| A growing up story, of sorts, or a love poem for my family. |
*vespera
Queen of the Waiting GameMy Inner Bones
Newest
I've My Bottle DearI have my bottle Dear, and my bottle doesn’t mean a thing in its brown-glass reason, I can’t see your eyes so what good is it, what good am I? I cry out like a gull, I’m losing myself to the wind, a ride I’m tired of alone, alone I look into the bottom of my bottle and I don’t mean a thing.I've My Bottle Dear
The Oaks outside, well they’re not Californian, and they hang open to the sky as if to catch glimpses of the sun in and out of clouds, threading, this is summer here in God’s Country, this is summer here, feeling like a spring to me, I miss the burn, I mis
by *vespera
John - VIIII never gave you an anniversary; instead, I took our days and shook them like a good martini, ignoring that alcohol was never your thing, and told you to drink, drink up baby and take me down like liver-poison; I told you, the hang-over’s worth it.John - VIII
It’s true: I’m no addiction, I’m not so self important as to think that your ring meant forever, forever regardless, but I was reckless, a dare devil, I kept adding cars and buses and hearts to jump over. You were sick of being ran over. You were sick of choking on my exhaust. I never could help &
by *vespera
John - IXI carried you around like a well sealed willJohn - IX
pressed against the insides of my ribs, like a secret after death, I kept you in me for years, a life time it seemed, although they tell me mine is short still,
and then, the part of you preserved in my own words in my own hand, a facsimile of your words of your heartstrings the meat of you, died.
I hope you know that
the rot inside me won’t ever make me love you less.
by *vespera
John - XI was hung-over in Madrid. My body was broken like the Berlin wall; I saw a piece of it once, held it in the palm of my hand - that was before we were lovers, before I knew what liberation was - it wore the graffiti of someone’s broken heart, a nation in two.John - X
That’s what we were the night before; I was the only one who knew it, a spy, lover’s espionage, I drank in our coffer, I tried to stomach its wealth, take it back like a Parisian freedom fighter, or a long lost immigrant. At my best, I am a petty thief, and I topped us off with wine.
by *vespera
Sean - 9I put my pink dress back on, that strapless cotton piece that catches the air and leaves me flashing homeless men and babies, it’s that one I left you in, standing there like I could do anything but break your heart. I put it on and told the cold outside to bite me; it seemed fitting, to twirl a little and suck the wind around my legs, which I shaved for you, too; although you can’t feel them, you’d like that. You’d get it means I miss you.Sean - 9
I would be your doll today, paint my lips sex red and pout them, but my makeup is tired and the mascara sme
by *vespera
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Critiques
by =queenhrosie
I had to come back to critique this poem since it's been on my mind since reading it days ago. A good poem does that: it hits you...
by *inmyroom
Honestly, I'm not too sure about the first stanza, it's a bit plain for your usual style and I have come to expect more from ...
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Holmen, Wisconsin (USA)
- Interests: People, Poetry, Music, Traveling
- Favourite movie: A Love Song for Bobby Long, About Adam
- Favourite band or musician: Nickelback, Shakira
- Favourite genre of music: Rock/Alternative (Likes: Country, Emo, Ska, Punk, some Hip-Hop)
- Favourite poet or writer: Dorothy Parker, Sylvia Plath, d.a. levy, Ovid, Jeanette Winterson
- Operating System: Vista
- MP3 player of choice: Winamp
- Personal Quote: We prepare youth for love at an impressionable age.
- Tools of the Trade: a self-centered looking glass
- AIM: VisperasAzules
This Week 
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- Jul 13, 2009 @ 5:09 am~fastyou
- Jul 12, 2009 @ 2:24 pm~Abattaka
- Jul 11, 2009 @ 12:53 am~greenclover97
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- Jul 9, 2009 @ 4:08 pm*Monkgangsta
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--
[kmw]
as it was meant to be - bokonon (vonnegut's cat's cradle)
--
бог мертв
it would really mean so much (:
--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
[thanks!]
--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
--
I suppose this is me slowly dying,
smearing myself against you, against the words I write,
leaving little bits like bright red Christmas presents,
moist and smelling like old iron artillery.
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