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UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.
 I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
 I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost. 
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
 I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
 I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world. 
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.

But I do think I am a writer.
 I am completely, irreparably damaged.
 I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
 I weep over my lost innocence. 
I spend nights

City of LightYou are my city.

Your eyes are the gates,
Your soul is my transport
Your veins the roads I must travel.

You should never ever be afraid
of my knowing you too well.
Or of my being too close to you.

 After all,
 Can you ever,
Even after living your whole life in it, 
Know a city too well?

Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.

My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and

You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.

She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.

Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She

About Honour"Ever worried about what the world thought of you?"

"Nope. I only worry about what I think of me."

"What do you think about you?"

"That I am a broken-eyed, converse-reject-wearing wise ass."

"Really? And what do you call yourself?"

"I call me proud."

"Oh."

"What do you call yourself?"

"I am the grade school version of the heartbroken girl, who can't play the guitar so she strums a ukulele instead, who can't paint so she draws terrible pictures in graphite that keeps giving way."

"I see you doing it again. Put the fucking pen down right now and stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Doing that."

"What? I was just writin-"

"You're cutting yoursel

A Snowfall CandlelitMy version of winter has always been flawed. It is controlled by the fall of snow and the exact amount of the ground it covers. It never ever covers the tiny little patch in the garden, right near the broken tin roofed shed. I suppose that is why I just like the idea of snow. But I do not love it.

(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)

I met a man with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking his very essence.

(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if

After Words"I wish you would give it back to me."

"Why? You'll just break it again."

"It's my heart. I will do whatever the hell I want with it."

"Yeah? Well, you take terrible care of things that are yours."

"Fine. Keep it. I am equal parts concrete and soul anyway."

"You say that, but I'm not entirely sure that you are. I think you're deep, and fragile and broken, and that makes you beautiful."

"Again, concrete and soul. "

"I wish you wouldn't make this so hard."

"So hard? I'm making this easy. You gave me dreams of half feathered swans and a stupid house on an endless beach and a city made of an ocean, and now you're taking it all away. But a

Crayon SoulmatesDear Stars,

I have a bone to pick with you. You see, when I was six, I called myself the nowhere girl... and I coloured myself a soulmate. I made him on crumpled sheets, with broken pieces of crayon, on a playground that was too busy wondering whether growing up entailed stealing your mother's cigarettes and your father's dirty magazines (I suppose I was already wise enough to know that growing up meant choosing one of the many ways of breaking yourself in two.)

I hope you remember him, stars...he was important to me (My mother threw that drawing away on my seventh birthday and told me that girls are not supposed to have such dreams.).

He

Turn Loose the Mermaids1.

"Turn loose the mermaids," you demand this angrily, clenching your fists you do when you really mean it, "Turn them loose now!" You're yelling at Ursula and her trident as she grows into a shocking sea monster.

(Outside the waves agree with you. Turn them loose, they crash against the metal in the righteous indignation of the sea. Turn them loose!)

At some point your mother will watch this with you. She will wonder why you revolt for the mermaids when there are none on the screen.

(I cannot get them to turn loose the mermaids if I cannot get them to turn me loose first.)

2.

You have always known what you wanted to do with your life.

Online"I have a problem."

"You always were a worrier."

"Don't you want to know what it is?"

"Not if it's going to worry me as well."

"That's precisely why you should know it."

"I really think I'll pass."

"But-"

"No."

"…"

"Thank you."

"But…this time it's a really big deal."

"Oh for the love of- All right. All right. You win. What is it?"

"What did you think the first time you met me?"

"That's not a problem, that's a question."

"I know."

"How am I supposed to answer it exactly?"

"I don't know if your mother explained this to you, but all you have to do is open your mouth and words-"

"Shut it, smart ass."

"Then answer the q

In ThreesI was armed with half a deck of emotions, two thirds of a heart and eyes of a broken mirror that offered no protection to my soul. I wanted to talk about it often and whenever I needed to, the words would tangle in my mouth, come out as a compliment of a shirt, an idea that had no relevance, a conversation about the weather. I was eighteen. I wanted to be stronger, brilliant, bright like a comet in the sky. Instead, I learnt about how beds could be the most loathed places in the world, bathrooms were meant to be soaked in blood...and men with eyes like knives sometimes used them against people they loved.

I was armed with shards of strength,

The Past, The FutureDo you remember when you were little and your best friend told you she didn't want to be friends anymore? It hurts like something was nesting on your heart and had clawed its way into your soul. There is an childish elegance to the sadness that you assumed only existed for grown ups when they talk about grown up things. In the glorious contant of humanity, the existence of her will corrode and become a faded memory that you will only remember when you hurt again.

And then you will lose your dog, your best friend, your confidant. It will happen suddenly and you will be left with nothing but the hole in your heart of a lost companion who you a

Hemingway Would Hate ThisThe trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth.

He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent o

Body Speak, Mouth Don't."I need a favour. You got a minute?"

