living still

pressed into the moss,
I am living, living still
breathing water green and stagnant--
a repair for what I've lost.

there are plenty enough holes
for the picture of this scene
to invade my very core,
climb inside and push away
all the things that once bought moments
in exchange for nothing less
than a moment ever after,
set as prop against the dream

but I am living, living still
decomposing by half-measures
as obscene amounts of nature
take the best of me away

--
Prompt was a lovely picture of moss and waterfalls. I then made it creepy, as I'm apt to do.

inventory

I removed my heart from my chest,
finding preference instead
for a knapsack
that I like to forget in the hall

freed of such baggage
as bought by the need to live,
my evening walks are far more relaxing


though it's the very devil
to clean the blood
from underneath my nails.



--
I dunno; don't ask me.

just

to burn like this
at a self-driven stake,
in the filtered light
of raindrops on the windshield

to gasp for breath,
struggle to remain existent
between the lines, tripping
though I was the one to draw them.

and I can't for the space between my bones
remember why;

it's just
always been this way.




--
Title is prompt. I'm trying new meds, and I think weaning off the old ones is wreaking havoc on my moods. Hormones don't help either.

imitation

messy, impatient
excuse for gift wrap--
a poor imitation
of festive spirit,
this form wrapped up
in ribbons of skin.



--
I don't even know. Apparently I'm morbid today.

saturate

pain
to the point no more can be absorbed;
each squeeze once
drew water in a silent torrent

compressed now
without the room to grow
these few precious droplets remain:
barren, beaten ache

but released,
there would be room for fresh sorrow;

perhaps it's better
if you don't let go.



--
Title is prompt. Seeing as I've never been in an abusive relationship, I seem to write about them a lot.

matriarch

dust
spat to the sky with heavy breaths
to linger, gather
draw forth rain
that tastes of our mother's mouth:
the life from which we came.


--
Title is prompt.

peek

mere gossamer for modesty--
sliding limbs grow stiff, soft
yielding
and the buzz of your day to day life is forgotten
until, as she quivers, flushed in the dark
the red velvet curtain
abruptly slides closed

over the bill slot
a green light flashes,
enticing you to match it,

but the scramble to return to fantasy,
finds your pockets empty.


--
Title is prompt. Hmm. Smutty. :)

sore

lying in the dew-laden grass
for at least the scope of a season:
summer enriches understanding
the night that sparkles through the gaps
of this breathing green canopy;

along with the things that seek to use me
to reach those heights--
just as I let them eat me, piece by piece
so at least some lesser parts of me
will one day scrape
across that glassy vista

when summer ends, I rise again
and pull the saplings from my skin,
whole except for breathing in
and just the slightest bit sore.

--
Title is prompt. Weirditudinal.

hoot

what wakes the night within me?
makes blood turn to electricity,
but leaves me anything but static:
careening from thought to action,
where even the space of a blink is too long
left in dark; numbing silence pounds,
stabs sharp
and leaves me lying wide awake,
too lost in thoughts and worried aches
to dare a restful night.

--
Title is prompt. That, and being an often uncomfortable night owl.

across

a slant falls perpendicular
to the earth,
slipping shadow beneath dusky leaves of ivy--
hidden places gather secrets
silky as cobwebs,
though woven with much more care.


night breaks the silence,
as these hidden places open to the stars
and release a dewy trickle of whispers,
of all the deeds thought buried in this soil,
all the tragedies this garden remembers
without comprehension--
a repetition innocent as the first buds of spring
pushing, pressing on the flagstones;
as nothing more than a reflection
of the way things are
by moonlight.


--
Title is prompt. My brain interpreted it as both across and a cross, so I tried to pull aspects of both into the poem. Turned out odd.

flag

pounding breath, painful
is all that truly remains of you--
these photographs and poems only serve to
make a pretty border around your life
which warps the truth of things

I don't speak, don't breathe, at the service
for if I do, I find myself panting,
overcome with the memory of running until my muscles burned
and my bare feet felt close to breaking
knowing you were faster, legs longer
but the only thing you'd left me
was to try

and in the end, it was all I needed;
legs longer, limbs stronger
only made you fall that much harder
one misstep that cost your life
and with a ragged breath
returned mine.

--
Title is prompt. This went a kind of creepy direction I hadn't exactly intended. Maybe my NaPoWriMo this year will follow that same path. If so, that's fine; I like creepy. :)