Gods are cruel.
And we are broken sparrows,
Caught under black wheels, long gone.
Our bones are crushed into the road.
Feathers melt into the tar of the asphalt,
Scorching in august heat.
You are my moth and I am your glass jar.
Stay with me and be young.
Be with me and stay young.
Colour will not fade.
Breathe will not falter.
Love will last.
The skin beneath mine is misplaced and incorrect
Only because it is not yours.
Sometimes,
It's enough to open my eyes and see not yours but his.
This won't make you love me again.
The words left behind in my mouth dig cavities in my teeth.
Shrill is the rabbit white noise you pull from
those words have become lost,
or not lost,
perhaps congealed,
concealed,
incased in diamonds that hang as a chandelier
in a hollow belly.
the night and stars were ours
as we were gods.
for years we were drunk
looming among strangers,
wanting our names and ages and faces and lips and tongues.
who could blame them,
thick fingers grabbing for something that was not theirs to have.
we gave so graciously.
in the reassurance of tides I find myself okay.
without a stomach threatening to throw itself away
or a mind burning out memories in small circles like cigarettes on photographs.
white lies and unstained secrets are not there.
If I could,
I would split open this face with one wretched crack.
Like those lullaby boxes that we found in your attic, stiff from the rust and rotting.
Let my jawbone hang lazy, from its hinges, below this sore skull.
Soft sounds, lamenting nothing but scorch marks, cave drawings, etched deep into the parched walls of my throat.
Let the scarlet parade down my neck in warm velvet curtains, collecting in pools between the swellings of skin due to careless use or collar bones.
Teeth, once a powerful barricade now loose and yellow tomb stones, holding no remorse for this tired tongue.
I find myself desperately trying to carve things in yo
drown a little slower by hostofthemaze, literature
Literature
drown a little slower
There are diamonds in my throat that stuff me like corks. Filling my ribs with the air of words I don't know how to say. I end up with porcelain mouths filled with the black tar from too many cigarettes and too little care. I can feel the poisonous acid of loathing towards everything I had thought I wanted, brewing in this empty belly. Joints in my fingers tremble and clash creating mountains where my knuckles should be. Swollen, chapped, pieces of skin that bloom black, blue and red like mid Atlantic sunsets. Flesh, pulling tight as cellophane over broken bones. And in my eyes are butterflies that cannot fly and don't deny the sterling silve
That which does not kill us only makes us stronger.
Have we become stronger?
Have we learned from our loses,
And climbed to new heights with wounded yet reborn minds?
Fresh yet old minds.
Burnt and scared and hardened by the harsh winds of reality.
Soft and broken open, fresh out of our shell that held us so naive until now.
Though,
From what I have seen,
It might be safer to assume that what does not kill us
bites our nails to ragged ends,
And pulls hairs out from our sore heads.
Sets the trembling in our knees
That jolt up so quickly in anxiety,
Responding to each slight sound.
From what I have seen,
What does not kill us
I
Like Ten Thousand Dying Stars by hostofthemaze, literature
Literature
Like Ten Thousand Dying Stars
The sunflower leaned down and kissed my face.
Freckles blossomed
where lipstick stains should have been left behind.
On my tiptoes, I reach up to kiss her back
But with legs too long my lips meet the clouds and are dampened by their
crocodile tears.
Orchestras from beneath my toes play music that swims in the air,
thick as the scent of cinnamon and wood fire.
Light as smoke I lift off the ground to dance ballet across the city's skyline.
The people bellow do not scream or shout
They merely look up with blank expressions
As though maybe they had been expecting me.
Tangerine water colours decorate the sky.
The paints, still wet,
Sleeping in melancholy corners and whispering little things into the shadows, we are the dust under your toes. Tumbling down from grey skies, hitting and kissing your sour sweet faces looking up in remorse, we are the rain in the air. Clotting colour under your nails and knuckles, constant reminders of lingering woe, we are the inspiration swelling in your skull. We gather your secrets, collected in pockets. We're the invisible actions, the stuttering words, the ignorant violence, and unguarded angst. We are the blank page that directions your thoughts into mindless, exquisite, bone raw emotion.
Kick some sense into this skull,
these walls lament me songs without.
Bone-white fingers.
Chipped-tile teeth.
Clotting colour under nails are
consistant reminders
of lingering woe.
Collapsed faces at closed doors.
We are born this way.
Expected grins,
and
Friendly fingers.
That hunger you feel,
in the depths of your gut,
And throat,
And teeth,
And tongues.
That will never cease to be.
The horror
Is not in our powder,
Our bottles,
Our pills.
It is not in our knives,
Or guns,
Or bombs.
The horror is buried deep,
so very deep,
into the very core of our own
Dear
Little
Skeletons.
We sin.
We envy, we greed, w
Gods are cruel.
And we are broken sparrows,
Caught under black wheels, long gone.
Our bones are crushed into the road.
Feathers melt into the tar of the asphalt,
Scorching in august heat.
You are my moth and I am your glass jar.
Stay with me and be young.
Be with me and stay young.
Colour will not fade.
Breathe will not falter.
Love will last.
The skin beneath mine is misplaced and incorrect
Only because it is not yours.
Sometimes,
It's enough to open my eyes and see not yours but his.
This won't make you love me again.
The words left behind in my mouth dig cavities in my teeth.
