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Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress

I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)

I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)
Star SwallowerShe's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.

Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw
SouvenirsWhen her mom went to check the mail at breakfast, she returned with a thin box in her arms.

It was a package from her father.

Her dad was sort of like a traveler... at least, that was what she assumed he was. His job always had him jumping from city to city, country to country. He'd been to almost everywhere around the world, and every few weeks, he would send her a letter with a little souvenir from his stay. This time, it was a miniature Eiffel Tower.

So he's in France again, she mused, studying the two-foot tall replica. A small chuckle escaped her lips. It was about time he remembered to get it for her! He really should've thought of b
the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each ot
A Night at Pinetop's TavernSomewhere in the back alleys of the city's older section there was a crumbling brick building that had been around since before ragtime music was popular. Hanging above a faded green door that led down to the building's cellar was a wooden sign, and despite the peeling paint, you could still make out the bar's name: Pinetop's Tavern.  Nobody really knew when Pinetop's first opened; local folks would tell you it had been there since time began, and the world had grown up around it. It was one of those places where the lighting was always dim and the cigarette smoke never dissipated and the cloud you were breathing now had probably been around
cliffcliff
e.bojnowski

on velvet roads,
I impale a  belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-

I have no qualms
with the dark hills
that slope
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:

where
the thrum of the ground
melds
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.
a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter
WaitingWe are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.
Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream of
Tigers, born in pagan fog, their
Coat of stripes singing shaman
Songs; shrill symphonies of grief.
Heaven tilts, crashes, and we race
The dirt to get away. We drink the
Earth with bullets of air and grow
Dizzy, light-headed from breathing
Some far off flame. Perhaps a poet
Who braved the fog of Ottumwa, and
Caught fire. Every cowboy has his
Six chances before high noon, before
The fog forms wispy jackals to take
Them home again. Every son inherits
An empty gun, six voids to fill with
Answers, skimmed and guessed from the
Covers of books their fathers used
To read. There is no other way.
In s
the back of your head against my washed pillowcaseI find it
disconcerting
that
you are the King
of my own Head
& that I am
subjugated
by my own
temptation

My bones, your
welcome mats,
cushioned
to your insatiable
satisfaction

--

I find this
discomforting,
your  constant
rebirths in my
libido, despite
three years of
silent therapy,
false recovery
& worshipping
     the wrong  gods

you are the best muse
for struggling artists
everywhere & worst
case of the bubonic plague
since the bubonic plague

--

I find you
disenchanted
in the middle
of any where,
peeling flesh,
lulling  sullen
sirensongs at
3AM

I shot a flock
of  phoenixes
& ate Adam's
poison apple
starspunobserving the romanticism
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.

you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.

we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,

pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)

your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.

i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.

i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
stars
EurydiceHis voice enveloped me, and I became
Myself again--I heard it in the song:
A mordent on a note he held too long;
A stutter in his voice. I heard my name
In these and felt a happiness the same
As when I saw him first. Oh, I had longed
To hear him sing again, but this last song--
It was so beautiful. And it remains
The best of human works, though none shall hear
Its sorrowed notes; the lyre's meand'ring tune
Through vast arpeggios and Death's expanse
Except the dead. It will not disappear
'Till all the world's destroyed, and hell's exhumed--
Such music must be worth a backwards glance.
The Best is Yet to Comeif we grow old
there will be a sigh
an attention to the change
as your muscles slacken underneath
your faded, favorite shirt
the one that's threadbare, "holy"
in a sense less than divine
I'll have washed it for
the thousandth time
our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle
in ways that start to match
and we'll hold hands and ask:
when did the nerves and veins
begin to let our hands get cold?
-if we grow old
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
of life;
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
of love.

Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
still;
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
tears).

