[x]

BuriedUnder the paprika house,
are the bones of my father
and nestled between rib
and reason, is our love.

Thy lips are warmOf all the words that mouth at love
and soften it with tongue and tooth
None will ever justify this breakage.
Never will there be diction enough
To make a heart salve, or tears unwept.

There will never be a word of woe
That suits to the shape of the thing.
Though many mouths may speak
of love and all her many expressions
airs, graces and confabulations.

None will correlate the meaning truly
how I loved for him, and he not for me.

The Bone CollectorSometimes my breath catches in my throat
and the very stillness of an earth going
a thousand and three miles per hour
gets lodged there.

Sometimes these simple exchanges
leave me breathless, croaking on dust:
the unfiltered pigments of other people's skin
and blood and ash

but with my tarred lungs and itchy eyes
I sit and sift through charcoaled remains,
alphabetising them from c to c. I am lost
in a world charred brazen.

Many things I have loved have turned to ash.
Many people. I was naive enough to think
that there was some perfect nutritional truth
that could outlast hell-fire.

I claw through a world turned ashen
and know those dead

In absence of a poem.I chewed my pen to the nib
and swallowed the ink thoughtlessly,
but no matter how long I thought,
I couldn't say what you mean to me.

I tried, I tried and I tested,
every word in my diminutive range,
but I screwed up more pieces of paper
and happened upon something strange;

I noticed words, which have served me,
for all of my formative years,
had no power to convey my gratitude
for the times that you dried my tears.

Whenever I doubt myself (often),
You're the one who tells me I'm wrong
You lift up my chin and remind me, wait
for the good things that will come along.

I can't find a way to express how
you are the saving grace in my head.
So

Undying LoveShe screams, pain holding her, hands holding her hair and pulling tight, each strand reins to her conscious will. The drugs running through her system become a geas, an imposition stemming from the necessity in her soul.

The tetter barked and shouted it's way down her arms, her misery congealing in her wrists and at her throat, forming a lump that pressed down weightily on her trachea until clawing a breath in was more effort than she had energy for. She choked on a sob and the angular bite of the sound released some of the tension. She fell.

The beige, tiled floor rose to greet her decrepit, falling form. Undone, as if a string on her soul

Star-writHear me read it!

It is nebulonic fate that we should dance
together in this burning bald ballroom
as the flames lick up the sepiatic walls
and drip curled paper down upon us.

It is our right to spin each other here
in the torrentous reign of flames and ash
as the chandelier, already hanging,
spits and sparks at us, trying to take us too;

and as everything we ever loved or cherished
in porcelain veneer or hand-crafted sycamore
crumbles to a close, still the thought remains-
that it is our star-writ fate to dance on.

Framed[ I met him at the county fair.
It wasn't like the songs predicted;
I had mud up my shins and he
had grass in his hair. What a mess. ]

[ I kissed him at my grandma's house.
He swallowed me and digested me;
I became a part of his simmering self.
We fused together, and I died. ]

[ I married him in a triangular church,
When I turned up in white he grinned
and whispered "what, no muddy knees?".
I put a leaf from my bouquet in his hair. ]

[ He kissed her at my grandma's house.
She had left it to us when she passed.
In the house where I'd learned about love
he taught me all I know about betrayal. ]

[ He left me at the train station.
I'd helped

The White ThingsNothing is as far away as a minute ago.
No matter how hard you row against the tide
we can never reach it, never return there.

It's hard to sleep in the light of my regrets
that creeps through curtain and barriers
to rot away and bleach all things white.

It's hard to sleep knowing that no distance
is as far away as sixty small seconds ago.
Immalleable, we rot, and things turn white.

MaybeJust give me one dream that isn't see-through.
One substantiated claim to reality,
that I might hold onto life with.
Every quivering cell, mid-osmosis, begs you
for a shred of dignity with my tea.
Just one chance for something heavy,
something hard and room temperature. Real.
I don't want to look through my day dreams
and see someone else's face there.
I don't want to dream of those people
who may make, or break me, in the future tense.
I am tired of milky white and reflective black.
It is time for a life of colour and hope -
and not looking back to see if the past
matches up with the jigsaw map to the end game.
I want to be in the game, part

Song: I loved youShe wears pink and I wear out.
You say its not like that, I'm about
ready to get up and shout
that I love you;

and nothing she could do or say
would make my heart look away,
it's only you who's gone astray,
'cos I loved you

You choose anything but me.
Not how this was meant to be.
Anything but me,
so what am I

what am I left with?

and I get that you are moving on
and it's me who don't belong
but I can't believe that its wrong
to still love you

an' now she's making up your bed,
the mem'ries locked up in my head;
I choose to live with them instead
'cos I love you.

