[x]

stop me if you've heard this one beforei.
there is a man on the corner of my street
who gave me a bottle of bleach
and told me if i drank it, i'd finally feel clean.

but i gave it back to him, and went home to take a shower.

because i am almost happy,
and i do not want to mess that up by
chugging bleach or fingering knives or thinking too much
about that man who turned my insides cold
from inside of his car.

because this has to be happy.
this has to be what happy feels like.
it feels like god gave me a vodka bottle
filled with nature and people and oceans and deserts and seas,
cause see, it feels like i'm drunk on life.

ii.
i have this nervous habit of scratching

Faminei told him
i wanted to spend
three days
paying my dues
to the circumference
of my spine, to the size
of my stomach,
and all
that was not in it.

weary
of my constant need,
he droned
a platitude
in a voice like cold coffee.
"you're beautiful
the way you are."

i don't care
about beauty.
i care about hunger.
loneliness & starving
sisters. and i want to know
if the hunger that turns you
inside out
every day
is anything like
the famine
in me.

count to infinity before you sleep.cause i know
there are days when
it's painful to even breathe,
your throat closing up on the knowledge
that you don't know
how much longer you'll be waiting on this
band-aided, superglued planet.

every cell in your body vying to be the next to die,
and all you have to tell them is
maybe. maybe next time.

those are the days you spend
cutting rose thorns into your palms
and clenching your fists tight around
jagged reflections and prismed rainbows.
the days you realize
we're losing so much faster than we're learning.
we're maturing faster than we're growing.
adults stuck in the bodies of kids,
moving around, making the mistake

sometimes i feel like a superherothe house across from my bus stop
is a temporary funeral home, but back when the Yankees controlled the town,
it was owned by a family whose daughter rode bareback
twenty-seven miles in the middle of the night to warn her
rebel leader of a lover that the Yankees were coming for him,
the Yankees were coming, the Yankees were coming,
the Yankees are coming, John, get out, quick!

and maybe she tripped and fell,
or her red cape got tangled up in her stirrups and ideals,
because by the time she rode into the neighborhood,
the houses were already on fire, children were already
crying for their mothers, and her John
was already hung up

Audreydear girl i sit by in english

this is for you.
this is for you because you are
the dreamer of impossible dreams, and the
doer of improbable things.

this is for you, because
you balance on two legs when your life
is spinning out of control
and poetry will always confuse you.

you love fudge brownies like you love
every single guy you like.
for so long, the only thing i knew about you
was the fact that you liked reptiles in second grade.

this is for you, because
you walk around swim meets without pants
and brush your hair in the bathroom before lunch.
you're a mess of contradictions and the most
securest insecure person i have e

judgementif you could see the bulletholes,
the brittle bones,

or if you could see me on a saturday,
with a cigarette between my lips,

a handwritten note clenched
in one fist, that contains
only a single word

goodbye

would you still smile
when you saw me on your porch
sunday morning?

Caitlincaitlin musgrove is the definition
and prime example of the fact that
the very worst of things happen to the very best of people.

(warning: this is a cancer story.
this is a mother and daughter story.)

fact:
when caitlin grades quizzes, she writes a smiley face
on the top of the paper if you did well, or a
an even bigger smiley face if you didn't.
i didn't know caitlin's mom had cancer until
a couple of months ago
because caitlin's not only strong, but her damnation
might be the fact that she hides everything until she can't anymore.

but maybe that's also because she didn't want to tell me.
and that's understandable.
we're not

cinderella died yesterday"burn your tiaras,
bury your fairy godmother.
it's time for you to grow up now, you're
no peter pan.
forget never never land.

stars are just burning balls of gas that are
slowly running out of time- they can't
hear your wishes.

cast aside your dr. seuss books like you will
later cast aside your bibles.
after all, a fairy tale is a fairytale is a fairytale.
life will teach you that.

grace, you were born into a role
only a very strong girl can play.
see, society will hate you for being
what they don't want to believe.

surrender your throne, your castle is under siege.

stop being fascinated with the sky,
you'll never go there.

you're lucky if they kill youshe screams

deafening conversations of millions
footsteps and wine glasses of the smart and the dull,
clinking. clinking. laughter.

life
goes
on

she screams

blankets pulled up to comforting warmth
smiles and dreams of the abandoned and the blessed,
whisper. whisper. peace.

life
goes
on

she screams

a hand covers the delicate slopes of her lips
cries and pleasure of the chosen and the thief,
echoes. echoes. silence.

life
goes
on

Just Another Tree In The ForestWhen all the words
I've gathered in my pupils
color my irises grey,
you can find me scribbling

nonsense

in between my eyelashes.

