[x]

AstrologicalI have lost myself to
Venus & Mars,
tangled in their mismatched limbs.

Just dream dust & shattered prayers
begging for a new set of skin
(she can't remember where she orbits).

Pluck these fractured wings;
the Sun & Moon no longer ache
to see me fly in their luster.

lies, she wrotei. just a mimicry, really;
uncompromisingly
desperate to shine.

ii. counterfeit & clockwise,
tasting words on her
unworthy tongue.

iii. with a dysfunctional mind
& apocryphal dictionary,
she cannot clone it all.

iv. "say anything," the pen
whispers as she trembles
among ink-scented fraudulence.

v. but she just laughs & plays the part,
forgetting what the pages told her:
"truth is stranger than fiction."

The Pen, The SwordJust lovely
I was happy to fall asleep
in the welcoming arms of your words and
you were unaware that you held me
so close, and so carefully
from the moment I didn't hear you speak
to the taste of every sentence you spoke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been seeking all along
Just barely
I was loathe to fall so deep
in the sharpened edges of your words and
you were too aware that you had me
so close, and so carelessly
from the second I heard you break
to the taste of every sentence you broke
I knew you were the very truth that I'd
been avoiding all along

Death of the PoetDear poetry,
This is your challenge,
my eternal chore,
to restate the truth
like never before-
but I’m imperfect
at my very core
and hypocrisy
is what I abhor
so you may expect
my work to be poor
enough for me to
be crushed into gore
with failed attempts
to take wing and soar
when all I wanted
was something much more
than emptiness and
inherited war
and pointless details
of imagined lore
which most of us tend
to simply ignore
at the piercing sound
of a lion’s roar
or the convenience
of a nearby store…
what am I truly
writing these words for?
Let’s merely pretend
that this isn’t me
but the voice of God
or L. Ron Hubbard
or whoever you
wish for it to be
since facts remain facts
no matter the source,
no matter the cause,
since the trustworthy
are also humans
prone to failure;
so prone to a fault
that we hold dearly-
the sum of our faith
measured in dollars-
rewarded by credit
and paper money…
for some odd reason
I find this funny!
So I conclude

False EternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.
Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!
Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for the moon
then sought the horizon, again and again warned my father that doom
would befall him if he didn't seek a better way to live and be
I wasn't willing to follow the dark and deadly rules,
trying to bring some light into the lives of these fools.
Guilds of anti-gods were formed, wars rose higher, nothing to atone!
They all represen

ArrheniusThe birds are
keeping to themselves
this evening
as the earth shifts
slightly-
ever so calmly
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have
to move).

Here and there, I
witness these
beautiful strangers
with perfect bodies
and long hair
walking down the road
in tightly knitted packs.
They are animals
like we are animals-
like we are
animals without
claws and fur,
with scratches on our
skin that yields to
fragile and
familiar hands.

The winds respond
as quiet birds rush
from telephone wires
in panic and
in beauty; she
tries to brush the hair
dancing circles in her eyes
(for when you are
this powerful
you only have to move).

False ProphetsPoems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.

Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...

yet, they always do.

We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.

False eternityDisillusioned youth was less common in those days,
I assure you, the people even more set in their ways,
murderous and unforgiving, yet unaware of the lie they were living
convinced that faith is stone, they cut faces into gods, they thought
ignorant of the fact that being made rendered useless the very gods they wrought.

Shiny carvings into stone, faces, figures, blessed unknown,
Murders, slaughters, sacrifices of the weak, preaching sins and what they seek.
Forgiveness is not for all, all who do not have will now fall!
Greed consumes the mortal mind, rage is all that's left behind!

Amidst it all I rose and found the sun, disowned him for

Within A BoxIt's a prison for the minds of haunted souls
an odd prison, not large enough to contain its prisoners
and yet it encompasses every fiber of their being
in silent, silent spaces.
Haunted souls are searching for the key
there is no key, but they don't know any better
and what harm could it do? Hope is better than nothing
here's an unlocked open door for you.
Little trinkets haunt souls with their questions
and we want answers, but they won't give
anything away. Very smart,
you know the world is ending soon.
(The best of which are only
crude descriptions of the magic
they are looking for.)

