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lowercasei carve insignificant poetry into my tongue
and hope the world will pardon the lack of
bated silence, for i write in nothing but
despondent screams and uppercase;
i've forgotten how to let everything go
and i'm tired of my incessant howling,
because it seems to me that the quiet
words are the ones that are the most
heard.

water-colour emotions
you can't buy happiness, but you can buy tea, and thats kind of the same thing. i've been told that i have a knot inside my chest,
like those of the inside of a tree truck, eternally circling and looping. thats kind of how it feels, heavy and unstoppable.
if i have a tree inside me, then maybe that could explain the shaking, its just the westerly winter winds blowing and
making my far too fragile limbs bend but never break. i soak the tea leaves into the roots that are deep within my
fleshy heart and hope the capillaries will carry to wherever the aches are most ingrained and unnatural.

mother told me thr

The Prince of MothsI dreamt myself a Prince of Moths
Upon a brittle autumn leaf;
And, though a novice in my state
Of wings and things, I found I took
Quite readily: I fashioned up
A crown of thorns and glittering moss,
With a pile of blossoms, laced with webs
And iridescent spiders’ legs,
With feathers glossed with gossamer
And freckled dew of violet hue.
Thus decked, I leaped and left my leaf,
And viewed myself in silver pools;
And reasoned that a moth like I,
Of state and breeding, should desire
Estate and wealth, and thus acquire
An industry and beauteous bride.
I fashioned in a hollow tree
A quarry for the ants to mine,
With beetles as their keepers,

SimbelmyneThere is silence here, upon
stale skull tombs—
these everminds are stilling...

(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)

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

sea featherin the breaking of the morning we tore apart our ivory shells
our blood-red hearts are saturated in spume & sea spells
with the ache from the brine gathering around you
your ankles slippery, your mouth
moving liquid through
mine
i had never seen a more beautiful shoreline

gunmetal breaths
on shivering, silver shores

you were ebbing to my flowing
you were coming; i was going

i wrote in the sand that i was yours

on the coast i could feel
salt on my tongue - dew from the
ocean in my lungs
& i was your pearl
latched from the inside to keep everyone out
speaking in rhymes, & cotton tides

this is when you pull my body fro

just wave goodbye                               dearest,
    today        i was
         the ocean.
                 i tried to
   reach the
          forest but
       could only get
    as far as sand before the
cratered moon pulled me back again.

           ankles
       the     of

on watching the night close its eyes on you1. I will not tell you
you are pretty.

How can the halls and angles of such honest humanity
be so pinched between sounds as elementary as these?

2. You need not be two stringent boughs of syllables
nor weave your viney bones abreast these five petty letters,
whirling in the fire of the river
Styx.
Do not attempt to peel yourself layer for layer,
leaving all the disgust behind.
Do not tally your body six &

Divination as a Means of Finding a Way Back              1.  I say nothing I am thinking.

For twelve years I have wanted
to do exactly this, but suddenly
pronouncing my own name calls up
the question of who it belongs to
in the same breath Like
Solomon I was born a singer
but in the wrong key and my
chords will not carry me, will not
summon the wolves to me only
packs of hungry dogs
stupid with domestication
but nearly feral And like
a hungry ghost I have learned
not to speak against those
who will give me food

             2. A sketch of myself.

                                 He says I must have been born
in the wrong culture, he says. I got a taste of
the crack

Euphrosynedawn.

legs splash from milky sheets.
she rises from the bed like a wave
and crests, just before bare feet touch wood
and fog crawls across the mirror.

midmorning.

footsteps leave damp prints on the floor.
she sings in muted tendrils that float through
hollow rooms.
the sun dries her hair with copper fingers.

noon.

the shadows bunch beneath her feet
and she tosses them across the sky-
painting clouds over the staring sun.
mile-long legs stretch across the world
and she
makes love to the hand-me-down earth.

afternoon.

her quickened breath becomes the wind
and sails ships across the seven seas.

dusk.

when the sun grows w

magnolia nights and ivory starsi.
i threw the stars out into the cosmos & used my fish hooks to hang the moon too; hide the sun from wanting eyes beneath the zaffre mountains (look how they sleep) painting the night (wisteria) with such grace.

ii.
for who could know the wonder growing a pair of antlers can bring for a small child. time to decorate [find what you can]: shattered compasses, gears [never do they turn], maybe glitter. look how pretty she is with her elegant horns- all isabelline white & with its specks of fallow & teeth splashed with honeydew [no makeup] & a compass too many to show her the many ways to make mistakes.

iii.
has anyone ever wondered how a but

Why I Don'tWe are too permanent
for the transience of poetry,
each brief line speeding on toward
the next at breakneck speed.
And I have never been one for writing
epics, you know that.

ChromesthesiaI
I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge.