You choose anything but me.
Not how this was meant to be.
Anything but me,

MatterIt is only a matter of time
until the stone lays down with the sheep
and sleeps.
Rested firmly above the holes
where our eyes used to be.

It is only a matter of matter
until epitaph and eulogy diminish to dust
and sleep
becomes the eternal home,
not where our souls used to be.

It is only a matter of fact
that our words will become reductionist, redundant,
and sleepily
the world will forget
where our words used to be.

United, We WriteHear me read it

0hgravity, if by some divine fortune you should decide that today is the day you will fail me, then let me soar through the ChemicalSkyline. Grant me a-lovely-anxiety that raises a storm InTheStarryNightSky for me to riseandbe above all else. Let me soar.

How I long to be the frail rider-on-the-storm and not a victim of the RoamingShadow, Rogue-Of-The-Night, that BlackVelvetNightmare of my nights and days. I long for awaytobefree, won't you grant it to me?

I desire to be great, to feel greatness, to be more than one of many Sad-Writers spinning Sacred-Literature into SanguineEpitaph after saturninesweetness. scarletwave of

DaleHear me read it

They will not silence the bells for you.
The roses will not halt their will to wilt
and lilies will disassemble under the earth.
They will not dust Frankincense over cities
and trees will not bow down in grief
willingly donating limbs to become tissues.

But throats will dry out mid-sentence and
black hankerchiefs will be dubbed into pockets.
There will be enough salt to melt the ice
embedded around the hearts of old enemies.
Old enemies will turn friend once more
and the church will be full, packed with love.

The world is unlikely to take a moment's prayer;
Earth spins too fast to pause for any of us.
But the meagre collect

Flora at the PassHear me read it

I will never write of the cherry tree,
or think again on its impermanent beauty;
its delicate and breakable bones
or the pale flush of it's cheeks. I will not.

I will never again be pleased
to see its arms outstretched to embrace.
I won't call it my favourite,
or dream of it's presence at the momentous;

but at my wedding, there will be spring-bloom.
In my bouquet, my hair, my heart.
Enthralled in every quiet bud
of every quiet moment, cherries will be.

At my funeral, similarly,
entwined through my white coffin,
there will be the soft reflection
of its frostbitten petals. Even then.

For no matter what I am, or w

GrowthI remember the day I caught him 'gardening'. His cheeks stained cherry with the brisk wind that trotted beside him up and down the smothered garden path. He dropped a seed as his feet brushed past each other. Up and down he walked, a solemn lieutenant. I asked him what he was doing and those wide sky eyes reflected the ice as he told me he was trying to grow flowers for his mother. I looked at the seeds spilt on the snow and told him that they could never grow in these circumstances. I will never forget the clench in my heart when he responded, with a child's tongue; "I know".

Browse More Like This

Download File
TXT, 720 bytes more ▶

More from `KathrynODriscoll

Cigarette BurnsHear me read it

We slept on a mattress on the floor and I had a tendency to kick the sheets off the corners in my sleep. I have caustic dreams. When the sheet would come undone (a direct reflection of my mental state) I would joke about us living in squalor, and we would laugh about cigarette burns exposing the vulnerable belly of the bed. The truth was, neither of us smoked, the bed was unburned, but both of us preferred to think of our home as slightly damaged to reflect the people inhabiting it. Eventually - you left. You did not take the mattress with you, and yet I was left with the unquenchable conception that you left because you grew

SunburntMy sun-blistered heart
has an angry red skin
that peels and flakes;
sobbing wood-shaving tears.
They collect on the ribcage floor
making a dirty black bed
for the heart to lay in
when it sinks - heavy -
at the end of each day.
It tries to shed this skin,
an amalgamation of former loves
sueted into a shell;
it wants to be free of the past;
but my whole, burnt raw heart,
bites at itself in your name,
turning rabid on itself
and picking leperose holes
out of its memories.
It eats itself,
and I hold onto the railings
and try to breathe.
Try to colonise my life sentence
Until a dark period grinds me to a stop.