Shrill is the rabbit white noise you pull from
those words have become lost,
or not lost,
perhaps congealed,
concealed,
incased in diamonds that hang as a chandelier
in a hollow belly.
the night and stars were ours
as we were gods.
for years we were drunk
looming among strangers,
wanting our names and ages and faces and lips and tongues.
who could blame them,
thick fingers grabbing for something that was not theirs to have.
we gave so graciously.
in the reassurance of tides I find myself okay.
without a stomach threatening to throw itself away
or a mind burning out memories in small circles like cigarettes on photographs.
white lies and unstained secrets are not there.
If I could,
I would split open this face with one wretched crack.
Like those lullaby boxes that we found in your attic, stiff from the rust and rotting.
Let my jawbone hang lazy, from its hinges, below this sore skull.
Soft sounds, lamenting nothing but scorch marks, cave drawings, etched deep into the parched walls of my throat.
Let the scarlet parade down my neck in warm velvet curtains, collecting in pools between the swellings of skin due to careless use or collar bones.
Teeth, once a powerful barricade now loose and yellow tomb stones, holding no remorse for this tired tongue.
I find myself desperately trying to carve things in yo
drown a little slower by hostofthemaze, literature
Literature
drown a little slower
There are diamonds in my throat that stuff me like corks. Filling my ribs with the air of words I don't know how to say. I end up with porcelain mouths filled with the black tar from too many cigarettes and too little care. I can feel the poisonous acid of loathing towards everything I had thought I wanted, brewing in this empty belly. Joints in my fingers tremble and clash creating mountains where my knuckles should be. Swollen, chapped, pieces of skin that bloom black, blue and red like mid Atlantic sunsets. Flesh, pulling tight as cellophane over broken bones. And in my eyes are butterflies that cannot fly and don't deny the sterling silve
That which does not kill us only makes us stronger.
Have we become stronger?
Have we learned from our loses,
And climbed to new heights with wounded yet reborn minds?
Fresh yet old minds.
Burnt and scared and hardened by the harsh winds of reality.
Soft and broken open, fresh out of our shell that held us so naive until now.
Though,
From what I have seen,
It might be safer to assume that what does not kill us
bites our nails to ragged ends,
And pulls hairs out from our sore heads.
Sets the trembling in our knees
That jolt up so quickly in anxiety,
Responding to each slight sound.
From what I have seen,
What does not kill us
I
Like Ten Thousand Dying Stars by hostofthemaze, literature
Literature
Like Ten Thousand Dying Stars
The sunflower leaned down and kissed my face.
Freckles blossomed
where lipstick stains should have been left behind.
On my tiptoes, I reach up to kiss her back
But with legs too long my lips meet the clouds and are dampened by their
crocodile tears.
Orchestras from beneath my toes play music that swims in the air,
thick as the scent of cinnamon and wood fire.
Light as smoke I lift off the ground to dance ballet across the city's skyline.
The people bellow do not scream or shout
They merely look up with blank expressions
As though maybe they had been expecting me.
Tangerine water colours decorate the sky.
The paints, still wet,
Sleeping in melancholy corners and whispering little things into the shadows, we are the dust under your toes. Tumbling down from grey skies, hitting and kissing your sour sweet faces looking up in remorse, we are the rain in the air. Clotting colour under your nails and knuckles, constant reminders of lingering woe, we are the inspiration swelling in your skull. We gather your secrets, collected in pockets. We're the invisible actions, the stuttering words, the ignorant violence, and unguarded angst. We are the blank page that directions your thoughts into mindless, exquisite, bone raw emotion.
Kick some sense into this skull,
these walls lament me songs without.
Bone-white fingers.
Chipped-tile teeth.
Clotting colour under nails are
consistant reminders
of lingering woe.
Collapsed faces at closed doors.
We are born this way.
Expected grins,
and
Friendly fingers.
That hunger you feel,
in the depths of your gut,
And throat,
And teeth,
And tongues.
That will never cease to be.
The horror
Is not in our powder,
Our bottles,
Our pills.
It is not in our knives,
Or guns,
Or bombs.
The horror is buried deep,
so very deep,
into the very core of our own
Dear
Little
Skeletons.
We sin.
We envy, we greed, w
I've been falling ill lately.
Making mself sick.
I've spent hours curling and crawling and moaning awful things
begging for a hospital bed.
I can't be in this place anymore.
I can't stand these people.
All of you, this time.
The things you say to me.
Hammering my face in with lies
that hit my skull as hard as bricks.
The walls of my mouth are always bleeding now.
My teeth taste metalic.
I can't sleep anymore
I just lay on different floors in different rooms and look at the ceiling.
So many people have died recently.
Sometimes I think I want help.
But usually I just want to crush your head against cement and spit out all my sil
No,
I don't want to care.
and I don't want to grow up.
Don't tell me how to fucking live.
I'll throw my temper tantrums and not give a fuck about anyone other than me.
I'll start every sentence with 'I'.
I'll write something angry about it later.
I would blame poor parenting if they weren't such wonderful folks.
These things are my fault;
-Two stolen computers.
-One broken TV.
-Half a million dollars in gold lost to sticky fingers.
-A boy in Jail.
-A girl in the Hospital.
-6 thousand dollar glass art shattered.
-On the front lawn are 52 viles of crack cocaine.
-In the pool are twelve bottles of Absolut Vodka.
-Bruised and