And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
for onceCold

blackempty

like the cavern where crimson vellum once resided

Drenched in reticence,
your empty blue eyes do nothing
but freeze the blood in these veins

surrounded by phantoms,
i lie in the dark next to your fading silhouette
between sheets that hold so many memories,
they are empty,

like the chestnut eyes that bore into yours

And as the rain              falls harder
as it falls faster

washing down the streets
through deep alleys,
down endless roads,

for

once

just

once

i pray it takes me with
Browse More Like This

More from *somnomollior

April 18th endings.I feel emotional turmoil
because of the emotional turmoil of another.
Ten years from now they probably won't care,
and I probably won't care.
That is what makes endings so sad.
April 17th HeartsThe Joker has stepped from the pack
and shuffled the cards.
Now the Queen of hearts lies next to the Jack of spades,
and he's a knave.
Tell me:  Who's The Fool now?
April 16th Guarantee100% Satisfaction Guaranteed
Or What?
If you are not satisfied with the quality of your life:
Tough Titty,
as my dad would say.

Apparently there is a number you can call,
but I can't find God listed in The Yellow Pages,
and it says here that souls can be returned within 30 days
and there will be a refund.
Hey! Who has the wit at 30 days old to say "Enough!
This sucks.  I want out of here!"

Shipping charges, however, are not refundable,
so the pain of birth will not be forgotten.
Also:  
Products damaged by improper use are unfortunately non-refundable.
Please, don't say 'unfortunately' if there is no intention of doing anything

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The Sculptor

:iconsomnomollior:

Before he would have harvested a tree,
hacked off its limbs,
skinned it,
torn it from the earth,
shaved one by one its cells - its outer core,
until it was what he believed it was,

no more a tree.

Wiser, he walks deep in to the wood,
underneath a forest giant he stops,
looks up in to the leafy branches, sighs,
climbs and sheds his tears upon its boughs.

3,524

197 66 153
:iconsomnomollior:

The Sculptorby *somnomollior

DescriptionDetailsShare
Download HTML download, 507 bytes
I feel my poetry has improved since I first joined DA (I am not talking about this poem but my poetry in general). This poem is about the process of creating and how I have learned that less can be more.
I took my friends on a treasure hunt and I showed them nature alone, they were disappointed. Here are my bare hands, unadorned, and now you tell me it was the clothes and jewels I used to wear that you loved, not me.
Here is a tree, unadorned. It may be deformed and ugly, but it is a tree. I hope you get the message, friends.
©2011-2013 *somnomollior
Category: Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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Submitted on
October 7, 2011
File Size
507 bytes
Views
3,524 (11 today)
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-01-27
The Sculptor by *somnomollior Growth as an artist is important, especially when you can notice how far you have come. ( Suggested by `Kneeling-Glory and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
love 1 1 joy 3 3 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconkneeling-glory:
`Kneeling-Glory Jan 29, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:tighthug: Congratulations on the DD!
Reply
:iconsigma-echo-seven:
~Sigma-Echo-Seven Jan 29, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Poignant, and understanding.
Reply
:iconoviedomedina:
~oviedomedina Jan 28, 2013
Simply touching. Thank you.
Reply
:iconlalagabrysia:
~lalagabrysia Jan 27, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
Oh wow. This is beautiful.
Reply
:icongirasolia:
=Girasolia Jan 27, 2013  Student General Artist
I can really feel for this, because I have lived with a 20 acre forest for nearly my entire life. Many people just do not get the pure beauty of nature in its roughest forms. Even worse, people still just judge by what people look like on the outside, what they have sculpted themselves to look like, when really the thing that they need most is love for their true selves.
This made my day. <3
Reply
:iconlonewintress:
~LoneWintress Jan 27, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Whoa. This is beautiful ;u;
Reply
:iconamweitz:
~AMWeitz Jan 27, 2013  Student Writer
This is perfect. There's not much more I can say.
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
=Sammur-amat Jan 27, 2013   General Artist
Congratulations on the well deserved DD on my favorite poem by you, too <3
Reply
:iconxxstarpelt:
~xxStarpelt Jan 27, 2013   Photographer
Wow! :o
Reply
:iconlucaryah:
~Lucaryah Jan 27, 2013  Student General Artist
Such wise and beautiful words thrown together in a wonderous literature.
I'm glad I was looking at the Daily Deviations today.
Well done <3
Reply
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