On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folks
putting their hopes
in packaged air,
as far as I'm concerned,
and from what I've observed
misplacing material worth while
rushing back and forth
to get nowhere."
my Grandma said,
shaking her head.

VoicesDo you hear the moan of morning rhymes
By the people in their endless time
As the morning dew breaks the day
Back to where the city-lights once laid

The lamp-posts are filled with black starlight
As the children run in their flight
With cries of sorrow, cries of pain
The old houses creaking with disdain

Acidic puddles of blood-wet tears
Remain on the street through all these years
As the cracks have hid the crumbled dust
Within these roads of bone and rust

The melody of the birds is lost
To the screeches and screaming loss
There are people cowering in the dark
Murmuring, whispering their tortured remarks

Flames ignite the world in fire

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

WakefulI remain awake with dreams on my mind
and stories that wait to be knit into books.
To never find comfort until my pillows are
stuffed with thoughts instead of feathers
To never let go until I made sure that
the moon smiled back at me
Until the trees, the grass, and every night creature
has whispered good night...
And yet I'm still as wakeful as an owl
afraid that sleep would somehow
grab my neck and drag me to my grave.

HumanDear Hypocrite,

What do you do?
Throwing insults when you're insulted.

Dear Coward,

Where went you?
To your "peaceful" sanctuary you have bolted.

Dear Liar,

What say you?
Your poison corrupts innocent ears.

Dear Human,

What are you?
A sinner trapped in endless tears.

bad nightmy mistakes are on my head,
and the cigarettes taste like metal;
on the street curb of a suburban block,
the lights jaundiced and flickering
like drunken fireflies, your reflection
that emanates from me covers every face.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.7 KB more ▶

More from ~MisfitableGrae

red light, green lightIt was one of those cities where if you stood
in the middle of the intersection,
you could see
to the horizon;
where you could become
lost in your foundness,
if you stared hard enough.

She knew this.

She was one of those people
who never saw her feet walking down the sidewalk,
because she never looked,
because she knew there were more interesting
things than the past. No, she
watched the things she was passing—
not really stopping to smell the roses,
not really stopping at all, just aware of
her own movement.

I was one of those cautious drivers:
the kind that would stop in the road
for any bird, turtle, squirrel or deer.
The kind wh

Hallelujahthere is an angel sitting next to me.
her hands are tucked like wings against each other,
each blue life-vein peeking out through
too-white, too-thin skin.
a dog-earred copy of The Great Gatsby
waits in the pocket of the seat in front of her.
any other day, that might be a metaphor,
but today it is just a lonely book
whose owner is even lonelier.

there is an angel in the plane seat next to me.
while i am closing my eyes to say goodbye to the ground,
she is opening hers wider to say hello to the sky.
her spine is bending against the metal side,
like maybe if she pushed enough she could be free.

as the plane starts moving faster and faster,

a graduated game of hide-and-seek“I Need You To Tell Me Everything You Can Remember,” he says.
i close my eyes so i can’t see nothing i don’t want to—like
the red blue white lights on the cars—
and think back years and minutes and hours.

the playground is overrun by jungles and pirate ships.
a battlefield of skinned elbows and dirt faces and,
“mommy, can’t i please stay a few more minutes?
we’re about to defeat the dread captain Roberts!”

we’re peeking out of our boats into the ocean.
it is summer. we may never go back to school again.
we are pirates, we are astronauts,
we are sky-big.
our sunday clothes are

a town i don't want to call mineon the right of the turquoise green sign
that welcomes you to columbia,
there are two gas stations and a church.
on the left side, there’s a morgue.

when i was five years old, my father pulled over
and stopped on the side of the road while black car
after black car passed us, going the other way.
“did we know them?” i asked.
“no,” he said, putting the car in drive. “but someone did.”

at seven, mr. jimmy down at the ice cream shop
let me have free samples of all the new flavors he made
before he put them out to the public.
a favor, he called it, for his little henry.

