[x]

FaithI love your belief in God.
 Not because it matches mine.  
Because it makes you even more beautiful to me.

  You are the dream I always wanted, but never had.  

(God likes to surprise me. Well, consider me surprised.)

It makes me want to sleep every single night by your side.
 I want to wrap my prayers around you.
 I want to press my lips to the segments of your body.  
If you asked, I would rest my head besides yours
 and dream your nightmares for you.

 (You shudder in your sleep. I don't think you know.)

In faith, I'll be your dreamcatcher.
In dreams, let me wis

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

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?

LustHis hands have a habit of finding my hip bones,
trailing his river like fingers along my stone smooth skin,
his lips do not move, his mouth tells me stories.

Mine spend their time
tracing the length and breadth
of his back in kisses*

We travel through lands that never existed
before we touched them
At temperatures far exceeding in Fahrenheit

If only we could understand
how lust and geography
make such divinely sinful bedmates.

____________________
* One hundred and sixteen

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.

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

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

Silence Never Suited Youliving in the dark
won't let you go blind

there's more to life than getting through

they say
there's a reason, somewhere
deep beneath the [depression,
deceit, doubt, dissonance, despair,
devastation and] dying
time-- piling up like unwanted
wreckage in waves, wasting
away at your feet

believe there's a reason, somewhere,
that was written just for you

try, it's so close to succeeding,
to remember the day
when death was something
less than a comfort
when a smile was something simple

life can't be choked down, those
thoughts weren't meant to be swallowed

you're so desperate not to be heard
quiet is a disguise for those
a

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

I'm still hereI'm still here
and I'll die
until you
need me!

I'm still here
just waiting
for you to
free me.

I'm still here
though I know
that you don't
need me.

I'm still here
and I want
you to
release me.

Sorry Then Safei
we like to play with fire.
as it eats away at our
insipid nature, and licks the
desolate consistency of our bones,
our inner cold is warmed.

you say that it reminds you
of my fevered eyes.

ii.
we make scarecrows into humans
into saviors, then tear them down again
for not cleansing out our wounds.
we forget they were only born
to keep the birds from
devouring us further.

and they watch, feebly, as we
fall face-first into our fate

iii.
you looked me dead in the eye
"we are all walking ghosts
waiting to die so we can live"

and your whitened hands became
a symbol of achievement

iv
we write our epitaphs the day we're c

deflourgod's
got a thing

for women in white dresses,

legs broken and
twisted

like the knot
of a dead man's
noose

little don't to alone
i want be
just to my own

the makers, the breakersif what
is imagined
is what
broken pieces
from echoes of stars
harmony, birthing
dischord in mind
of euphonious creation stitching
(we)
remnants together:
bone and water, light

then

(light, water
and bone)

together, remnants we,
euphonious of mind,
in dischord birthing harmony,
stars of echoes,
from pieces
broken:

what is imagined
is
what if.

Execution"Execution"

For my first execution I had a fusion of thoughts

Circling wildly in my head like the thief who was caught

And rendered helpless like a cat locked in a cage

But I knew I'd be forced to turn the other page

I walked onto the firing range with robotic eyes

And a clear mind so that I could be blind

To what I was about to do to this criminal at hand

I'm just going along with my job description's plans

If it wasn't for him we wouldn't even be

In this situation but for now currently

I had to execute this felon for the crimes that he did

Or else he'd commit more in time God forbid

I gripped the gun's handle as tightly as I co

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Just HandsSometimes when I write, I pause to study my hands. It isn't the long pianist's fingers I see first. It's not the man cut, chewed up nails. Or the fact that the middle finger on my right hand sometimes gets a ghosting pain that I have never understood.

(Arthritis plagues my family. I'd rather not understand the pain. Cowardice is a bitter pill to swallow.)

It's the stains of ink that I notice. Black, running into bruised bluish purple on the intersections. Those are the older marks. The newer ones are black that looks un natural wherever it lands. It makes me think of the eighteenth century, of Austen when she wrote. Or maybe, of darker time

About my Little ToeI almost broke my toe yesterday morning.

It's so terribly silly and I really don't want to take too much of your time. I do hope I'm not being a bother. I only want to talk to someone right now.

It's just that…I was running for my shoes. I was late for school, and I'm never late. Really, ask anyone…I have a perfect record for any sophomore at my school. But whilst I was running, I didn't notice the chair my mother had placed outside my bedroom door. She needs it, you see, she likes to sit there and work on her laptop. It was my fault entirely. I should be more careful. Anyway, it was only my little toe, not some major artery. And

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Undeserved

by *UntamedUnwanted, Sep 20, 2012, 8:59:02 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I 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 wishing for skin against my own
 I long for insomnia to inspire me.
 I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.

