[x]

I Don't Miss AdolescenceMy sister calls to ask me if I'll do her makeup;
Mami promised that she would, but she's tired
and screamed when Maria reminded her senior prom
is tonight. She says, "I have a hickey on my neck,
something she doesn't want to cover, and you've always
done a better job of highlighting the subtle graces
inherent to my bone structure, the angles we share."

I say, "That's okay, but I can't pick you up,"

so she arrives in a flourish of exasperations,
telling me all the family business, waving her nails
in my face and talking about the pain of her extensions.
She says, "Do you think we need yellow concealer?
I plan to take pictures, and the last

Onyx DreamsOnyx Dreams

Fluctuations of sound waves vibrate the floor,
While the lights of my room glow brilliantly,
But as time winds down and my energy starts its decline,
My vision gets blurry and listening becomes hearing,
And hearing becomes simple background noise,
While Palaceer Lazaro’s words become filmy intonations
Yet, still creating a motion picture full of abstract images,
In my mind full of words and phrases that do nothing but stay stagnant,
And Slumber begins to wrap her warm hands around my head,
As she sweetly begins to pull me into black depths of rest,
A state of unconsciousness that will take me on a journey,
Through the grey abyss we call the center of our nervous system,
And once I fall into the pit of nothingness, the pit of onyx, for those few hours,
I will transform into an atramentous being with aphotic wings,
Because “black is free……..”

You were cold insideYour lips tasted of
summer, of warm days and
cherry-flavoured ice,
relaxing by the
pool side and
smiling against the sun.

You should have been too hot,
too sticky, too humid.
You should have
overheated, should have
melted into your bones until
they turned to ashes, but
it never happened.

I suppose I should have
seen it coming, but
I was so moonstruck over
the way you said my name, so
in love with the idea
of love, that I
didn't notice the way
your eyes bled
winter.

7 - The Pet PoetI remember when Mommy bought you
a black-haired pet for your sweet sixteenth.
Its bronze collar said its name was "Poet."
You fed it noise from the out-of-tune piano,
intense moments involving flesh and razors,
and the occasional walk by the lake.

At first, he knew only the wolf's howl,
purging blood and flames onto the carpets.
Everywhere was a smell of extravagance --
like that woman's cheap perfume on the train to work.
But you cried a little less,
smiled a bit more.
And that was when Daddy stopped
trying to send it back to the shelter.

Soon, you even started watching T.V.
(and enjoyed food, dressed nice, made friends.)
But T

The HourglassWatch the hands go round and round.
Ahhhh, how long have I been sitting here,
Listening to the grandfather clock?
Watching him ticking away?
Watching the polished wood yellow and rot?
And with every sound he makes
More maggots eat his wooden flesh.

Every grain that falls is an eternity!
In the firelight you can see the glass.
The dust that coats the cracking bulb,
Listening to the sand that trickles down.
Listening to the passing hours.
With every grain that filters through
Another man sleeps eternally.

The sundial stands defiant!
From my leather chair I see it!
It stands defiant in the plaza below me!
Standing in the moonlit night.
Standin

unrequitedyou make my words
gather at the hollows
of my throat
until i choke on them.

my fingers ache to
hold you--
but my eyes ache to
cry.

you're nothing but heart break
wrapped in a bow
of something beautiful,
like the dust of grace from
fallen angels.

i drink a little faster and
cry a little harder
because the way whiskey and tears
mingle on my lips
tastes suspiciously of love.

All-Seeing EyeAll-Seeing Eye

We’re not moving, but He is……

VIIEncore un peu de cendre
Au coin de tes lèvres
Parolescentes

J'épluche tes souhaits
Tu laves le ciel
En vain

Et dans ce vent chaud
Des milliers de pétales
De peau

nothing specialthey tell you not to give up
because you have potential--
and to the ones who simply enjoy
you're probably fantastic
but to those who do
you're simply mediocre,
nothing to bat an
eyelash at.

you're not quite bad enough
to quit, but you're not
great enough to be
remembered.

Equestrian StormEquestrian Storm

I was walking through Canterlot,
as rain beat my plot.
I just didn’t feel right,
before it came into my sight.

The princess of the night,
alone and broken.
What a pitiful sight,
out of my slump, twas awoken.

“Princess, why are you here why are you crying?”

“Because nopony loves our night, I would be better off dying!”

