deepundergroundpoetry.com
i cry. nothing poetic.
the way you carry my name
makes me cry; i have nothing poetic
to speak, of, but i cry. ...
all my life....
i have worn thin
with veils and silk.skirts and chiffons,
trying to be this feminine thing.
but i am always blotted out.
living in my own glass interior.
my own half built body.
insubstantial as a mirage,
i tend to hover around beauty.
osmosis to a butterfly; ruing my hands.
they cannot make nor unmake the way i am.
they cannot feel or unfeel the way you are.
not enough.
pure white.
as improbable as belief, as the sound
of a stunning, the skin of a woman sans sun.
ghosted words, i am your universe in a way.
and when there is a tendency in me
to shake, i slip from where i sleep.
which i have always dreamed, blindingly, to be
in your arms, like a barely alive angel.
back to back to white.
i have nothing to say.
i am crying.
it feels like lifting hibiscus
from the hair of lazarus;
i braid myself in clouds booming
and unrelenting in their cold
rain to come and come and comfort my heated brain.
i think, there isn't a thing to speak.
my love doesn't do that.
it dies daily. rises again.
it spills, kills, and ills itself.
my love drains blood.
pale, dead and dry, like floods
less the water, it is your voice that thirsts for me.
i hear it sighing out of your shirt pocket.
and i cry.
i am unable to make
believe with the poets
or devour any hour of you, where you have been,
or have been not beside me, but inside me.
. .heavy bruise is my wordless heart.
it is not that my love is not. it is that it is only.
scent; austeria.
i feel like standing in for God
who made you this colossus, this crevasse,
so that i could fill you with whatever i am cause to.. ..
....God, who made me, this weeping fringe lunatic... .
this shocking heretic who longs to only know you,
the beauty in every ounce of me, my name
on the breaking eve of your tongue;
dawn, eden
not far,
not far. ...
i cry.
hold my name.
keep me from dark; own me to the light.
where i can be blazing. even in my keening,
spreading like gossip, like a girl gone
stumbling mad on the only path
she feels is you.
so little remains in my words.
a single breathing, like a bride.
i do. i do.
i am at this place where lace is language.
my words. my name. we are invisible. desirable.
the white craving is a moth on the mouth.
the eclipse of eternity, until....
i cry,
let me be your poetry,
i cry. nothing poetic.
makes me cry; i have nothing poetic
to speak, of, but i cry. ...
all my life....
i have worn thin
with veils and silk.skirts and chiffons,
trying to be this feminine thing.
but i am always blotted out.
living in my own glass interior.
my own half built body.
insubstantial as a mirage,
i tend to hover around beauty.
osmosis to a butterfly; ruing my hands.
they cannot make nor unmake the way i am.
they cannot feel or unfeel the way you are.
not enough.
pure white.
as improbable as belief, as the sound
of a stunning, the skin of a woman sans sun.
ghosted words, i am your universe in a way.
and when there is a tendency in me
to shake, i slip from where i sleep.
which i have always dreamed, blindingly, to be
in your arms, like a barely alive angel.
back to back to white.
i have nothing to say.
i am crying.
it feels like lifting hibiscus
from the hair of lazarus;
i braid myself in clouds booming
and unrelenting in their cold
rain to come and come and comfort my heated brain.
i think, there isn't a thing to speak.
my love doesn't do that.
it dies daily. rises again.
it spills, kills, and ills itself.
my love drains blood.
pale, dead and dry, like floods
less the water, it is your voice that thirsts for me.
i hear it sighing out of your shirt pocket.
and i cry.
i am unable to make
believe with the poets
or devour any hour of you, where you have been,
or have been not beside me, but inside me.
. .heavy bruise is my wordless heart.
it is not that my love is not. it is that it is only.
scent; austeria.
i feel like standing in for God
who made you this colossus, this crevasse,
so that i could fill you with whatever i am cause to.. ..
....God, who made me, this weeping fringe lunatic... .
this shocking heretic who longs to only know you,
the beauty in every ounce of me, my name
on the breaking eve of your tongue;
dawn, eden
not far,
not far. ...
i cry.
hold my name.
keep me from dark; own me to the light.
where i can be blazing. even in my keening,
spreading like gossip, like a girl gone
stumbling mad on the only path
she feels is you.
so little remains in my words.
a single breathing, like a bride.
i do. i do.
i am at this place where lace is language.
my words. my name. we are invisible. desirable.
the white craving is a moth on the mouth.
the eclipse of eternity, until....
i cry,
let me be your poetry,
i cry. nothing poetic.
Published 15th Aug 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 1
reading list entries 1
comments 2
reads 837
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
20th Dec 2013 1:40am
20th Dec 2013 1:50am
The originality of this poem is resounding. that aside, the simple, almost nonexistent, sense of light and loving in this poem is refreshing.
In this site, where poets are tempted to go dark and to leave readers with a quiet sense of hoplessness, it is refreshing, like i said, to come across this beatiful poetic piece you've written.
Thank you for a wonderful read nessbloo
In this site, where poets are tempted to go dark and to leave readers with a quiet sense of hoplessness, it is refreshing, like i said, to come across this beatiful poetic piece you've written.
Thank you for a wonderful read nessbloo