II
I have seen the li

catch me if you cani'd like to smear ashes
over bloody heathen lips
and twist burnt corsages
around the maypole.

this rotten witch's heart
would love to curse you all.

disease has never looked so
lovely, i do declare, crawling
up your blistering limbs.

in case you are not aware—
love kills slowly, but revenge tastes so sweet,
so i'll just tip-toe off of this cliff
and embrace the beast awaiting for me below.

phoenix rising,
sunlight fading;

we
all
fall
down.

Davaothe equatorial sun
soft-etched on my skin,
there, del sur

islands away

the tan lines of shallow-bathing
in your eyes

there is so much time between

you
and
I

you spoil me, featherbreath
do i dare commit my memory
into dreams?

i laugh upon waking,
i did not realize--
i run when i go to you

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AquariusShe is the winter's heart
and a January zephyr—
amethyst ankles frozen in time.

(eleven stars circulate her glacial ribs)

Forever shin-deep in the seas of
a conformed humanity,
she shall always sanctify the stains.

Acta Est Fabula ~1~ [Dragon!Rome x Reader]I tend not to despise many things.

In fact, I would call myself extremely accepting of almost every incident that happens to pass through my life. Yes, I may be living on the edge of a village that swims in poverty; and yes, I am alone due to the fact that my parents were killed long ago in a bandit raid in our old village. Every day may be redundant and food is at times a problem, but I’m still alive. That alone is enough to make me keep my spirits high, correct? Even though there are times when the villagers can be utter ruffians and think me a witch or something equally as horrendous due to the fact that I’m good with cats and

AbsenceShe used to lie awake all night
consuming letters with voracity;
it was the utopian lair she created
to slip away from the turbulent world.

Only too soon she learned
that you can't always hide
within parchment crevices.

(reality always finds you)

Even now, when she yearns to fall between printed canyons,
she can't help but curse those passive and lethargic days;

"It's too damn easy to fall in love with words on a page."

Last night,I broke every bone in my body
so I could have a reason to drown
in the isolated ocean inside me.

And then,
when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,
I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.

Only glass-edged skin
and salt-licked eyelashes
can help me now.

are my words poetic enough for you?maybe not.

because i will never be the fire-hearted girl with remedial stardust lips,
dancing with the astral wolves that hunt beneath her moon-kissed skin,
with the courage to plant wilting lilacs into every crippled soul she finds.

but what if they were?

then i would be the ink blots coating the archives of humankind,
the fractured jewel tucked away in a catastrophic dragon's chest,
and the lyric every mismatched bone engraves into their marrow.

if only.

Howling For TreacheryI wish I could live
on nothing but air;
killing the hunger
to consume every
improvised lie.

(Maybe all along,
I've been the wolf in
sheep's clothing.)

Why is it that when
I exercise my own
feeble infallibility,
these fangs just
continue to hone
on fraudulence?

(It's too painful
to continue howling
at this contorted reflection.)

Yet every time
I take an ax to
exterminate the
counterfeit beast,
its claws just leave
another patch of
scars on the inside
of my skin to remind
me just what I am.

(The girl who cried wolf

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Witch Oil

by *PrussianPersephone, Mar 6, 2013, 10:53:16 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

There's magma boiling in her frostbitten veins;
incandescent pixie dust and
soot-stained stars,
sluggishly making its way through
a childish heart — wishing for one last chance
to spread her wings and soar to
Neverland.

Witch Oilby *PrussianPersephone

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

©2013 *PrussianPersephone

The term 'witch oil' comes from His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman. It's a phrase the Gyptians use to describe Lyra. If you've read them, you may understand why I used it. And then you'll understand this. If you haven't read them, well...here's a little hint: adolescence and adulthood fight against one another most of the series. In this poem...I'll just say the same sort of thing is happening.

Random burst of poetry is random.

Daily Deviation

Given 2013-04-19

Witch Oil by *PrussianPersephone Suggester Writes: Brimming with stunning imagery and imagination. ( Suggested by =HillsOfMyst and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

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~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Joy

~RoseScarlet Apr 22, 2013 Student Writer

So beautiful^^ The DD was well deserved!

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*PrussianPersephone Apr 23, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much

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~RoseScarlet Apr 23, 2013 Student Writer

Very welcome

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*GentlemanAnachronism Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Short, sharp, beautiful. And 'soot-stained stars' is a bloody brilliant image.

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*PrussianPersephone Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much! I like that line.

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=Sammur-amat Apr 19, 2013 General Artist

Congratulations on the DD, dear heart!

<3 <3 <3

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*PrussianPersephone Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you soooo much, Dee!

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=Sammur-amat May 1, 2013 General Artist

You are soo very welcome, sugar!

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~13devilgirl13 Apr 19, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

I totally love this.

Reply

*PrussianPersephone Apr 20, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks!

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