“No Luna no, now that you shouldn’t say!”

“And why ever not, what reason hath you that I should stay?”

“Celestia for one, your sister whom you love.”

“Right sure, the sister from whom to the moon I was shoved.”

“Lu

DilemmaToday in class
You moved to sit beside me
And my heart missed
A beat

Your friends followed,
All sitting nearby
And I sat in silence
Afraid of being judged

The presentation started
And I tried not to look at you
But instead peeked
From the corners of my eyes

The presenters spoke
And I tried to focus
On the droning voice
But you invaded my thoughts

What we had talked about last night,
What I should say to you,
How I should instigate the conversation,
If we were to have one at all

I peek over
And you look miserable
Sick, I remember,
And feel an instant sympathy

Time passes
And fear of being judged
By those around me
Keeps me silent

You

All Systems are Shutting DownI shut down
Kicking everyone out
I sit alone inside myself, while other pieces of me close the gates around my heart
And lock the door to my brain
I refuse to let anyone in; I pretend I’m not home
“Please leave your message after the beep…”
Beep.
“Where are you?”
I don’t know.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t know.
“When are you gonna let me in?”
I don’t know.

No wordsI don't like to talk.
I feel that words cannot truly express what I feel.
When I am filled with emotion, I can find no word that can express what I feel to the fullest.
There is no word beautiful enough to describe this joy, no word horrible enough to describe this hate, no word ugly enough to describe this miserable existence.

SeppukuA blue sky greets me as I kneel to the ground.
I hear the rushing wind and the sacred water sound.
The cold, grey stone upon my knee,
As I prepare myself for eternity.

I take a solemn look at my silent crowd,
Those cruel, dark faces scream so loud.
They want me to do the final deed.
I'll plunge the tanto in. They'll see me bleed.

I look for a while at my full rice bowl,
And prepare for the next cycle of my soul.
What shall I be? A man or god?
Shall my next life be lived in the mud and sod?

I finish quickly so we don't delay.
By now the light is fading away.
I take up the pen and start to write,
To put brush to paper is one last delight.

"

a small dosage per daysorrow makes its way into my cup of tea every morning
and I add more spoonfuls of sugar into it,
hoping the sweetness will overpower the bitterness;

yet, this clever feeling still seeps through the sweet substance
and clings itself to the sugar's particles,
which in return races through my veins
and scatters in my blood,

making an entire day feel ruined
already.

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More from =vvolatile

where does the good gobaby doll's been where I've been,
and it makes me ashamed to be a part
of this generation, another girl
much too young to be adding to
such a statistic, but all we are
is numbers, anymore.

please tell me
at least,
that you said yes
and meant it,
please tell me that you weren't drunk
off his liquor or high on
whatever he laces his bud
with, please tell me it was more choice
than just
going
with
it

please tell me
you've never woken up sick
as I feel just thinking about it

because fourteen is too young
to know what small is
and too young to see
what lust can do
to a man.

unattended packages may be damaged or destroyedyou've
slammed your knuckles in the door
of your father's cheap-shit car that sits
too low to the ground,
bottomed-out & banged up
pretty bad itself, just trying to make it look
as if
you've finally found a source, a target
a direction to throw everything in
other than back at
yourself,

as if
it'll feel
different, this time

as if
there is much of a difference
between self-inflicted
contusions & lacerations
anyway

fragment 42"i care about you"

but so
what

when you care about
everybody

when lying and fucking become the same thingdead giveaways:
the way your bottom lip
twiches and the way you can't
sit still, the shifting of your eyes
and the guarded look behind them,
nervous ticks, stuttering, ums
and uhs, well- I just- I mean-
"spit
it
out
kid please",
and what about that
fucking
tapping?, wherever you feel
safe or secure or

maybe that's the opposite of
what you need. what you want
is to talk down the heavens with
the dance of your tongue and the
secrets you've been keeping
at the trembling of your lips
and the parting of your
thighs.

so much depends on
the difference between
letting it
go &
letting everything
go, and you never could,
talk anybody down,
I

bad news never had good timingthis isn't intuition,
clairvoyance, or any-
thing more than a coincidence
this is just a lot of
nerves all knotted into something
semi-coherent and
almost tangible,
this is anxiety at its
finest,
i don't know anything
just because feeling
nervous
happens to coincide with the collapse
of the star systems of a hundred
able-bodied anti-gravitational
centers
every
once
in a while

it's not healthy it's what makes you rights-

i want you
to use me, take it out
on me, baby
just
make me your
punching bag i dare you just
please
don't
apologize when you're finished,

because i know
i'm not worth the
syllables lingering on your
chapped & broken
bottom lip, i will kiss it better
and go quietly when it heals.

