[x]

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

mosaics.sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.

sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky

who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,

pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means

who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and u

Just a ManI was cold, you made a fire.
The logs crackled like applause
while you played your guitar
and sang to me songs of love
of broken roads and crossed stars;
with every note I loved you more.

You brought me flowers-
no, in my mind you did,
and that was all that really mattered.
I kept them pressed neatly
between Byron, Keats, and Shelly
and the lines that made up you.

You said that you had always loved me
and that I was the only one,
but I didn't really listen,
I only heard what I wanted
instead of what was important,
your use of past tense regarding me.

I was wrong, I was wrong,
I made you grander than what you are.
I built y

Coffee StainsAnd dress shoes click on the streets laid slick with cinnamon and wasted air
It's sugar on your lipstick, darling; a dangerous affair.

You chose coffee
Like you chose romance
Just for the idea of romance; cream and smoked wood swirling around in your cup,
And steam curling up into the atmosphere like the locks in his hair.

Crushed, bitter,
Tantalisingly dark and hauntingly aromatic
You craved it
You mocked the raven that eyed you from its branch out in the blustering courtyard and
You didn't even like the taste.

The silver curve of the teaspoon showed your warped reflection like a deathly omen
It showed the line of your neck and e

comatose. i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.

i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
homesick.

--

i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you –

well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

HeartmindWe lost electricity on the night you left me
and I spent the night curled up against the rain,
drinking in the slack of damp green winds
in our treasured driftwood home of mist.
I had to come to think of time
as a medium and my thoughts as
imperfect and cursive. It was a wrinkled medium,
a mediocrity of sunken breath: words condensing
into droplets that so contorted my teary lenses
that I couldn't tell that you were turning towards me

with a sound, the sound a book makes
when its leaves are rustled against the grain.
Tonight my body lingers on the edge of the ocean
like a gasp; New Jersey's throaty highways
bear my rosefelt thou

the less i knowsomething new: my breath hitched but the words meant nothing.
i owed the light peserverent flattery in the form of prose,
stories of what could have been.

the gloom in which i slept was a system altogether unable to measure up to the new universe;
to exist together in perfect cognition is first to understand that i never wish to be better.
how pitiable this impure form to which we all succumb
littered with stars. i am temporary like them, almost, always and never.

I have forgotten how to live. it is late mornings during which i upturn my lazy eyes to the sky
against it's will. there, like you, live millions- and my mind is reborn.

t

a long awaited return.It was raining when we landed.
A shock
to our sun-drenched systems,
stumbling with snatched-
away sleep.

Another bus, another train
whirring upon endless tracks.
We run, we flee through foreign streets –
disdainful eyes stare on,
watching fugitive

outsiders -
desperate for a taste
of home.

To Us- Synesthesiai.

every sound
excites a burst
of color; an
exploding
firework,
dancing and
twirling.

ii.

your voice
tastes of mangoes;
sticky
and sweet,
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
personal.

iii.

the letters
all become a
different personality.
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
and mighty.

iv.

closer and
farther away;
each number becomes
its own plane
and point
in space;
perfect details.

v.

all the numbers
form lines
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
swirling round
and round.
a perfect pattern.

vi.

letters take
on colors,
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
forming rainbo

another notch on the wall. 1.
a while now,
a while now has passed
with bruises crying jagged from your voice
and pretty little nicks upon
your memory.

( tricky partners dancing
stiffly
within your hands cupped around a flame,

for artists draw and
writers scream

another curse at the bleeding night
snipping stitches and
weaving nightmares into weary minds.
)

dragging bottles of paint behind you
like they were clanging and
swishing the secrets of life into
your ears,
oh, your ears bled with screams

i want to tell youimagine a world without gender
a world where we are not confined
to the arbitrary interpretations of
an inexact biology. imagine we could
rise above the places
below our waists, reside instead in
graceful hands, in angled cheekbones
in some deeper conception than this
skewed perception of you.

I strip myself bare of unforgiving flesh,
squinting behind dim caverns of girl parts--
what are girl parts? all we have are beating
hearts.

I sit inside this trembling body, shoulder
to hunched shoulder,
stacks of bones too unsure
to be brave enough to tell you that
my gender will never fit on the plastic sign
above a bathroom door.

a

Spelling CountsThe line read:
"Fallow your heart",
I wondered what more there was to say.

Fallow your heart, leave it
empty and waiting for a season
so love can grow, nourished,
in a replenished, whole ground.
Fallow your heart so it does not become
Worn and barren with overuse.

The line read "fallow your heart",
but the poem, overworked,
meant only "follow".

Please remember that spelling counts.

Metastasis98.00

Autumn is the season when everything dies.

The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.

The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.

You promise it anyway.