(years later i would realize t

tear the skeleton from his comfortzonei want to build a skyscraper, seventeen stories high
and fill each floor with a story from the people who never said goodbye.

i.
a middle child, born in 1994,
she always wanted to be loved the most
until she learned how to give a blowjob
in an alley behind Miss China’s Takeaway
at knife point.

ii.
she lost her childhood
to an ocean who always thought it was small
and never stopped pushing its borders.

iii.
he’s not sure how he’s supposed to live without her.
staring at the closed coffin, he loses the ability to want to.

iv.
it’s not fair, she thinks,
that the house creaks when she’s trying to sleep,
but when

ily2i wrote a poem for you because
you make me believe in happily ever afters,
romantic suicides and the fact that one day
i might not break everything i touch.

i don’t know what i’m going to do in four years
because i can’t comprehend a life without you.
and i hate you for it.
you’re just so—

you adjust my skirt and give me a pair of jeans
and say, “don’t let society make you .”
you stay up late with me to watch the sun set
only to wake me up early to see it rise.

you guide me out of the way of
already-broken leaves and
piggy-back me straight into puddles and snowdrifts.
you steal pieces from

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#BleedingHeartsPoetry
A Poetry Club

#PoetsandWriters
Authors of all things Lit.

#The-Poetry-Cafe
Poetry and Writers Welcome!

#TheWritingObsession
You know you want to join!

#Teenage-Writers
Young Writers Unite!

#FreePoetSociety
We Are Poetry.

#Written-Emotion
All of your emotions in writing

#United-To-Write
Writers Of The World Unite!

Show all (15)

Details

Submitted: May 30, 2012
File Size: 1.7 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 7
Favourites: 7 [who?]
Views: 213 (0 today)
Downloads: 3 (0 today)

[x]

Xavi

by ~MisfitableGrae, May 30, 2012, 8:20:44 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

_{xavi prances around with nine year old gold
stars on his shirt and tells other people they're
messed up.

his friend asked him the question,
"if she and me were dangling over a fire, who would you save?"
he asked us what we wanted to do after school.
his friend said soldier, i said poet.
xavi said he'd save me
because words are more important than guns.

just kidding, he hates me.
but Xavi's the kind of person who
i think would say that.

he's Spanish and an atheist and English and freaky
and crazy and American,
but I'm starting to think Xavi's tired of labels.

i tell him I'm sick of being called
emo,
and he says, "I know."
i wish I could ask him if he's sick of being called
crazy.

xavi is obsessed with soccer
and knows his players like I know my poets.
he can talk car like nobody's business.
he's also a mathematical genius if you ask him,
but sometimes I imagine him huddled up in his one-parent
house, desperately trying to study,
desperately trying to impress.

he disappeared so fast after graduation
i almost didn't feel him become a memory.
some days I wonder if he's going to
wear 'mentally disturbed' at his new school.

i ask him if he's sick of people calling him
crazy
and he just looks at me.

xavi prances around with the memory of having
the most gold stars in kindergarten,
and I hope one day he'll find something else to
be proud of.}

Xaviby ~MisfitableGrae

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

I'm starting this project, guys.

Basically, it's going to be this series of poems about every single person in my grade. 'Xavi' is the first one.

These are all going to go under the title 'Everyone is Art'.

If you ask me why I'm doing this, I really don't know. I guess I just think of these people as two-dimensional so many times, I want to change that.

_{cheesylineischeesy}

!Kymira12 Jun 1, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Hi there!

I have featured your fantastic deviation in my Journal! If you have time, do you mind coming and checking it out?

[link]

_{P.S If you would like me to remove it please note me and I will}

~MisunderstoodPoison May 31, 2012

This is so beautiful. I especially love the last stanza, it really ended it all so perfectly. Keep up the good work and good luck on your project ^^

~missRexy May 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

this is such a good idea! Love what your doing.

~LyannasDirewolf May 30, 2012

I think your project sounds really cool.

I really like this poem. Just something about it makes me feel like I understand him, even though I don't know him.

=dark-harou May 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I love this concept! You must go to a small school, though, to know everyone in your grade well enough to write about them like this. This poem is beautiful, though!

~AngelofNight13 May 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This is going to take a wile, unless you go to a small school.
I really like this poem; it's strange but unique.

~YoshiLovesAuto May 30, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is MARVELOUS.

More from ~MisfitableGrae

Featured in Groups:

Details

Statistics

Xavi

Xaviby ~MisfitableGrae

The Journal Portal

Polls

What is your preferred drawing software?

deviantART [dee·vee·un'nt·ART]

Keep in Touch!

Deviousness

Add Media

Style