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Tight jeans and Theatrical boysI pull up in his dad's driveway
and the boy sitting on the stoop
looks like Saint Exupery's treasured little prince.
When he climbs inside my used Sentra,
I tell him about this quirky realization.
"You're both so cute and opinionated."
He grins and replies that it's his favorite book
to read when life is particularly rough.

Cappuccino sips and playful shoves
convert the evening into something
brilliantly unstable and devastatingly 'teenager'.
I want to kiss him violently so we can stop this
annoying game of cat and mouse.
But instead, we discuss music
and other topics that make me feel childish.

He asks where I would go if I
6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.

i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.
Like petals and leavesWhen she thinks of him, she thinks of tree branches:
spindly fingers spread out, stretching
in angles wide for handfuls of sky.

And she thinks of him.

She thinks of him digging his toes
into soft, damp sand,
wading in shallow depths before
being carried by crescents of the sea.

She thinks of him in a blur of curls, in the
warmth on her waist and the coolness on her lips,

pressing the memories and the maybes
like petals and leaves
to paper.

And she thinks of him.
The Hungry SeasonThe Hungry Season
“The next season will be the hungry season.”
Moses M. Kolinmore

A stem, a leaf, a stem,
a stem again,

and the army of our bodies
hanging from the branches
of the Dahoma trees.

We come to this as moths
on Saharan winds

with no malice but the wings’
direction, our caterpillar mouths,
our waiting numbers

cocooned in dirt. We are
aching and glutted

but hungry still, even as
we strip the canopy bare of leaves
and foul each river black

with waste below us –
our gruesome chatter asking,

as we fall into the dirt
to reshape what we are,
can you imagine the hunger?

But of course you can; of c
plumbumshe has a heart of gold
and she, a heart of lead
and she, a heart of uranium.

and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.

gold is confident in her worth,
untarnishable
bought and sold and bought and sold
the virgin whore

and lead behind,
heart heavy in her chest
guilt from bullets
and pride from pipes
and anxiety from irreparable brain damage

and somewhere off to the side treads uranium,
tumors growing,
white skin glowing,
thin frame for a dense core.
rootslike drowned men who have lost their
clothes and faces, they lay suspended
facing the sun and grinning without
eyes through the ripples of the water.

those passing by wonder how they got here,
these homeless men without fingers or toes
long spindly stumps twisting into lost roots:

reaching to the east, to the south,
to the homes they have forgotten.
the eyepatch and the handcuffs     his hands have promised
     to wipe off every fingerprint
     your last lover left on you

     he has sworn he will
     wear gloves, when he needs to,
     and pay attention to the instructions on the boxes

     "this side up"
     and "fragile"

     and you have sworn
     you will try to let him

     i hear your bodies whispering these things to each ot
despondenti.

"are you sleepy today?"
"yes."
"but you were sleepy yesterday."
"i know."

ii.

she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purple
setting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.
her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and down
to the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbow
crossing the tendon as if it were crux.
and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.

iii.

today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bones
and her skin starts to inflame.
she assumes that if getting the mail
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.

We throw away half of our refrigerator each week – meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.

Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.

At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.

I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.

Hearing "I love you" for the first time
WaitingWe are still waiting for the thunder from the distant stars,
The echo of mortality,
the whispers of a storm, half-remembered,
in sepia-coloured hallways in buildings that smell like books.
Time gets slow in waiting,
ghosts are formed from the wanting,
taking shape in the spaces where sunlight,
or moonlight doesn't touch.
The stars shake from the vibration,
and the ghosts shimmer in anticipation,
but we can't hear your voice in the dead of the night.
Golden Ink and Going BackI thought I was in love with that four-year old red-haired boy
Shining in a silver knight costume with a black dragon sewn on
Because I was in the pink Sleeping Beauty Dress

I was a good Belle, too
(Back when I hadn't picked up a book
Except for the blue one with the golden pages
Brimming with witches and fairies and magic)

I wanted to be a princess, back then
They were the ones who always found love, at the end
I wanted to be Wendy, too
Because she wore a blue nightgown and learned to fly
Now, I'd rather be Peter Pan, honestly
Because he managed to swerve this whole ordeal of growing up
(And maybe a little because of the flying)
a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter
FiftyPlease understand: I do not want
to want this (you).

I realized at poem nineteen-of-fifty:
You (college-borne) are a new you,
I (weaponized) am a new me,
and the new me still wants the new you.
DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's—
it cleanses
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane

all we remember
is the numbness
the shuddering
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds

winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence

bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs

until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
The Animal(Howl into my ear;
give me your claws.
I want the animal in you;

in you I shall nest.)

Take your clothes off, take them off for me.
Let me see the scars and the marks,
those dark moles and faint sun spots.

I want to memorize the way your fur grows.
I want to tickle my cheeks with your goose bumps.
Let me count the bruises and the cuts.

I'll bless them with names;
I'll lick away the blood stains.
We can lie skin to skin for days.