you will not cry for me when i'm
gone, i know, and the problem
is that i love
you and i know
it's
unrequited, as biter and
formal of a phrase,
i wish you would just
be selfish
with me, i
wouldn't mind letting you
have your way
and if this tears me apart
it wouldn't be your fault
and I'm not trying
to make myself something worth
loving
back, or even out of
guilt

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#Shelf-of-Friends
A bookshelf full of friends.

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Submitted: August 21, 2012
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[x]

on trying too hard

by =vvolatile, Aug 21, 2012, 4:04:28 PM
Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

in little corners sits a girl
with a small mouth and big eyes and
a lot on her mind like how
ugly things are made out to be
beautiful and how
to mimic this.

she has
a lot of books,
minimal bookshelves,
most of them dog-eared but
unfinished. most of them
considered 'classics'
well-renowned & critically acclaimed
which makes her look smart,
she thinks, but mostly
they're boring and
who's to know if she's
read them or not?

there is dust on the windowsills
and she burns
incense because it smells
a bit like cigarettes
and that is close enough
without actually smoking
anything.

the scents & flavours
range from fairie dust
to water lillies but she avoids
anything too strong or anything
that will burn out too
quickly.

it is often this way,
with people -
those seeking thrills (&finding them)
those against the notion (strictly)
and those who pretend
to do so. or hope to
one day.

she,
drag
ging
things
out
so long
it seems
the opportunity
disappears,
however
hesitant,
is not upset because it means
she'll never have to actually
choose.

on trying too hardby =vvolatile

Literature / Poetry / Narrative / Free Verse

to be something you're not.

thinking about the person i used to be,
compared to now. how far
i've come. et cetera
(i am not this person anymore)

(c)

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

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*KaitForest Aug 22, 2012 Writer

everyone has an ideal self we try to actualize, and we've all been here and i too the girl in this poem. i love it. it hit a deep spot for me. so glad you have come far-- it takes a lot to fully realize yourself and magnify it for the world to see just as clearly. <3

=vvolatile Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

haha i agree. & thank you

Flagged as Spam

~fiftyblackroses Aug 22, 2012

_{I can relate to this and automatically that makes me love this even more
Never stop writing, it'd be a waste to your talent :3}

=vvolatile Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

thanks so much c:

~touristEYES Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

i really wish that i could critique the things you submit.

the bit about classics made me laugh a bit because that is me. i actually think classics are frustratingly boring and yet i still try to read them. i get 1/4 way through or perhaps half and i stop. i wonder sometimes if i just hate reading, but i enjoy some modern stuff and i like to write.

also, the bit about smoking uugghshghhh. if there was a non-lethal non-addictive way to smoke i'd be all over that. there is just something about it that - i don't know.

have these things become inverse now? do you love classics, no longer need to burn incense and etc?

=vvolatile Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

you could? i mean why not?

haha same here, with some. it really depends on the book.

oh god same here, i mean i've been tempted to smoke anyway but im such an addictive person i wouldnt be able to stop. hookah isn't near as bad as cigarettes (less nicotine) but its not the same.

oh sort of, i mean it depends on the book, &i burn incense but not for that reason, just because i like it hah.

~touristEYES Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

a lot of the time i'm just like *wipes drool out of corner of mouth and has nothing to say besides 'write more please'.

i enjoyed lord of the flies, the pearl, catcher in the rye and a few others the rest i had to suffer through for school or because i was determined to read them just to say i had.

it really sucks, i have to have a mental battle with myself to not buy some at the store or have one when my friends offer or etc. i also would never be able to stop.

lol, that is a good reason.

=vvolatile Aug 22, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

hahah thank you! you're sweet <3

i still need to read lord of the flies (hopefully before
we read it in school, because that will ruin it for me)
but i love catcher in the rye. didn't like the pearl at
all haha, half because we had to read it in school.

haha god i know

& lol yes

~silver-ships-fly Aug 21, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

beautiful work. your words are as clear as a bell

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on trying too hard

on trying too hardby =vvolatile

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