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StitchesStitches

Her name is Stitches and I love her.
She doesn't believe that - she says it is an improbability.
She doesn't say impossibility and that gives me hope.

No one but me knows why she's called Stitches.

I've run my hands over her soft white skin,
Flushed with the fevers of midnight.
I've touched it.

I've let my fingertips explore the hitches in her skin,
Where her body couldn't quite heal itself.

Old memories of gaping holes and vicious lies.

From her shoulder to her wrist,
From her knee to her ankle,
Any where she can negotiate a knife - she is Stitches.

It makes her cry sometimes.
She says she doesn't like being a rag doll any m
Sometimes, it's the little things.He always told me I was deep.
An unfiltered distillation of a humanitarian ocean.

He accepted me, gills and all -
  He knew that I needed my eccentricities to breathe
         under the seascrapers of pollution
               that hung over my head.
 Or he said he did.

At the end of it all,
he tugged the gills open to expose me;
    my innards trailed across the coral reef
       as I swam trustingly forward, hoping for the best.
 I tried to believe.

I believed him, gills and all -
But eventually, he left me, with holes in my sides
   Where he had spooned out my intestines
      To tether them to a boulder.
 I tried to breath
Rock BottomThey say a rolling stone gathers no moss,
so when I shudder to a halt
The rocks in my feet continue to grind.
I feel the sand in my lungs
and the regretful mist silting in my heart
as the waves come back in
reaching eagerly for my legs, spooling, churning
over me. Rooted in my misery.
I know the rocks in my feet will help me drown.
ParchmentI speared you with a         black-ink pen.
I tried to balance           the weight
of our weare-worn         shoulders.
Tried to counter         it with beauty
and hopefulness        , with my hopes,
persistence &         with my dark love.
They came to        see it in hundreds,
Droves, of         similarly seeking
hope and         a reason to continue.
Reasons         to love, even when it
hurts.         Reasons to try when the
vast         weight of differences 'tween
us         can't be fixed by adding
a         single strike of strength
        through the middle. Our love
      wasn't strong enough for poetry
     to save. It crum
Of Nuisance LeavesHear me read it!

Leaves clutch their ropy fingers around the tree's limbs. The zesty leeches bloom, crack open overnight and slip silently up the nearest oak or maple. They pierce the crunch of bark and penetrate deep into the rubbery veins.

They feed. They pauperize plum and peach until they are heavy and brown; heavy laden with the stolen sap.

When at last they reach their fill the tree can finally shake them off emphatically, desperately, until at last it is clean again. The tree reaches its black bones to the sky in praise and as a new year begins vows never again to be the victim of leaves.
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.
Perfect on PaperWe cut hearts
into paper to make streams
                         of love.
That was my impression of it.
That you ripped
      off
    the pieces you didn't want
until you got something that was
                          pretty.
It's no wonder
that I can't believe that someone
would think I was paper-perfect,
                         or loved.

             ~♥~♥~
ScarsSee the sharpness of my tongue-nib
As the metallic taste in my mouth draws out
A barking cough, forced out
By the dirty nicotine lining my lungs.

See the blade of stubbornness
That slices across my cheek bone;
An amalgamation  of all the times you pushed me.

See the residue in my eyes,
The remnants of all those times you forced me
And I forced myself not to cry;
Those tears condensed into a thick blinding syrup
That colours all things red.

See the crinkle in my nose,
The wrinkles on my heart
As I remember how you didn't love me. (Don't love me).

See the burns on my psalms
And fingerprints singed off
By all the times you called me nothing
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
AfterIt follows me.
My silver skeined ghost.

An almost imperceptible thread;
only visible when you shine light
    directly upon it.
It follows me.

It rides the underground.
It hides under bridges,
Under trains.
It is woven into the spools of tar
         that form the roads between.

Inevitably if I walk too fast
it reminds me -
Like the tug of stitches in your cheek
that reminds you; you have lost your wisdom.
It reminds me.

It trips me in doorways,
when my mind is elsewhere.
If I look away from it -
           - it slips round my neck.
Another knot to throw over the beams
it mauls me without a fair chance.

I tried to sever it. I can't.
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.
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.
HAIKUWRIMOCOMPLETE 2013

February 28th, 2013

Dire desperation
A feeble whimper for help;
roar of these raw times.

February 27th, 2013

Gluttonous ash cloud
sucks the moon's blood
and swallows the night.

February 26th, 2013

Bark! An explosion!
Angry bodies escape the
network of lung cells.

February 25th, 2013

Silently cloning,
multiplying, honing in,
determined to kill.

February 24th, 2013

Tea and sympathy
readily available
for my dear sister.

February 23rd, 2013

I will hold my breath
as the north wind does the same
waiting for your love.

February 22nd, 2013

He hovers behind;
Hamletian apparition.
Always following.

February 21st, 2013

A lo
The DancerHear me read it

The night I met Jessie she was beautiful. She swayed to the almost intolerably loud music as if her bones were made of it. She was something unknown. I remember the sharp cut of her hair had it run across her cheek parallel to her carved out cheekbone. It looked like a wig, I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch her, and see if she felt like plastic. Who could ever believe that someone so perfect could be so real. I regret that. I regret doubting her reality.