I have enough kisses for your brows and lashes,
for nails, teeth and toes, for thighs and knees;
in your curves and dents I'll nuzzle my nose.

Let me see your skin dance.
Through and around; your
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More from ~justfiableparanoia

What doesn't kill you...What doesn't kill you
only makes you stronger.
Oh, if only they knew
just how wrong they were
when they told me that.
As far as I know
I'm still breathing
still living...
but it's only half of me
only a shell
only a pretty picture
painted to cover up
what's really going on
inside my head.
I hide the tears
bit back the words
and thoughts
that threaten to expose
exactly what's going on inside me.
You see,
I'm falling apart
falling to little
tiny
pieces
and I just have to
keep taping them together
or else
I'll end up
shattering.
And no one
no one at all
will be able to tape
all of the little shards
of what used
Poetic RiddleDo you remember me?
I kept my eyes open
All the time. Did you keep score?
Because for me it was more than just play.

I Kept my feelings hidden in the hallows
Of my heart, but I kept my mind open.
It was just so hard for me whereas
You made it look so easy to find.
My mind was just a riddle
That I didn't let you read that day.

I don't think I'll ever see the day it all aligns
Because to me, your mind's a riddle.
Poetic KeyThis poem
Is
A
key
To the riddle
That follows
Behind.
All you
Need
To know
Is hidden
Between
The lines.
Keep your
Eyes open
And
Figure it out
As
You go.
If you pay
Close
Attention
It will
Be easy
To get
It right.
Nonsense AdviceCapture beauty though words
Let vast waters paint blue
Devour translucent Breeze
Wake wild red night
Dazzle deep oceans
When universes taste stars
Explore sadness, balance, kindness
Wake love when voice dies away
Question this glass balloon
This home is almost perfect
RedFiery passion and
Sharp cutting pain
The worst kinds of Anger
And hatred
But somehow love as well
The soft touch of velvet
A tender kiss
But also crimson blood
And blazing fire
Roses and molten metal
Smoke and sweet cherries
All polar opposites
But related all the same
Twisted TonguesIn sweet slumber secrets seem to shimmer
With silvery threads scarlet with silent memories
Save me. Please send it somewhere else
Speak the simple saying that shall
Stop the sounds surrounding me
Shatter my shell and send
Slivers of sharp glass soaring
Swiftly, swimming through endless seas
Secluded in the endless sand

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home

:iconjustfiableparanoia:

You once told me that Star Wars felt like home
            And I laughed because
  It sounded like such a strange declaration
       And seemed so out of the blue
        But then I started thinking

What could possibly remind the homeless of home?
             note the difference between house and home

And I thought to myself that night
             Long and hard
    As I held you in my arms

                            In all my thinking I found that each place had a memory
                But I could not bring myself to call any of those places
                                HOME
Because I am among the homeless
    As I always have been

So I thought to myself some more
And after quite some time spent dreaming of long empty houses
I realized something

         You remind me of home
Of warm nights spent with the one you love
   Of laughing uncontrolably for ages
   Of kisses stolen long past midnight
Of hopes and dreams and happy memories

                                                      So I told you
                                           and i cried
                                    Because it was the first time
                           That anything had ever felt like home
:iconjustfiableparanoia:
Gotta love those based-on-a-true-story, quarter-til-two poems

EDIT: Holy crap, a DD. Thank you all for the comments and favorites and everything else! I never thought this would get such a reaction
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-02
home by ~justfiableparanoia The suggester writes, "Thoughtful. True." ( Suggested by `KathrynODriscoll and Featured by `thorns )
love 5 5 joy 3 3 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconmarmodre:
Mood: Joy ~Marmodre May 12, 2013
Going trough my favourites.... This still gives me the shivers.
Reply
:iconjustfiableparanoia:
~justfiableparanoia May 13, 2013
Wow. Thank you
Reply
:iconarsonyc:
~Arsonyc Apr 24, 2013  Student Writer
A response because you need to know. After all this time, and I can only just now say something. After all this time, maybe you can forgive me.
Reply
:iconmanavortex:
~manavortex Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
I always felt my home was Laketown, until I got there. All I felt was stupid.
Reply
:iconnihilistic-hun:
~nihilistic-hun Feb 5, 2013  Hobbyist Digital Artist
This is a very emotional piece of writing. Great work
Reply
:iconkathrynodriscoll:
`KathrynODriscoll Feb 3, 2013  Student Writer
I think this is just wonderful.
Reply
:iconelfmaiden687:
~Elfmaiden687 Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
So poignant and emotional. I love it. :heart:
Reply
:iconlightningidle:
Mood: Love *LightningIdle Feb 2, 2013  Student Traditional Artist
From the first line to the last, this just gets me. Amazing job!
Reply
:iconryua:
~Ryua Feb 2, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Star Wars does feel like home.
Reply
:iconsugar-thief:
*Sugar-Thief Feb 2, 2013
Wow this is amazing. I rarely read literature here on DA but the beginning to this caught my attention! Congrats on the DD!
Reply
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