meek mortals tended to her pain,
To the dismay of the denizen's rage.
In tears this being of beauty tried in vain,
To call out for help from her blood brethren.

For a month and a day she did heal,

RotationIf everything I could say to you,
Was the finite words of my life,
In tragic times under skies blue.
Would I suffer the heartache,
And cruel cycles of stringent strife.

If everything I could show to you,
Was the premier ideals of our love,
By elusive eyes in shadows true.
Would we regret this façade,
And resentful revolutions from angels above.

If everything I could be to you,
Was the original phantom of your sight,
From mercurial memories of silhouettes too.
Would you ignore that masquerade,
And acrid aeons of passionate plight.

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[x]

Life Is Dead

by ~NemoX7, Mar 15, 2012, 6:52:44 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Life to me is dead,
And all my heartless pain,
Is swarming in my placid head.
There is nothing more that I can feel,
But what I touch in my mind can't be real.

Life is all but dead,
But on this raw path I go again,
Wandering with legs of lead.
To a distant land of sanctity I shall go,
Beside the rush of a wild river flow.

Life is dead.
Am I truly sane?
When all my soul can do is bleed,
With sinews of fire and veins of ice,
Constricted by all this gutless vice.

Life Is Deadby ~NemoX7

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

This was meant to have been submitted before "Crucify Me". Oh well, here it is.

Just a quick update. I might improve on this later. I don't know when. I would do so now, but I'm tired like mad, and my brain is needing sleep.

Another update. Amended it. Tired, but thought do it now before I forget. I can hammer out the kinks later. Least it has bit more substance to it then before.

love 2 2

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~together95 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

i feel you. it takes me weeks to write one thing, although i do tend to write 2 or 3 things at once. His Words (on my profile) took about 2 weeks to write more or less.
im working on something now.
if you like, i can give you an excerpt of my project that im working on now on here in the comments. it might kick start your imagination (cuz i know i need it sometimes!) and i think it really relates to what your writing here.

~NemoX7 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Usually I write 10 poems in one day. I mean I only started in August 2011, before that didn't write anything in my life. Just current circumstances, my mind is currently under a weight of stress. I've amended the poem slightly. It's a double-edged sword, I'd admit. Either the poem gets better or gets worse. I tend to favour the first draft I write since it adding to a poem, or taking something out might jeopardize it. But I took the risk. On my head be it: so the saying goes.

Let's see your excerpt. But I can't guarantee it will strike up anything in my imagination.

~together95 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Titles are typically the last thing i come up with, so right now, its titless...

okay, here it is -

QUICKLY, DRAIN MY BLOOD, LORD, AND TAKE IT AWAY.
GATHER THE BROKEN PIECES OF MY SOUL, EACH HEAVY WITH PAIN.
THEY'RE ALL THAT'S LEFT.
ALL THAT'S LEFT OF ME.

LORD, ITS HARD TO LIVE WHEN I'M DEAD INSIDE -
AND IT'S GETTING HARDER TO BREATHE WHEN I'M NOT ALIVE.
THE ROAD IS BECOMING WIDE, AND I'M SCARED, LORD.
DON'T REJECT ME OR FORSAKE ME.
GIVE ME A NEW BEGINNING.

-----

So, right now, its over 2,000 characters (spaces included), and it needs some tweaking. right now im trying to give a good ending. endings are always a bit tough for me, but it gets done.

when im finished, ill post it!

~NemoX7 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Why not call it "New Beginning". But it's up to you. Since it is your own artistic work. It's good, but I would say calm down a bit with the capital letters, it sounds like you're shouting. I'm assuming this has a religious undercurrent to it. That's great, but personally speaking, I'm not the biggest fan of faith. Yet it's not to say it has doesn't have any meaning for those who do believe in such things.

I usually write for one target audience, and that's usually me. If you write for what others expect you to write than I find that can create a barrier of sorts.

All in all, it's good.

~together95 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

no no no, im not going to keep it in all caps. most assuredly no! lol, i just wanted to make a clear line between the excerpt and my comments.

write something else. My interest has greatly piqued now in your writing

peace, magna. im out, but ill keep close watch on your pieces

~NemoX7 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

One correction. Call me Nemo. That should be my username really. No one really calls me Magna.

And feel free to watch. Good luck in your future endeavours.

~together95 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Critique? im a poet myself (not a pro, but not bad either, if i do say so myself!). i think its great but there was something missing.
it didnt really bring out any emotion within me. it needs that WOW factor to bring it together. it could be just a really powerful line or an ending that makes you think when youre finished.
i find what helps me write poems is this: what i think people wouldnt normally write or would find other words for, i dare to write myself. And when i step abck and read it, i find it really comes together.

overall, i would (if i could?) grade your poem a B+

You really have potential.

Write more?

~NemoX7 Mar 15, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I'll probably amend it, since I'm not too sure about it. From my point of view, as the artist, it does lack a certain something, maybe it's becuase I'm unable to give that little bit of punch. I did write it a couple of nights ago. This is my 584th poem. And my imagination is slightly lacking of late, private hell I'm going through so to speak.

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