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. :)

torn from a glance

 stalking calendar myths,
may to december--
 the night sky spills like
a horseshoe losing its luck,
leaving a trail of candescent garbage
spread across the bowing wheat;

enough to follow,
just enough to find
until the words come like they were supposed to
the first time


as summer flips the last few rays of sun
like a butter-gold coin,
to decide each day whether to make the moment
last

until what came of late winter
is woven back
into the shirt that clings to bone too much (more)
every year

and my wayside wonder bites her thumb
before holding it to the sky,
courting the indecision
we threw away,
neglected in the fumble to make lips mean more
than spitting poetry into the breeze.

--
Word prompts: cotton, horseshoe, predator, kingdom

future

words written, held
especially in my hands
as more than just the universe
pours forth
without a reservoir of any consistency

but when the sun strikes the water
just right,
enough to melt this cultured ice,
and the shooting stars above
can bring the night reflection
and break this lonely mirror glass--
a shuddering wave,
the turning page,
brings this lifeblood back to my skin
enough to sink, to drown
or simply
dive in.

--
I drew a picture for this one as well. It was a fun concept I'd like to revisit with more skill, if I ever get that skill, since I so rarely practice.

extraction

causes I placed myself in, unwanted,
adding another burdened mind to a swarm
still not sure what it looks to find
behind the chants and lazy dreams of better days;
and it's always the case that the deepest pain
comes from knowing you are the rot in the tooth
that needs to be dug out,
and having the nerve
to do it yourself.


--
Not about the Occupy movement. Not about anything, really. Trying to get back into poetry, dreck or not.

bat

up to bat, all dirty knees and dusty shoes,
traveling the streets that brought the fog rolling gently in
at a dead run, bad pun
but better than splitting the thick grey cloud
with flutter of misplaced wings.

--
Bats--baseball term, vampires: I'm so original. Oh well.

latter

seeing the world through a camera lens,
where the eyes can easily take a silhouette
and lend it more than mere shape;
in florescent light that neither seems too dim, nor yellow,
no warmth on skin from accustomed unnatural glow.

--

rather than title, inspired more by this picture, taken this morning as dawn broke through my dirty window, and the contrast between what my camera and my eyes could see:

studio

posed, poised fingers cast intriguing shadow
on parted lips
and other such headlines--
breathing in, out,
changing the substance of the photograph,
as the viewer catches unedited blinks, stiffness
struggles--

a war wages behind slightly bloodshot eyes
to find that certain mystique,
enough to shine through extensive 'shopping
and still sell the overpriced watch that dangles
from her well-shaped wrist

it is, after all, what they pay her for,
though it's a shame the struggle will be
discarded, cut away:
making this job look far too easy.

--
I've fallen out of the habit of thinking poetically.

homemade

I had a home made of shadows, but it was too dark;
The home made of music proved too much a lark.
My home made of colour was closer to please,
but my favourite by far was the home made of cheese.

netflix

I sit, legs crossed
against polished wood
listening to the snap of the sails
and lapping tide

a hard-won calm
for I have not yet caught a fish;
this morn has borne naught
but the teasing flicks
of fins on my net.

reverse

The sunset was behind me
as I drove my submarine--
I spun my craft 'round backwards
so I wouldn't miss the scene.

But that just made the sun reverse
and set late in the east;
So I drive now in forward gear
and the sun does as it pleases.

smile

A broken window shows the sun
with cracks along its rim;
I turn my head, to see instead
a ball of fire that wakes the world
with a crooked toothy grin.