Sea SaltI walked along the bracket of the beach with a pocketful of salt that the sea no longer wanted. I had originally intended on returning it (one day), I didn't mean to keep it. Technically, because it wasn't mine, I stole that salt. I sifted the crystals out of the water and rolled them between my fingers until they were eroded smooth by the ridges in my fingerprint. Fingerprints embedded in the evidence. Salt embedded in my identity.

They never caught me. I was never reprimanded for stealing from the earth. I should have been. I should have been.

Childish Literary GamesAll my life I have dreamt of love. I repeated scenarios in my mind until they sang pitch perfect a vibrato across an otherwise empty stage. Two particular fancies stayed in my mind often, lingering long after closing time to comfort me. I would dream of a man's confettied confession of love. He would cough it out and the blood of it, the reality of it, would slide down his chin and onto his shirt. It would be a palpable, palpitable love. He would say it to someone else and not know I was listening, and in turning our eyes would meet and the world would drain away, as a body prepped for fire.

My other dream was better. I would dream of a comp

View Gallery · View Prints

Featured in Groups:

#Dark-Asphyxiation
A group for morbid minds!

#MindOfLead
Art Community

#Sufferers-Army
Group Therapy

#ink-slingers
Writing Community

#The-Weirdos
are stalking you creepily

#Anarchy-club

#Dark-side-of-life
Welcome to the Dark Side

#Dark-Blood-Gothic
Into the Dark Imagination

Show all (54)

Details

Submitted: March 13
File Size: 720 bytes

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 46
Favourites: 64 [who?]
Views: 618 (3 today)
Downloads: 176 (0 today)

[x]

40810

by `KathrynODriscoll, Mar 13, 2013, 5:15:15 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

If only you were soulless.
If you were mindless, blind,
you and I could make a beautiful disaster.
The press would write of our brief affair;
they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic.
They will not consider how I need your love
or how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you.
I will not be remembered as a poet warrior.
I'll be the eternal survivor no more.
All who think of me will shake their bowed heads
and tearfully remark;
If only you were soulless.
If you were mindless, blind,
You wouldn't have been such a bloody disaster.

40810by `KathrynODriscoll

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I wonder what you think this poem is about.

love 5 5

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Talia-WolfFang Apr 14, 2013

This was a fantastic read, just like all of your other works. At first, I thought it was about losing yourself to the world, with the 40810 being some kind of bar code number - with people just being numbers, lost in a world of 7 billion. And that the death of one human, from some kind of insane lover, while being covered by the press for a brief moment, would be easily forgotten. (The press would write about our brief affair)

That people would not remember them for what they did, who they were, but remember them as the one lost in an accident. (they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic. They will not consider how I need your love or how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you. I will not be remembered as a poet warrior. I'll be the eternal survivor no more.)

And maybe the murderer planned to kill himself afterwards, but couldn't and now he faces the guilt and a far worse fate? (if only you were soulless, mindless, blind)
Even though a lot of the lines didn't match up with this after i re-read it.

aaaaand of course i couldn't resist the temptation to peek down and see what other people thought

Whoops, seems like my interpretation was way off. Throw myself at you was a great play on words, bloody disaster as well.

`KathrynODriscoll Apr 18, 2013 Student Writer

_{I'm late responding because April hates me, I apologise :[

Nods, what a complex idea, I love it. I love that people can take something so uniquely different from a reading.}

~moontiger5 Apr 1, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Despair, and yearning for a quick end, and above all for those seconds of mad rush just before tis all over. Enthralling.

~KuraiTenshiV Mar 17, 2013 Hobbyist

reflections....

`KathrynODriscoll Mar 22, 2013 Student Writer

trains.

~KuraiTenshiV Mar 22, 2013 Hobbyist

cool

~donutmonk Mar 16, 2013

You wonder what I think of it. I think it'd be too obvious to be a love poem. So I'm betting it's about the fear of being forgotten? o 3o Fear as to how you'll be viewed, that sort.

`KathrynODriscoll Mar 22, 2013 Student Writer

For me, the poem is about a train. 40810 was written on the side of it.

~donutmonk Mar 26, 2013

Well I was wrong. XD Ah well, worth a shot anyways. = w=

~Sparia Mar 16, 2013 Student Writer

well done!

ans: killing your self

More from `KathrynODriscoll

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

40810

40810by `KathrynODriscoll

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style