Eventually she bought me a drink, she called it an Appleté but trapped in the pulsating fuchsia lights of the club it looked purple. It tasted like jealousy; sour and
Hard.On days like this it is hard to move
It is hard to dress myself.
Blouse a chest plate; dress me in chain mail.
- with the helmet on it is hard to see
it is hard to open my eyes, or lift my chin.
On days like this, it is hard to be human.

It is hard to raise my hands, to button
or to brush my mangy hair.
It is hard to construct the image of a person
out of these destitute materials.
it is hard to pump clotted, crumbling blood.
On days like this, it is hard to be human.
Browse More Like This
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More from `KathrynODriscoll

Bristol to Bridport - Draft One /The sky is an innocent blue. More ice than ocean in colour. There is the smell of spearmint hanging in the air. But that could be another traveller. The sun is blurry and ineffectual. Its cold.

We are passing fields which look idyllically Green today. Sweeping back to the horizon undisturbed by buildings and going slave blue and finally grey at the earth to sky border. Trees slump lazily along the side of the road behind knee high crumbling stone walls.

Scissor Sisters' 'Mary' is in my ears And it reminds me of you. We enter Wells. Georgian style houses and narrow roads.. You'd think we were in France. The air is clear and bites a little. N
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I glanced up at Mike as he spoke, his face crumpled with worry, his shoes hit the wall with increasing violence as his anxiety grew. He didn't usually talk about this, but lately the subject of Mike losing his virginity was heavy on our minds, and he had no one else.

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My knight in his armour,
Is covered in rust,
As our twilight of love,
Becomes a graveyard in dusk.

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Black

:iconkathrynodriscoll:

I chew on the blubbery meat of my tongue,
But it revulses
So whenever I swallow I gag.

I try not to inhale the acrid hiss of discontent
That seeps out of the corners of my mouth
And runs a river down my chin;
It reminds me of peaches. I cry.

I have digested the venom
The black rotten root of my own plague;
Ingested it. Injected it. How quick I am to accept death to me.

As organs revolve, revolt, regurgitate
I caged butterflies in my abdomen
As if lushness couldn't catch them there.
I knew better.

I ple'd to the sewn-in stars and their makeshift tenants,
For salvation and for suicide.
They offered neither.

So I sit and stew in these bodily discharges.
Sweat, love, poetry, tears.
Let them pore out of me and penultimately;
(for my salvation hangs with the noose);

Erode me back to the stub of the soul,
That gnarled and raging root.
Who could ever love, a beast.
:iconkathrynodriscoll:
Ever feel like you might choke on all the things you wont say?

Oh well, another Word for the O'Driscoll archive: "revulses". A mixture of repulses, revulsion. I know revulse is already a word but im overriding it. Shakespeare did it, i do it. So yeah.

I will adjust punctuation when i get to a proper computer, apologies!
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:iconstory-of-a-mind:
Mood: Amazed ~Story-of-a-Mind Jan 12, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I am fascinated by this one. I first read without looking up all the words I did not understand. And even without understanding all the words their sounds and the parts I understood drew me in. Then I looked up those words -with multiple dictionaries- which I had to do because you have such a great pool of words, or as we say in German a great "Wortschatz", a great treasure of words. Then I read it again. Even better, more fascinating. Then I read trough some of the comments -found out why I could not find "to revulse" in any dictionary- and got to the one where you explained the poem. A revelation.

And there is this last sentence I keep reading with twin meanings: "Who could ever love a beast?" , because it is difficult to love a beast and "Who could ever love? A beast!", because a beast knows what hardship is. A beast knows how to love truly, far beyond the surface.
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 12, 2013  Student Writer
Smiles, Sorry, I do tend to make up or repurpose words often. On my website I've started a little dictionary but I haven't gone through even a quarter of my work to find the new words and add them to the dictionary yet.

[link]

:nod: I love very deeply because of a big loss in my childhood. So your double meaning is very true for me.
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:iconstory-of-a-mind:
~Story-of-a-Mind Jan 12, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I actually like it if you make up new words. Language is a living thing after all. As long as you explain the ingredients you mixed into them, I will also be able to understand them :)
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 13, 2013  Student Writer
Nods. Shakespeare did it and I consider him kin.
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:iconashes-and-snowflakes:
~Ashes-and-Snowflakes Jan 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I can't... Really explain why I like this. But it's intense, and I like that. Your vocabulary is astounding. "So whenever I swallow I gag" , I don't know why, but I really love that line.
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 9, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you, it is meant to be intense. I was having an intense and bleak moment
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:iconashes-and-snowflakes:
~Ashes-and-Snowflakes Jan 14, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
You're welcome. Intense moments are very good for writing, I get most of my inspiration from that.
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:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Jan 16, 2013  Student Writer
Me too, its easier to tap into the emotions
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:iconashes-and-snowflakes:
~Ashes-and-Snowflakes Jan 17, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I have a lot of intense moments, but little inspiration, time, or even motivation, if it doesn't flow right out. Life is difficult, man. XD
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:iconzevais:
~Zevais Jan 5, 2013  Hobbyist
I definitely indenify with this one. Most writings I favorite are writings that I made a creative response to... I think I'll favorite this one even without that.
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