[x]

Butterfly/RavenSo we are sitting on one of those
uncomfortably tight bus stop benches
and we've just met,
but she's rather pretty
with her artificially dark hair
and naturally dark eyes.
I tell her a story about my past
and a joke about drugs
and she's laughing-
she says: you sound like you want
a girlfriend,
my boyfriend says he would never
leave me;
wouldn't you want a girlfriend
like me?
And I say no, I would rather
have a butterfly's proboscus
that I could unravel and slide down your throat
in order to better taste your nectar.
The little bench is suddenly too uncomfortable
for her and my laughing
probably doesn't help either.

Second SphereI found part of me by accident
in a Parisian cardboard box
with satin rags; purple ink
depicting people and clouds.
Tungsten from the wires
of lightbulb husks.

He kicked my hand when I pulled him out,
my fingers caught up in the blonde.

Here there are boys who count
the golden rings of Saturn,
and retinas that lick up the sunset.

Pictures of Japanese lanterns on the sea-crest
and swarms of orange fireflies.

Girls who do not dot
their I's with hearts,
and wait for iodine skies
with slow, dripping
thunder.

WildYou could never be strangers again
in that void of charged space
between the eyes and the air.
And the other people, who are
less than faces in the crowd.

Maybe it was a true dream of
dark times, always walking,
you are thief protected by gloss
that they could break
if only they knew how.

The lion at the zoo could
jump the fence, the wolves
could dig beneath the glass.

Safety is a mutual ignorance,
and it is something to be reminded
through wilds of the woods,
that she has fangs
and so do you.

PlayHer green circles
open wide and
her pitch black
mouths whisper
that your face
is close to her face-
it is close enough,
and that she
also said: "only
the hands", but
you chose to
forget, because
it feels better
this way and
what is wrong
with a hedon
who wants to be
sculpted
from gold
and loud music.

BoxcutterWe are
in her hardwood apartment,
that we bought
because of the neighbors
and the windows
that light up
the dust on the floor.

She is kneeling
in front of
cardboard boxes,
sliding the knife
down the sides
with a paper sound.

And I am staring
into the empty rooms.

If she pushed
that boxcutter
into my lungs
the air would rush out
and say:

When you look at me
and bite your lip,
I see brown hair
and darker eyes.

And I would let her too
if it didn't
make such a mess
for the dust
and the neighbors
and the hardwood floor.

PeakShirtless in bed,
on a lonely
saturday night.

An impatient man
writes impatient
poetry.

lower_casei have not read enough poetry
and i am not one to muse
or maybe think
but i do have
a question
i am one student in a freshman course
who wonders
why so many poets use only
lower case

is it artistic
is it sexy
to write as if
you do nothing but whisper

i want to be loud
i want
the survivors of death
to remember me

i will not mutter
like a fetus
trapped
undeveloped

perhaps there is
nothing to this
technicality

but there is value
in knowing how to yell
and in absolute
silence.

CeruleanEven the waves had been tamed,
and nature lost its classical romance,
when the waters asked permission
to darken and hold the sands.

HumanIt was at a rest area
east of Naples, too hot
for the bugs
but not for the people.

A small crowd of cameras
sunglasses
flesh, huddles over
the boardwalk.

Red, blistered skin,
overweight
I doubt they care,
and their daughters are
unattractive, or maybe
it's the light.

You see
too much.

A congregation of peeling skin
over the water,
searching for alligators
and
calling them crocodiles.

(nothing)Sitting on this bus,
I know that I am distinctly
separate.
I am the absence of this bus,
and the other passengers
as well.
There is some sort
of truth to this;
some sort of credence
that I can't
place my hands on.

(I am not the paper, only the folds
made by my fingers.
I am not the blankets,
only the indent left behind.
I am not the rain,
only the dry spots
marking the pavement.)

Even when I'm standing still,
I am not the air.

(I can only hold it in.)

Glossi.

This is a poem
for lip gloss
and the pre-teen
who wears it
and the old woman
who tried.

This is for
sparkle and stick.
For bodies like
candle wax.
For all the boys and girls
who would breath in
those scents
when the wick turned black.

Before their hair
turned grey with ash,
and their eyes fogged over
from the naked heat.

Before young love dies
and is buried in a shoebox,
with a little pile of rocks
to mark where it was.

ii.

This is for
the scared little boy
who spent all his time
sniffing candles.
While pretty girls
lay on autumn hills,
and even the crickets play
in major key.

With their noses
face down in

We Can Make Reams From The TreesIt is
waiting
for newspaper

to turn
crisp,
and yellow

then red.

Autumn
novelized,
no more

stories
of winter
and

dying.

How about
we
circle our

favorite
words,

I chose

blush and
brunette
and
roof,

goodnight,
twice

just to
make

sure.

ChinatownYou made me wait
at the corner,
which wouldn't let go
of the asphalt and rain.

You missed out on fireworks
and caterpillar dragons;
so many footsteps
shifting in red.

Foam OverI know her secret:
she has no bile
or sweat or blood.
She's just cloth draped over
soft cloth, it is what
the edges of my hands remember,
recanting dreamily to each other.

I have made her dirty with affection.
We both are waiting for sunshine
to foam over the hills.

