despite her shining retinue of stars, pulling back
|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Pretty Wordsi'd turn this into prettier poetry,
but there's something perverse
in saying i thought we had
something real in metered simile-
so here’s a harsh truth:
i am sad. i lost a hope i'd held since i had hands
to hold with: that when such sparks as ours fly,
no one flees, and when flowers blue and pure as
lullabies finally bloom- burst- give birth to belly
butterflies and rich rosy bubbles in the blood,
they are tended, not cut and left to wither
in the shade. and for a girl who swore off disney,
i've been foolish- charming kisses never woke
what slept in your soul like they roused mine.
love does not sow love each time she plants
a seed- something i knew, but never quite
believed, and so i watered ours with hopes
as small as minnows gently flashing silver
in the streams, quietly fishing- and, oh,
you could have taken anything
from the garden growing in me:
A Promisein fifty years, when the corners of your eyes
have curled under the weight of your smiles,
i will close mine, and rest assured- i will
remember the unwrinkled blue that once
shook up my lungs and left me breathless-
i will remember the unlined hands that roved
over countless landscapes, conquering-
i will remember the shock of gold that crowned
you as the laughter rolled out from your lips-
how could the world turn on without you?
as long as i have mind to bend to memories,
you will burn on, brand-like, young as dawn,
no matter how your flame has faded since;
i will press you between pages
as you pressed yourself to me,
until time rubs out the words
and all who'd care to read them.
The SirensSHE is a knife,
scraping at the sweet things that you whispered
in the depths of blankets thick and blue-
(i wove them into strings of scales,
draped my drowsy limbs and saw
an impossible creature
shining in the beautiful dark
of a secret sea)
i am reeled and gutted by reality:
(sirens may croon- but-)
myths do not warm beds.
Night in Galei understand now: all this time,
i've been the bird- absurd, all feathers
and sweet summer music- and you,
the west wind, adventure's nimble fingers
dancing incomplete infinities under my wings. and the stars
dripped like the promise of dawn between us-
so i flew, ignorant of storms,
innocent of winter nights
you turned my lullabies
to sad songs.
i walk eastward now. someday
i'll sew my silly feathers back-
and when another western wind
extends its hand,
i'll know to say:
just so you know,
i'm chasing day.
Something Borrowedgirls in white dresses
don't always want weddings.
the priests would speak of leaps of faith
and my hands would clasp the wood in horror,
knuckles bleached like bone- and i found
something old: the knot tied in my throat.
my vocal cords did not let empty words escape.
and there was something blue: the heart
that hesitated. how can a seedling prophesy
its harvest? how can a caterpillar promise
the power of its wings?
so let others gather flowers.
we will skip the mass
but not the bed: and through
this something borrowed,
earn a little time-
and a place to rest our heads.
Crossroadsi'd like to write you love letters,
but i threw away that right
when i let you kiss me on the corner
that became a crossroads-
and i felt the power of that instant,
anchoring me like half a million spotlights
on our sidewalk stage, as the blind world
missed the show- i, perennial spectator
and former second-rate performer, finally
choosing my own role: the sinner or the saved.
is hope a punishable act?
because you sleep alone, and dark nights
never bother you-and i embrace and am embraced,
but find myself scribbling illicit midnight
poetry in the backs of my schoolbooks,
drunk on cheap beer and salt trails, wondering
if, in all your wandering,
you know this:
what, exactly, is worth giving up
for a kiss?
Houdinii used to be disgusted by the scars
etched beneath my collarbone,
the tally of my worst mistakes-
yet i am not the only one condemned
with the sins of an escape artist:
you shed your shell with me, then took
the fastest route that led just south of intimacy.
i thought you were a hero. i thought
you were a wild thing- a fearless soul, a heart
that refused to be contained. and i knew
something like this with you-
our little taste of fireworks
and trumpets. i saw the veins
on the inside of your thigh, tasted
the sweat on your upper lip,
felt all your calluses and soft spots-
the great and terrible entanglement
of limbs and lives, blooming
like a flower, or a bruise-
and when i touched the life
between your lungs,
i think the worst is that we'll never know, now,
if the marks we left would have been scars
i wish that we had tried:
we could have proved them all wrong,
you and i.