No. No I don't.
My heart feels ripped out of my chest and trampled on too often.
My ears open to screams in the morning.
My eyes close crying every night.
My mind always turns dreams into nightmares.
My lungs contract too soon for me to catch my breath.
My worries far outweigh my years.
My brain feels overworked, overwrought, so tired.
My stomach cramps every night and I curl up in pain.
My knees weaken often but I'm still standing.
My mouth goes dry and I can't speak.
My hands dampen because I have too much to think about.
My bones feel weaker than they ever have before.

But I don't think it

GluttonHis caramel covered fingers caress my coffee skin
An epiphany aged in its own beautiful winery,  
A honeyed breath drawn in a moment so heated,
Its oven like intensity roasting any kind of chastity.  

Irreverently juicy, pleasingly sinful,
Succulently divine in its every form
Lovemaking at its most beautiful…
Moans that echo sheer gluttony.

I never knew passion was edible,
nor lust so delicious in its impassioned call 
Until he showed me why chocolate
is the most deadly sin of them all.

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Trust IssuesWhat if the reason your phone is busy is because you were talking to another girl?
What if the reason you are out is because you're picking up someone else?
What if the girl you insist is just a friend is something a hell of a lot more?
What if the reason you looked at your ex's profile online was because you miss her?
What if the conversation we just had was in front of another woman and you both laughed at me?
What if the trip I've taken is a way for you to run off with someone else?
What if you are so dead inside from the women who have cheated on you, that you just don't think much of it if you do it to me?
What if you don't care i

Words and Meanings

You must understand that I am a writer. I am not a pragmatist. When I say that I love you, my feelings are far deeper and far more complicated. When I say I would die for you, my idea of death is twisted and not made of any form of repentence at all. When I say I would kill for you, it's not just metaphorical or metaphysical murder I speak of.

But when I say I find you more poignant than the moment I stood above Mary Shelly's grave, tears streaming down my cheeks, overwhelmed by the emotions that welled inside my body...then I must find you very poignant indeed.

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Submitted: November 1, 2012
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by *UntamedUnwanted, Nov 1, 2012, 3:38:15 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

"Tell me what you think."

"Of the poem?"

"No, of my face. Yes, the poem."

"I was going to say, because your face is just stupid."

"Very funny. Read."

"..."

"What did you think?"

"Why did you write this?"

"I wrote it for you."

"For me?"

"Yes."

"You make me self conscious when you say things like that."

"I know."

"I'm not worth this you know."

"What does that mean?"

"I am half a girl, and I deserve half a poem."

"That is not true, and you still haven't told me what you really thought about it."

"It's as broken and complex and half hearted as a sad song about the way you feel ink trail between your fingers like it's blood. There is no reason for it, it's the kind of beautiful that is there just for being there. It happened, it's a moment in time forever frozen and to be remembered in a way that candles that burn in holy places should be. It's a forever, all by itself- Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because you believe you deserve half a poem."

"I do. I am too damaged and broken and unhinged to deserve a full one."

"You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets."

Constructive Criticismby *UntamedUnwanted

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

I am so fortunate to find a boy who loves poetry as much as I do. And I am even more fortunate that he and I can actually find inspiration in each other.

My K. You are the Knight I was looking for all this time. I wrote about you long before you came into my life. Thank you for being my poetry writing, soul baring, four spined boy. I mean everything I said. I would never ever change a hair on your head.

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love 12 12

joy 1 1

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

fear 1 1

neutral 1 1

~NonsenseQueen Apr 16, 2013 Student Writer

I have no idea what it is about pieces only made of dialogue, but I love them. I especially love this one. The plot was great and the rising action and climax where very well done. In fact, I take it back, the rising action was fantastic. It just kept building and buildingn up to this awesome climaz, and wow, great job right there. You also manage to reveal the characters (especially the boy) in a wonderful way, and only through dialogue. Great job!

~theolivethief14 Jan 22, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

This is so beautiful

~CindyJade Jan 6, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

This is so adorable! I'm happy that you've found someone worthwhile and with whom you can share your passion. I wish you two a lifetime of happiness!

~SteffenC-itsjustme Jan 4, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I don't think I've ever gotten that response "I am not worth this", when I've given something I've written to a girlfriend..don't know if that's a comment on my writing skills, the girlfriends I've had or the relationships I've had with them..hmm. But I digress.

I love the poem and how it's tied together at the end. Showing the depth within the person receiving the poem, which lets us know that the person is definately worth the poem..very nice.

and I'm so happy for you. I love to read about a love like that <3

~SweetsAndCharades Dec 11, 2012

=HillsOfMyst Dec 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is so beautiful

Anyone who can write like this certainly deserves a whole poem. Or two.

*UntamedUnwanted Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much!!

~MintyMintamin Nov 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

i'm glad you found someone in this world. . .
i wish you will have, as the story goes, a happy ending.

you deserve that, and much much more.

take care, may the balance of life feel fit to welcome you in its arms. . .

*UntamedUnwanted Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so very much for your lovely words.

~MintyMintamin Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

You are welcome, my dear.
I wondered if, you'll come back from the dream of reality, but I dare not wish to let you surface, for it does sound like a dream. A dream that you shouldn't wake up half-finished.

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