[x]

Cornucopia Cornucopia

A cornucopia of creatures occupying my head,
Trampling my sanity, pushing thoughts of dread.
A deadly cocktail of desperation and depression,
Painful memories and emotional regression.

An overdose of pain cutting the psyche,
Dragging you along the ground most spikey,
All the worst of your life in the foreground,
Pulling you backwards, turn your life around.

Pulled into the depths of hatred and cruelty,
Drowning in the corpse of what I used to be.
Sucked into my old life of anguish and lies,
Yet it somehow lit a fire in your eyes.

Broken Oppositesbroken hearts and broken minds
the link of broken souls
I close my eyes to broken love
and eyes as sad as yours

the tear streaked sky of fallen rain
and dusty desert floor
the opposites of intricates
now bear the broken stone

the kind of destruction only i deserve.i'm sitting on a throne of thread spools
with technicolor knots wound around my wrists,
and i thought it would be enough to hold me together.

i am weak - thread-lines etched into my skin
because i always tie myself too tight,
convinced that if i add an inch,
i'll melt between cotton molecules, liquefied.

and i figured that i'd finally gotten it right;
between the bulges of my skin and bindings,
i'd managed to shut myself up, and shut you out.

i even installed double-paned glass into every window
so that if the wind ever came to welcome me home,
i wouldn't have to chatter my teeth,
like I was pretending to converse.

it wasn't en

Painting FeelingsMy tears run down like razor blades
carving numbers to my cheeks,
many tears along the week
have now turned to scars,
numbers getting higher
emotions turning sour
they represent the days
that I pass without you
See the sadness you drew,
on my foreign face?
Feel my shame
embrace my pain

Isolated in this desert
with the absence of time
damages my fragile mind
for I feel like sand
slowly slipping into air
Could you pretend to care?
at least I'd believe that
look what you've done
...com'on, say you've won...

Lost in the abyss of your heart
I've been condemned to sadness,
never thought it'd end like this
...I feel so cold

CadenceMy wrist, the soft hollow of a violin
and the cold blade, the bow
each stroke a sweet, soft note in my skull
every touch a chord
from the gentle echoes of my soul.

I slide diminuendos on a silver stave
every scale turning sorrow into song
each smooth scar becomes a symphony
toneless harmonies played lifelong.

Every bruise is a crescendo
turning my breath to hymns
it reverberates into shadow
a vibrato etched into the skin

and I, the quiet maestro,
waiting for the voices of the crowd
to whisper against my ribs, my chest
staring through the silk bones to my heart.

The Moment of Age.when the luxury of feeling weightless
went unnoticed
and there were no mistakes
and time
meant nothing and with
arms flung w i d e open to the wind,
we knew what it was to
embrace the sky.
Falling Backwards is the trick of a child.

That moment,

When we realized
the world is small and
heroes sometimes sigh and
so many people live and
leave and die
with songs
unsung;

that gray is more often
a shade
than a color.

That moment
when we learned that
gray
falls
over e v e r y thing,
we can never go back.

We can never go back.

We cannot.

The Bright Side of The Northern Star"…reach, grasp for thy star…" For shame for shame.
She shrugs in subtle disapproval, unconcerned
and disembodied.

He could only describe it as black
thresholds of onyx to infiltrate your nerves
obsidian muscles pulsating ebony

"…the tunnel vision before your company." And
you were the glow of a glittering beacon
blazing purpose and furious light

She stammers in awe - offended yet affectionate
cluttered with an insatiable fascination and
cautious remorse

"…as nostalgia drowns me softly…" He
he pleaded for understanding, an explanation
as to why I walk in the rain

It was meant to be a affectionate
a

The Murderer RunsStep-by-step tramples bloodied pacing at twilight
as every solace is barred and you're forced into the night—

The footsteps stampede, screeching like the cruelest of foes,
with the riotous intent of a bloodstained cyclone.
This shadow of vengeance, unlike in your dreams,
refuses to withdraw shortly after you scream.

Your resistance means nothing while its tendrils stretch over
the length of your hair between your neck and your shoulders.

