wrists that roarmama says
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking

i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger

and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely

who says
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw

i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar

mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar

shallow breath, aching bones.this feeling is too big for me.
too giant for my small frame to contain
and its spreading and spilling out and
over my insides and leaving me waking
up with bruises from dreams so real
they hurt.
this feeling is too much for me.
i can't carry it all, it leave part of it
dragging alongthe ground behind
me and i tend to forget its there
and i trip over it and fall to ground.
i decided to collect bruises
but i dont have to look to far
they tend to seek me out
and scatter themselves across my skin.

how to be a poetsmatter into the inner depths
of your hopeless little mind for
the perfect words to fit in
evenly quite
then my friend
you will see what
poetry is made of

to think poetry may
be beautiful as the spring
flower blooming
sprouting with the loveliest
of reprimands and yellowed
pollen breath
has me
laughing.

because poems

they're more than the
kiss of lovely things
and the flick of fingers
on lonely keys
but the sound of the heart
ripping open quite brokenly
in two
and
until then—
drunk off the very words
caught in
breath
sinking by the trance
of such diction my friend

may you call yourself
a poet

three guns, and one goes offthe first time i met you, you held a gun to my head.

"aren't you scared?" you asked. there was a smile on your face, only the slightest bit sadistic glinting somewhere beneath the surface. and i couldn't blame you - i felt it too. your eyes, quite blue, were bright and sincerely innocent. your hair fell into your eyes and you kept brushing it over, and even though you were much taller and a year older i was, it kept you looking so child-like and hardly scary.

or maybe it was just me. most people cringe a little around firearms, whether or not you think they would ever pull the trigger.

i tilted my head toward you and answered with a questi

pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.

medicinegrowing older is a big word for medicating my youth

because i was once wild-eyed

i was once foot-loose

i was once alive with gaps between each tooth

i was once sea dust & cusps of mountains

i was once drinking pennies from fountains

i was alive alive

i was alive

i was alive

i was

& my fingers are dropping

my skin is growing pale

pushing around a child until painfully thin

it's just medicine

each year is just medicine

Lo Que Sera Sera (Only the Ocean)Hair stiff and wavy with sea salt
she wipes foam from her eyes surfacing
from a thousand fathoms below where
the horizon quietly hangs.
Two footsteps on the sand, forwards
and backwards. A story of an idea,
a brief spark, seaweed lacing over
her toes.

'I wanted to find the bottom of the
ocean. Stand at the very depths
and cup daylight in my hands.
Some fish have never seen the sun
or felt a breeze and I thought I'd
give them that chance.'

Even those not prone to childish whimsy
and hope can show a vague smile at the
thought of glittering salmon and anemones
gasping flickers of sunlight, the gentle
wave of fronds and floods

ink bloodi am a thing of words and ink blood

and you, the proverbial book thief
albeit with loving intentions.

you bend my spine and gently crack me open
to the sunlight without asking.

for who gave you permission
to walk your fingers along every tale interwoven
through my vertebrae?
to have your eyes
browse each piece of my nonfiction,
where the day and night have kissed my brow
and ran me through in equal measure,
as if i were truly an inanimate thing
of pages and dust?

under your scrutiny i am no longer a volume
left face-down and dusty beside the armchair
by the window,
unloved by hands and falling prey
to the patient gluttony

Supernova (someday, I will marry an astronomer)You are firing words into space at stars that will never understand.
Let them guess. Have you ever tried explaining to them that you'd like to
pluck them from where they stand to glue them to your ceiling?
They don't know you like I do, they don't know you're scared of the dark.
Comets and asteroids are tricky things. They'll burn a hole through your roof
so I hope you like the troposphere singeing your nostrils.

'What do you suppose stars do after they become supernovae?'
'They become neutron stars. Or black holes, I guess.'
You went quiet after that.

Maybe I should have said that they stay beautiful forever like Hollywood
would ha

MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.

And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.

ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana –
yeah, I

ropehang me from the moon,
i want to be beautiful

from a paper towelwe were fourteen, and you were drunker than me,
laughing to the crook of the couch, your cheek printed
with the roughhewn stitching, your eyes redder than something,
and you said to me that you loved her even now,
even laughing to forget her because she had been a forever.

[a forever?
yeah, yeah. a forever, she was a forever.]

and i thought you were the stupidest thing,
pathetic maybe, laughing like that,
sobbing on my leg when the liquor caught up and you asked me
is this why everyone thinks i'm gay? maybe just so we could laugh
a few minutes more,

but you know, talking to you, talking to you after your biggest mistake
was inked

ConstellationShe is dream dust,
too bitter or wise
for her own good.

A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.

She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.

& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.

To me,
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos

& I orbit her.

let me growi am growing

so let me go (on)- let me grow.

see how the seaweed hides away

in the snow?

don't go near the north,

i'll be hidden in the south (inwardly)

crushed between rocky dirt &

grassy swamps

some are ampersands & some are not.

but don't look for me in those swamps.

i am growing, so let me grow

you see i'm changing, so let it go

& i will not grow like moss

covering a stone- no

i will reach up like a tree

every stitch of wood woven in my bones.

reaching & stretching until i am

not my own.

the sky dwellers hide in the lockets of my

leafy hair, because i have made it-

i am there.

i am growing,

so let me go (on)

let me

enough's enough (i really need a change)i want to set fire to this stupid house
i want it to burn
i want to dance inside as it burns
it would be so beautiful

the lights flickering dancing across the walls
the flames dancing across the walls
the floor anything everything else they can reach
and me dancing in the middle of it all
in a burning room burning house burning home
until we were both just piles of ash
i want to be ash, i want it to burn, i want, i want

it would be so beautiful

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i write bad poetry.

by *Anatopist, Feb 24, 2013, 11:09:36 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratin
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but

Words will not
fall
from your mother-of-pearl lips
(willingly.)

Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more likely
a lack of poetic inspiration.

Today and yesterday and seven days before, you might have
prostituted your muses, a penny for your thoughts, looked with
cross-eyes at your empty lined pad of paper and then
wrote seven pages about a cloud you saw that eventually scattered
into dreamy folds and smoke.

The sky is blue.
The sky is big.
Apply 'the sky is the limit' cliche here.
Close notepad, exit stage left.}

918

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i write bad poetry.by *Anatopist

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for the first time ever, i have penned an ironic poem.
i go through phases of loving my work and thinking it is the best i could have done, then glaring at it and thinking 'why won't you sound like carol ann duffy? everyone likes carol ann duffy, even though her style and mine are different.' today i decided i would break myself out of that poetic dismay and write an ironic poem about poetry.
poem-ception.
this is not about me. i would never write 'the sky is blue.' it is never blue in england.

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Submitted on: February 24
File Size: 1.3 KB

Views: 918 (6 today)
Favourites: 88 (who?)
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Downloads: 40

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~DetoxingDeath May 5, 2013

I'd like to imagine it's because I'm so tired but I doubt any energy would bring proper praise from me so I'll leave you with a thank-you and the knowledge that you help.

*Anatopist May 25, 2013 Student Writer

I'm very glad you like it!

*thelanyi Apr 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Wow. I'm not usually a fan of poetry but this one made me stop and I'm very glad I read it.

*Anatopist Apr 28, 2013 Student Writer

I'm very glad you liked it, especially because you're not usually a fan. ^.^

=SilverInkblot Apr 27, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hello! Just a note to let you know that I've featured this piece in my journal

*Anatopist Apr 28, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you very much! C:

~KawaiiKoneko-Tan Mar 15, 2013

I really like this one.

*Anatopist Apr 26, 2013 Student Writer

Glad to hear.

=HillsOfMyst Mar 12, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Your fantastic work has been featured here!
I'd really appreciate it if you could give some love to the other features and

the journal

*Anatopist Apr 26, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you!

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i write bad poetry.by *Anatopist

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i write bad poetry.

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i write bad poetry.by *Anatopist

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