Brainwaves like lines and lines
and lines and lines
of novels and history books.
My memior is made of torn
pages and found poetry. Brown
around the edges -

old and used.

With ashen fingertips, and
fingers like twigs snapping
underfoot, I will carve out
my trunk and count my rings -

always far enough from death and yet
there is no green left in my branches.

I haven't taken root enough
to feel at home
since I was a sapling, but when
children sit in my hollow,
I howl stories about reaching
f

criss-crossed veins for the trigger girliii.
"you're not okay."
"I'm fine."
"no, you're lying. i can tell. everyone has a trigger."
"What's mine?"
"you smile."

ix.
she's walking around in circles
and trying to pick up her broken pieces, but they're
not fitting like they used to,
something's damaged beyond repair.

v.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"because i've forgotten what it feels like to heal."

viii.
she regrets not cutting deeper, when she sees the life
still running through her veins, and her parents asleep
on the hospital chairs.

ii.
she comes to school the next day with a bandaged hand
and blue eyes that seem a bit dimmer.
"i broke a mirror."
an

confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair color
and forgive their monsters.

i change my morals
and become one.

lukewarmshe had the kind of voice
that seemed to be stuck
in the hour of four o'clock
in the morning - soft
and tired and luring,
mumbling her way through
subways and tunnel lights
all pale yellow with noise.

there was tea and long baths
and longer absences,
hiccups of breath
the best
she could do.
long springs and
longer falls,
one equinox to the next
and still the bad
was never that bad
and the good
was never that
good,
and she continues to hum
the birds continue to sing
the apples continue to
grow and
sour and
fall,

and bury themselves
again.

Send Me the Raintoday, they're all talking about the fires.
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is

revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's

not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even

the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys

my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm sta

Ady{sen}Seven year old Adysen Reader
Took her mother's most fancy wine glass
And filled it with apple juice,
All the while telling me that one day,
She'd really be able to taste the stars.

"You know," she tells me, "You could jump from the
Empire State building and survive."
I tell her she's wrong, and that you'll die.
"No, no," she insists, "it's not the jump that kills you- it's the ground-
The sky just hugs you and wishes he didn't have to let go."

Ady's been able to draw since she was four,
But she hasn't been an artist till she was nine, and
Manned up enough to tell me that she really didn't
Believe in dragons, but she hopes we can

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Beautiful SkeletonWhen I grow up, I'm going to plant
Dandelion seeds in front of my house.
I know they're weeds; I don't care.
I'm tired of the beautiful.

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
Who's the thinnest fairest of them all?
She can count her ribs, she's almost dead
And yet she's still fat inside her head.

Did you know there's enough spray-tan in America to
Paint the snow in Alaska a mile deep?
Did you know that the lip-stick in California alone
Could cover the Hollywood Walk of Fame with the word 'ugly'- twice?

I'm sick of saying 'beautiful'
And 'ugly' is the harshest four-letter word I know.
If I hear 'starved' one more time, I'm going to throw

iktsuarpoki.
The mug's still warm in my hand, with imprints
Of two pairs of lips on either side.
I look down at the hot chocolate and think of your eyes.
Brok-broke-broken.
I toy with the idea of throwing the cheap San Fran mug at the wall-
Play with the idea of dropping it on the stone floor- But that
Wouldn't bring you back.
Nothing will,
And hot chocolate is as hard to get out of the carpet as blood is,
And heaven knows if you taught me one thing it was to be practical.
(And that love does not exist,
And that I'm a B- student, not a princess,
And that nothing's prettier than a kicked over dandelion.)

ii.
I threw away the book you gave

papered blackbirdWe stopped going to church when it
Interrupted with the scheduling of my dad's favorite radio show.

I stopped believing in God when my
Time-machine turned into a card-board box.

I started believing in myself when
Someone told me
I could.

In Latin, Grace means 'grace''Cause I want to find one poem out there
That has "grace" in it, but does not mention God, or Thanksgiving
Or how beautiful and perfect she looks sitting across the room with her
Hair and her eyes and her hands and her smile.

See, I want to find a poem about Grace,
Where she sometimes sits in bed for hours, and tells herself,
"Today. I promise, today I will not eat," and gets out of bed with this firm resolution
That dissolves as she walks past the kitchen,
And she feels like crying and sometimes she wants to google the next solution
"how to make yourself throw up" but she knows she's not that desperate.
Yet.

Where this 'Grace' cha

So Many NamesLook.
What do you want me to say?
I have five minutes to come up with this
Amazing,
Beautiful,
Deep,
Meaningful poem that makes someone other than me cry-
Wait.