94.00

November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi

Reversed Singularity? but of time, i do digress
& my intentions have been writ
in sumerian, and dreamt; but

here to live obsolete:
swift swing, precarious pang
with my heart's guiltless intention
--fingernails scratch & fit

your name; tasting still
succulence, feeling still
tyranny of will, being still
drowned cortex-deep, hearing still

--the wisp of a faltered laughter
sheltered & swaying & playing

amongst the dead, the horned
honoured and torn, formed
long and forlorn'd--

oh time, my bittersweet demise
dying is no longer a sacred art
and is sincerity in its purest form
cloaked with fault & artless bourne

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More from ~Liedy

5.15a world from which the gods have fled.
it strikes a nerve,
doesn't it?

now I'm bound to ask,- could it remain?
the divine in which
we partake?

and what is worse than lonely child?
I guess... by will
left behind.

Unto DeathThere are some men
who go outside
use their intellect
to deduce
and defend
certain ethical principles
and upon their death
discover
satisfaction;
few regrets

then there are other men
who stay within
use their intellect
or whatever they got
to arouse
and to offend,
which is their principles
up till death;
satisfaction
unto
regret.

DawnSlowly they arise
the creatures of the day
the peaceful and the loving
the gurgling and decaying
the forever dressing up, the training
artists led astray;
stretchers in the rain
these messengers of faith
they are guests of the morning
whom by extension of their stay
does not comprehend
why the light rearranges
and betrays them for their niceness,
their offerings,
the tank you's
like a wanderer's
one justified to lay
yet by virtue decides to wake
as you ask him for his voice
he will reach towards the sky
his moans
vacate the silent while
before the yawn
which is his name.

Cathedralin the middle of a bridge
halfway amid two cliffs
a coasting star has cast her light
against a creature which there sits.
itself it seems to stroke
at times you hear it yelp
it shivers with the cooling air
yet bravely parts its legs.
so familiarly strange
and so fearless it will seem
there high above a crushing depth
turned toward the east.

but the winter once had come
to cover all the ground
and flakes around this being fell
before descending further down.
so beautiful these flakes, which
towards the creature came
that it paused its strokes but for a while
to watch them pass their way.
alas there came the one
pale as purest snow,
and the c

03:27 PMNow at last alone
wonderfully
on my own, it's
final and surreal
and I will cultivate this while I swear
from loneliness to solitude
from dessertscape to sanctitude
by thundercloud
through empty air
to perfect thoughts and graceful stares
and open minded masturbation
"genitalic mutilation"
a willingness to fear you hear?
- an honorable ordeal..
from history to poetry,
pretty words like ivory
for the poetess
is she
whom in making her career
is betraying every hour for
its aesthetical
appeal.

ModernIt's that little sway

that coffee, tea warmth
slight heartache
movement
with
the light sigh
almost smile

that back forth, around and down
being
in a cup

it's that slightly asking
yet comfortable
silence;
approaching, just
not
quite there yet

that stillness
with calm
with curious
with one or two

plans for the future
and a spook
relaxing
in the distance

it is
that

modern, ineluctable
setting
with its wholesome
expression which
perhaps

justifies

it.

Or at least
that is

what everyone is hoping for.

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Submitted: April 24, 2012
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02:22 AM

by ~Liedy, Apr 24, 2012, 7:41:31 AM
Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

_{i.

Like drops of water we fall

yet

I must be
of
a different
drop

you might think that
you want to be different yourself
but

you do not

you want to be special

I am not special

everyone wants to be special
although
not so special
that

they're different.

ii.

Some girls
want to seduce me

because I'm different

I don't mind, but
I've never really liked those girls

I don't really like girls at all

I like sex though, so..
I let them

even though
some will fall

(plip.)

in love with me.

iii.

Some boys
want to beat me up

show me my
true
face

also because I'm different

and because they grew up with a strong father figure
or whatever

I don't really like boys at all, but
I like their hatred

so I don't argue my case

even though
some

(plop.)

will fall in love with me.

iv.

Maybe I'm a teardrop

or one of
urine

because for me
you
are all different.

but you are not special

and even though I sometimes seduce you
and
sometimes
want to beat you up

I don't really like you at all

I'd like to be you though

perhaps..
that is why

(plip.)

we sometimes fall

(plop.)

in love.

v.

We might be
of
different
waters
but

as it seems

we are heading

for

the same

_drain.}

02:22 AMby ~Liedy

Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

I encourage everyone to follow ~extraordinariasm's suggestion and read it aloud to this: [link]

Kind of a new style for me, so if you have any suggestions for improvement, don't be shy.

Thanks to ~Lhyrre and ^NicSwaner for constructive feedback.

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-05-12

02:22 AM by *Liedy ( Featured by `thorns )

Critique by ~micneamol May 12, 2012, 11:05:20 AM

I am an ametuer poet and love this poem. The form simulating the drip. But personally (and from a different pond of course) i would have the water landing on something soft, such as a leaf, wet grass, or flower. But that, as you say is what makes us different. I also come from a place where i believe we are all special. Yes yes including you, but i have a feeling this thought would provoke a roll of the eyes or some such display. Me too at a time, i used to joke, and still do in certain moods, that from all of the semen that i have wasted down the drain i probably have a million rat babies in the sewer looking for a father. But the drain is such a final place for all of this feeling and emotion to go. it seem that maybe were you in a cheerier or more hopeful mood it would go somewhere else. you could even continue this at viii in the sewer, going to the water treatment facility, passing the rats and garbage, mixing with rain water and soiled leaves. eventually becoming clean and joining a river or waterfall. i am suprised by the ammount that the symbolism of the drain bring out in me. i don't know exactly why i rated as i did. the vision is only a four because of the sour note at the end, but maybe should be higher, now experiencing all the thought that it provokes. origionality and technique could probably go a little higher as well but i'm sticking with my original rating. it's still great work though, i hope some of my thoughts help you come up with some new ideas, because i know you have given me some. thank you for sharing.

