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Literature Text
It's normal, you know.
Bruises flower under skin like lilies in a garden
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
They seep into the black
Nurture seedlings
And hurt grows so green and natural.
Pearl skin is supposed to go purple
It's as right as the rain.
So don't worry, don't fret
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
An ivory piano key
Just as I should be
Because battered things are beautiful.
Feathers torn from silk pillows
And stick figures on balance beams
Aren't as loved, nor as adored,
Nor as beautiful as me.
Bruises flower under skin like lilies in a garden
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
They seep into the black
Nurture seedlings
And hurt grows so green and natural.
Pearl skin is supposed to go purple
It's as right as the rain.
So don't worry, don't fret
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
An ivory piano key
Just as I should be
Because battered things are beautiful.
Feathers torn from silk pillows
And stick figures on balance beams
Aren't as loved, nor as adored,
Nor as beautiful as me.
Literature
Coppersmith
I caught a sun gold.
Trembling old in my cupped palm, quiet copper,
as my rage on our queen, for so crippling me.
And how too did I rail –
against you, Cyprian beloved?
Understand: I grow too old
for bows and arrows, Eros.
Literature
Rosetta
The ways that my lips and eyes
curve and shine
are a language that whisper my secrets.
I have been decoded
(nothing is sacred).
Your gaze softens mine,
every time every time every time...
I do not appreciate
betraying myself under your
laughing, hazel eyes
and the heat of your torch.
You know me so well and I want you
to make me furious,
to give me the excuse
to let you be the créme de menthe
that cools the fire on my tongue.
Literature
Elegy Of A Lost Season
I am the fall.
Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.
Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.
But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.
Tin
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19/07/2012
Thank you for reading. ♥
Thank you for reading. ♥
© 2012 - 2024 bonfirelights
Comments13
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Wonderful poem. You've really got some powerful images going on here, and I love the tone - gentle and melancholy at the same time, or perhaps that's just how I read it. In any case, the tone is very effective. You have a distinct voice, and it's lovely.
Here are parts of the poem that really stuck out to me:
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
Because battered things are beautiful
The poem as a whole was fantastic, but these particular parts managed to tug on that chord a little harder.
Here are parts of the poem that really stuck out to me:
Tears find their place just like water in the soil
I'm art, you know, cross-stitching on the wall
Because battered things are beautiful
The poem as a whole was fantastic, but these particular parts managed to tug on that chord a little harder.