Let me start over.

Dear Soldier,
Apparently it's because of you that I get to vote at age 18.
They changed the Constitution for you.
I guess I should Thank you.

No, let me try again.

My bus driver went to Vietnam to fight.
On his moody days, he slams the breaks,
Opens the doors, and looks at us as if to say,
'Get out, kid. I've got best friends to mourn.'
He has this saying:
"You don't know shit about 'Nam till you've been to 'Nam."
I've never really understood wha

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Submitted: December 10, 2012
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half-priced whore

by ~MisfitableGrae, Dec 10, 2012, 7:45:32 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

^{maybe in fifty years,
she thinks,
she will stop feeling his finger-shaped bruises
on her hips and arms.
stop hearing his words—you think you can stop me, little girl?—
in every passing "are you okay?".
stop feeling the wind like a ghost of his acid breath
on the back of her neck
beautiful, beautiful, beautiful little girl.

maybe fifty thousand dove soap bars later
and too many scalding showers
and dusty baby blankets and days spent lying in bed,
looking up at the water stained ceiling,
will be enough to leave the man
on the corner of anderson street and rosa parks avenue
right where she never wanted to find him.

just ask her, she knows first hand
that worlds don't end in bangs but
in whimpers
she knows what it's like to die with a fist
over your mouth and fear in your nostrils.

pretend she is made out of ashes and paper thin words—mourn
the loss of her innocence, her freedom, her control.
cast her out into the ocean to dissolve among the waves,
find her a god dirty enough to still believe in her.

this morning she woke up with bones shaped like honeycomb
and firefly memories crawling out her gaps.
she's still looking for the thing that makes it better,
she's still trying to find someone who understands
without her words—stop, stop, stop, please—that never
mean anything that made a difference.

maybe in fifty years,
she thinks,
she will finally be able to convince herself
that she is worthy of anything.}

half-priced whoreby ~MisfitableGrae

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

_{i wanted to try writing a poem about rape. and i'm sorry if i messed it up.

the title is from the things i read online about how rape victims sometimes feel like they're not worth anything at all, or are told that they deserved it for walking, talking, or acting like they did.

the 'bang and whimper' line is, of course, from the well-known poem, "Hollow Men" by TS Eliot, which i have no part in.

for all my new watchers, i guess i should warn you: when i write poetry, it's hit or miss. usually, it's miss.

so tell me which one this poem is this time. xD}

=Sammur-amat May 3, 2013 General Artist

your poetry sure packs a punch! pow!

congratulations on the DLD, loveliest being!

*xlntwtch Apr 16, 2013 Writer

This poem is a "hit," since you ask. The last stanza is especially hopeful and draws us away from numerous horrors.

=DailyLitDeviations Apr 16, 2013

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.

=SilverInkblot Mar 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Hi there! Just a note to let you know I've featured this piece in my journal: [link]

*bloodawni Mar 2, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Definitely a hit. I get the feeling from your artist comments that you've not been through this yourself, in which case I think you have done an even finer job, as you manage to capture things quite well -- something that's always more difficult without experiencing it onesself. This is powerful writing on a difficult topic.

~ChocoCoatedLemons Dec 29, 2012

I think the general consensus if that this is a hit. I must say, I agree. This is beautiful, and horrifying, and very, very moving.

~Adonael Dec 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow. This is pretty brutal and powerful.

!randomlyinspired-21 Dec 14, 2012 Student Writer

This is definitely a hit!

"pretend she is made out of ashes and paper thin words—mourn
the loss of her innocence, her freedom, her control.
cast her out into the ocean to dissolve among the waves,
find her a god dirty enough to still believe in her.

this morning she woke up with bones shaped like honeycomb
and firefly memories crawling out her gaps.
she's still looking for the thing that makes it better,
she's still trying to find someone who understands
without her words—stop, stop, stop, please—that never
mean anything that made a difference." This really caught me!

It' so so powerful and I just love your words, especially that ending!

Beautiful and nothing short of it!

*RiseandBe Dec 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hit. Hit. Hit.
I'm speechless. I felt these words, each and every one, in my bones. I think it will stay with me for some time.

QUESTION: Would you mind terribly if I used those four lines I mentioned above in my poem for DFC day 8, the Glosa? I still haven't written my piece for that day because I couldn't find the right borrowed stanza. Please let me know soon! Of course, I would credit you in my author's comments.

~MisfitableGrae Dec 12, 2012

_{oh wow, thank you so much! it would be an honor for me if you use those lines in your poem. i mean, as long as you give me proper credit and stuff. ^^ i would love to see it too!}

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