If you lay down in the park long enough,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will pick you up. Even without hope,
someone will not let you lie there and burn.

HeldWhen you took me from my petal
and cupped my frailty
between your hands,
it was like my chrysalis was back
and I am changing again.

It was just as warm as I
paintbrushed your palms
with my monarch wings.
You opened up your smallest fingers,
and I saw five hundred facets
of your child's eye.

I saw every angle of your innocence,
I saw the sheen on your corneas
when you flitted those threadbare wings.
I saw the shoebox with corners
like a prism.

And your call was so loud
when you carried me home.
And I witnessed
your five hundred pins,
and five hundred books.

With five hundred fingers you
pinched me out,
and held me to bru

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My AnnabelOh my dear, my Annabel Lee,
some days I wish,
there was never you and me-
and I'd disappear alone,
in the frothy sea.

Learn To BiteThere are people out there
who will take your
haphazard romance,
and your fragile
everything.
They will take it in
like a stray animal
or a five dollar bill
and keep it in their
pocket;
until you are spent-
starved.

Some homicides are not recorded
as they should be.

Next time someone
picks you up
and holds you close,
I want you to
(I need you to)
BITE.
-Then look them in the eyes and say:
"I will learn what you
taste like; either from a kiss
or by
eating you alive."

To Remember You ByIf you choose to slit your wrists,
smear something thoughtful
on the walls with your blood.

If you are planning to set yourself on fire,
coat your clothes in copper
so you burn emerald green.

If you are going to leap from a building,
do a flip or something
on your way back down.

If you decide to use a gun,
make it a revolver, play
Russian roulette until you win.

Give us something
beautiful to
remember you by.

To Be Said With A HandshakeI don't write
out of any sort of knowledge;
more likely
I write because
I don't know
any of the answers.

This is my relaxation
between chasing girls
with boyfriends-
because having rivals is just
as thrilling as
getting the girl.
Trust me on this.
I do stupid
things with
stupid people;
and I am not proud.
Trust me on this too.

I don't fight
for sport, but I know how to.
More likely
I impress,
intimidate,
exaggerate,
but I don't know any of the answers.

If you think you know,
I won't listen
without a kiss
(or a fist)
to the face first.
Trust me on this.
I rarely lie but,
I do stupid
things with
stupid people;

Cinema SparksImagine a man and woman,
or woman and woman,
it really doesn't matter;
huddled together beneath
an umbrella as if it
were a tree with long branches
to stop the rain and
block out the sun,
or simply provide a sense
of security if the weather
were to suddenly change,
it really doesn't matter.
For whatever reason,
they are together-
but what's interesting is
they obviously do not even
know each other.
They both clutch the umbrella
but their hands are
very
careful not to clutch
each other's;
because in some cultures
it's not polite to
touch strangers,
but in this case,
it really doesn't matter.

For whatever reason
they

DaguerreotypeStaring at white paper,
looking for black
to write down so
someone else can read
a piece of my story.
If only to show that
I have one worth sharing.

This is a poem about
walking through alleyways
looking for old photographs;
but having no damn clue
who is in them.

This is a poem about
lazily drinking bitter
coffee with strangers;
but refusing to answer
your own cell phone.

This is a poem about
staring at white paper,
looking for black to write down;
and thinking of absolutely
nothing at all.

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Paperback Spine

by *FallingAsleepTonight, Oct 5, 2012, 8:23:43 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

In stories,
the lucky ones
have their lives changed
by one little moment-
one dandelion puff
between your palms.

And the author stresses
this moment, how tiny,
that seemingly unimportant
sentence, breaking
into a novel.

You have to be
always ready.

My eyes have gone dry
and my lungs are about to pop,
and my tongue is oversaturated-
and burning.

Paperback Spineby *FallingAsleepTonight

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Sorry, been a while since I've submitted. Writing lots of fragments of work lately, can't seem to start or stop.
Comments and criticisms wanted as always

Made some edits based off initial comments, very much appreciated. I feel like that third stanza has an important purpose as both a transition and a holding point, but I'm playing around with what it actually reads as.

~~love 0 0~~

joy 3 3

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~glen Nov 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Very cool. Good job!

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~pomohippie7 Nov 29, 2012 Writer

Congratulations on your DLD!

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you!

~pomohippie7 Nov 29, 2012 Writer

You're quite welcome.

=DailyLitDeviations Nov 28, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by =DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here: [link]

Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article. Keep writing and keep creating.

*FallingAsleepTonight Nov 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow! Thank you! A bit of surprise on this one, did not think it was THAT good

~bundle-w Oct 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I actually smiled when I read the first stanza. The life-changing moment or moments in a story is something I was thinking about not too long ago. How nice would it be if we had someone to tell us, when those moments happen to us, "this, this moment, this decision will mark your life." But I guess we "have to be/always ready" instead.

I don't love the last stanza as much as I do the first two -it seems abrupt and to me, it interrupts the flow of the poem. But perhaps that interruption is something you wanted to achieve? On the other hand, it does offer a nice contrast: stories vs. real life.

*FallingAsleepTonight Oct 26, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you, I'll take what you said into consideration

*cherrifae Oct 15, 2012

FANTASTIC!

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