So am I writer really?
 Or just another misguided artist?

Undeservedby *UntamedUnwanted

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I hate being insecure about what I do. And I often am. So many people ask me whether I am an artist and I always say no, I am a writer. Are writers not artists? Why must there be so much of a distinction? Why is the world so narrow minded about the written word?

The above words are from people who were trying to tell me why the artist and writer is different. The first verse belongs to the people who tried to educate me. The second is my answer...and to be honest, I don't see the ideological difference between an artist and a writer or what makes one less than the other. We all just want to create...right?

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~symphonyoftheheart Jan 19, 2013 Student Traditional Artist

Neither. You are a true artist who is confused about who you are. And has no self confidence and artist can make you feel what they feel you can do that. You are an artist.

~jesus33chick Dec 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I believe that writing is just as much of an art as painting, sculpting, photographing, drawing, singing, performing, and animating. Art is a general term used to categorize the hundreds of thousands of areas of creativity enjoyed by the people around the world.
Painting, sculpting, photography, drawing, and performing are all forms of visual art, whereas instrument-playing and singing are forms of aural art. Poetry, lyrics, stories, and novels are simply of another art medium.
If that is where your insecurities lie, don't fret. Writers are artists, by my definition, and an artist is a person who creates. If you create, you are an artist.

Nonetheless, this is an amazing piece of art. I love the thought behind it and the struggle through the realm of am I an artist? Keep up the beautiful artwork!!!

~NotenSMSK Nov 18, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Insecurities. I won't go into my own experience with insecurities but from your words it seems that your wounds go deeper still. But coming to the topic... well written work. I like the way you have stated the two minds although I would not deny that I prefer a work being self explanatory - without a description but then again, this was probably more of an outlet than a work to be published.

The distinction between an artist or writer? I feel writer is a subset of an artist and so all writers are artists since art is defined in that way. When a person reads your work out aloud, it sounds really wonderful. I love the expressions it has conveyed and the way it addresses the people who have had similar experiences.

Hope you manage to conquor your insecurities... at least some of them. After all... not all fears are easy to face...

~musiclover422 Oct 28, 2012

i feel you, its hard struggling with the insecurities. but to me literature is art, it creates another world to see just like a picture or drawing, because you are a writer you are def an artist

~imaterribledrawer Oct 16, 2012

If you can move a stranger in a deep and meaningful way with art, you don't need to be able to have a conversation with them.

~silvioricardonelli Oct 16, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

este poema me apasiona; porque todos tenemos altibajos y nos consideramos a nosotros mismos buenos en lo que hacemos ... o no, pero lo hacemos. Ser escritor para mí es un motivo de vida, es poder expresar lo que no hablo con nadie, lo que está latente en mí y no sale de otra forma que no sea la escritura ... seas bueno o malo, para calificar eso está la gente; ¿qué pienso de tus poemas? que son excelentes.

~drawformyne Oct 12, 2012 Student General Artist

An artist is a person that do art.It does'nt really matter what kind of art

~tiraluv Oct 12, 2012

hmm... i'm going to write something now. You've made me think. I do love that about you. Your poignance always inspires me to write something. Not particulary on the topic you've written, but on the emotions and thoughts that your writing pulled to the surface. Your writing makes me feel things so deeply that I must write. My soul can't help but fall onto paper when my emotions are so clear, so pure. I'd try to explain it better, but I have a feeling that you get it. You're a writer too. But we are also artists. Yet, the proof of art is in our souls and the souls that we touch. Most people don't believe something until they see it, no matter how much they feel it. It's their loss. Kudos to you for being in league with the wind.

~Jamesthemagicaljelly Oct 9, 2012

A writer is so much more than an artist in my mind. Not because writing is more or less difficult than creating a masterpiece of clay or oil and canvas, but because a writer creates a masterpiece in your mind and takes you places no one else ever can. They take a seemingly simple concept or idea and make it something that has so much more meaning and depth than you ever dreamed. A truly great writer will take an idea, shape it to their will, and use it to leave a lasting and permanent mark on who you are. So, in my mind, at least, writers are indeed artists. For me, writers have a much greater impact on me than any painter or sculptor.

~jesus33chick Dec 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I love to hear that some people see writing that way. It's so hard to find people in this generation that actually appreciate written art like you seem to. I'm a hardcore reader and I write whenever I get the chance (although schoolwork has held me back in the last few months). My books take me places and I can never quite seem to find my way back to reality, not completely. It's like a little piece of me will always be left in Narnia, so to speak. Every book I've ever read stays with me, and I find that the most beautiful art galleries exist as libraries.

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