Irisesso strange; a soul is not a mirror,
but reflects as if the sky was wrapped
around it like a skin-
i see you in me, and you in turn have found
the seedlings of your younger branches
in my richer earth- and yet the shades are not the same:
you are something altogether solid, bold,
vibrant under sunlight and closing soft under the moon;
sweet invisible veins- not red after all, but similar in depth.
i do not know if i will ever quite catch
the mysteries of your colour;
perhaps the nuance is past perception-
maybe you're far beyond the rainbow:
my eyes have their own hues,
and yours blur beneath those lenses
like the oils of an iridescent sphere;
not wholly yours,
but still perceived in glimpses
dancing between the lines
A Toast, To A Good Frienda Poet i admire wrote of safe spaces
like circles; everything contained
in lovely open places-
i write of you: my safe space,
encircler of myself with open arms-
kisser of foreheads, caresser of faces,
stroker of strays and fly-aways,
blesser of bellies, holder of hands
and growing hearts- always
as warm and welcoming
as any country house. that writer
saw perfection in a sphere;
a hot meal and a well-brewed beer,
with a few good men to share them.
i like to think we'd have agreed
that you are also worthy of that title:
Jonson and i, we know what treasures
look like. to them we'll ever raise
our cups and pens, united in salute-
perhaps not always sober,
but solemnly believing this one truth:
a friend gives life a little love and sense,
and this makes all the difference.
.the sun did not
kiss my skin
yesterday, he slept
face around noon
and then went back
to bed; the
.he splits hearts like
oranges in the
sinks his teeth into
ripened flesh, and
leaves nothing but the
rind, too hard to
9the man with the
an eye for you,
never looks away.
the moths in his
dance salsa today,
praise your subtle
until night disappears
into the sun.
.my cat has nine
lives and i fear he will
spend each one doing
the same fucking
staring out of the
window at the birds on
the fence, when he could be
out there, sinking his
'the only time
we ever looked at the stars and
was the night i left.
we both went home
and for once
you didn't ask
if i got home safe,
and for once
i wasn't glad that i had.
what it means to move on1.
he told me that if i caught the next train to Detroit,
he would grab me by the waist and take me to the
edge of Proud Lake in Commerce, MI.
holding both sides of my face, he would list off
all the reasons why i was the one.
i am burying this fantasy,
pulling the hum of his voice out of my ear drums.
if you were here right now, i would kiss you
he said before spilling gasoline under my car tires
and flicking his half-smoked cigarette into it.
i miss the taste of his nicotine.
i miss every strand of his hair.
we are both addicts.
his hand was the span of Orion.
in it, he held mine and squeezed all too forcefully.
i should have taken this as a warning; a sign
of love's tendency to strangle its participants.
i just want my best friend back
he whispered in between apologies.
my arms ached to accept.
some promises are better off broken.
i spent my 16th birthday reading the palm of his hand;
little did i know i was dyslexic in the art of skin.
his canvas was c
Seashellswhen i was small the seashells whispered
shush shush into my ear,
but i heard stories:
shorelines being loved and lapped away
by oceans, a watching moon paling with jealousy
despite her shining retinue of stars, pulling back
the sea with white knuckles from the bleeding shore
losing itself grain by grain to the rough hands
of the atlantic-
when i was older, my mother told me
that a shell can only echo heartbeats.
i still plucked them from the bellies of the beaches,
cupped their fragile curves against my ears
to listen to their prophecies. the past
became the present: i have been the waves,
the sand, the stars and moon, the rock
and salt a thousand times-
shushed the little girl who does not know
how to let go of sea shells-
i have learnt the art
finger by finger,
grain by grain,
as i listen to my heartbeart
with my soft hands,
as the seagulls wheel away
like sighs of hope.
tell me something be
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
Keep in Touch!
Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More