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

The Artist thought this was FAIR

3 out of 4 deviants thought this was fair.

3 Replies

Devious Rating

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Originality

Technique

Impact

Critique by ^NicSwaner May 12, 2012, 7:05:24 AM

Disclaimer I don't like rating what I'm critiquing, it seems contrary to the point, so I gave you an even 5 stars, but that's nothing to base my thoughts off of.

Congratulations my friend! This was well-deserved. I remember this poem from the last poll. Glad to see your work getting recognition. When I saw the title in the footer, my face lit up because I knew 'that's Liedy.'

Anyways, hope that doesn't sound too creepy. On to your questions:

Is it too long?

No, not at all, the only thing that makes it seem long is the height, which is created by the short lines, which are read quite easily and flow well, but upon first reading it a week ago, it was definitely not what I would consider a long poem.

Does the line break help portraying the narrators state of mind?

Yes, upon reading that question my mind thought of two different part parts of the poem. This one:

Maybe I'm a teardrop.

or one of
urine.

I feel that this truly shows just how much the narrator's mind is wandering, both in context from the contrast from urine to a teardrop, and the line break in between which creates a short pause. Also, the phrasing in those 3 lines is spot on, it was a good move to make the sentence "Maybe I'm a teardrop" its own line without separating words, because then the idea is whole, whereas with the next sentence it is separated, and we are given the impression that the narrator believes one and not the other. The other part I thought of was:

I don't mind, but
I've never really liked those girls.

I don't really like girls at all.

I like sex though, so..
I let them.

Again, great choices in where to break your lines and stanzas to isolate, empower and emphasize ideas. It really comes across as narration of someone's thoughts.

Is breaking it of in parts useful for flow and effect?

It's useful for effect, for separating the different thoughts in an organized way and then dovetailing them together. I think in the end that it also benefits the flow as well, but more importantly it keeps the ideas separate until it is time for them to be combined. Parts are generally used more in narrative poetry, but also for what you have done here. There are also some other uses, which I cannot think of at the moment.

Some Thoughts

I really like the last 4 lines, but some lines before it, the phrasing of it sounds very cliche:

We might be of
different water
and

we might not drip alike

I've heard variations of this a lot, it doesn't seem to go with the narrator's voice as much as the rest of the poem, and I can't help but feel this could be phrased better so that it fits in with the rest of the poem and sounds more like the narrator we heard in the previous parts.

Other than that I've always enjoyed reading your work!

What do you think?

Fair Unfair

The Artist thought this was FAIR

32 out of 32 deviants thought this was fair.

1 Reply

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Technique

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The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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love 4 4

joy 3 3

wow 2 2

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~NightMeadow May 20, 2012

This gets better and better. I was writing something myself, and then remembered this and realized how true this is. It is almost.. disgustingly true;

"and even though I sometimes seduce you
and
sometimes
want to beat you up

I don't really like you at all.

I'd like to be you though.

Perhaps..
that is why

(plip.)

we sometimes fall

(plop.)

in love."

.. yes.. disgustingly true. It gives me creeps, or something like it, but I love this poem, it is... I think I've made that clear already

Lovely work.

~InfinityOnAString May 15, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

I think it's just about right length wise, if it were longer it would be too long, and if it were shorter it wouldn't feel like enough.
I like the structure, especially because of the drops metaphor, maybe you didn't do it on purpose but it makes you feel like the poem is falling. It's nice.
I'm not sure if it's necessary, but it was a nice way of finishing the poem.

Very nice job, I really enjoyed it.

~Liedy May 15, 2012

Thank you for commenting, I appreciate you voicing your opinion, and I am of course glad you liked it.

~InfinityOnAString May 15, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

It's my pleasure (:

~silenced-herein May 14, 2012

aah enjoyed this one!!

~bl00drose May 14, 2012

OMG!!! it's amazing kinda described how i feel
Great job

~i-too-am-karamazov May 13, 2012

No. I think vii detracts. It's message - the commonality of mortality - is enough said. Hemmingway for instance to paraphrase: "All live and die, it's only the details of one's life that differentiates one from another."

The rest of the poem has some fine points, though.

~Liedy May 14, 2012

I'm glad you think so. It is a love poem, although I admit it is ambiguous, the drain symbolizes love which I wanted to sidestep with death. I'm pretty sure most didn't read it like that though.

~Dream-Nova May 12, 2012

This poem is amazing!

~BabaHeartsDrawing May 12, 2012

This is an amazing poem. You're very talented, you know?

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02:22 AMby ~Liedy

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