When you think you've escaped it
you're too little, too late;
the darkness consumes you
and never dissipates.

These Days are a PreludeCan red and black bright paint stay for eighteen
nights?
Or
will it flake with the passing wind and fall,
will I lose it all?

I'll be yellow, hello, yellow. Waiting
pale
and somehow weaker than before.
and somehow ready to give more.

I don't let go like paint. I won't forget
when I'm bare again.
There's a sonnet in my maybes, and these
days are a prelude
for when we rise from the ash and the dust,
so give me whiplash. Make monsters of us.

Dystopia, Utopia, Nothingnessthe dystopia

is mine to claim

do not take it

else drown in shame

the utopia

is yours to proclaim

if i take it

my fate's the same

the nothingness

is no one's pain

if the mortals seek it

there will be nothing to obtain

goldenher hair shimmers like
golden-caramel cornfields
hanging loose at her waist,

like spools of glossy thread
spun by the daughters
of aphrodite in the harvest

season, while sunlit clouds
bounce in the sky with
twinkling birds

feel the flame unfurlsunrise is stretching to its fingertips,
and they're brushing scarlet chills down my
thin-stemmed pride,
honing their love until

i can feel something
curled and crawling, biting and sure,
a vine
small and growing
struggling to be free.

my chest is a web of roots breaking
apart, mosaic shards of a past flung screaming
back to its rightful place, fathomless paper
in a hurricane, dead-eyed angels
too stingingly pristine to hold the world,
any of it.

and us, we are flung forwards like pebbles at stars
because together we're
cresting swells of wind
and tumbling seas to command
at the meeting of lava and ice

as the winter ro

The Art of Never Letting GoLast year a ghost ship moored on my arm,
Its silver sails made of six roads writ
With all the failings of that time.

These last months an armada sailed my shoulder's
Seas. Though sunset turned the tides bloody and
Eight waves broke through, crowned with argent crests.

A long time ago a tempest twisted my arm
With lightning leavings its single sterling stain where once
A fleet drifted beneath, revelling in silver-tongued glory.

But you, you set sail in purple,
Proudly reaching behind my shoulder.
That ship has long since been cast away and roamed elsewhere.
So tell me, please, how I am anchored although
My skin is bare.

Deserts of OxygenRoots attempting to grow structure through skin. The
painful burst of plant life severing cell wall. Is
this the sinuous scrape of hope holding me up? Photosynthesis
hardening my membranes into jade carpet.

Hydrogen mist suffocates plastic evergreens. The
branches dulled of an emerald glitter.
Dislocated jaws slobber this significance?

I won't do it anymore. Offering explanation when
it will never appease this primordial forest. A
soil spine contorted with concern seems to coil
out of reach. Every reassurance overlooked by mossy eyes.

The anxiety of growth. Layer upon layer stifling
this saran-wrapped chokehold.

ReaperIt was in pain, but not in hate.
The reaper is never late.
We had immortality – I thought he knew –
But he came, he came for you.

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AsynchronousI am the patchwork pastel on driveways
in early June, hopscotch walkways
outlined in chalk and crimson,
worlds gently [shakily] defined
by dust and sprouting minds-

you are the April showers
and those segways to summer wildflowers
catching me in your palms of quicksilver
traipsing me through raunchy streets like
a rope you made by braiding rainbows-
dyeing tar the pretty pink of my knees.
I cling to gritty decorations
in dripped limbs all over town,
where rain paints the curb
different shades of my lost pieces,

a drainage ditch claims the color of my eyes.

I am the sullied, battered re

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Submitted: January 24, 2012
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Purity Burns

by ~daffodil-disease, Jan 24, 2012, 5:13:19 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

She looked in a hazed window,

two cracks mar the frame and
dazed- her looks gave me pause,

Who are you to watch the skin split?
Eyes poised above glass

wide as I've ever seen,
    don't you have a place to be.

Silent the eyes spoke,

said wistful, purity burns.
Why hold it to a flame?

and I told her the same
that I'd been told before,
when pieces leak, they drip to the floor-
then the eyes close once more.

Purity Burnsby ~daffodil-disease

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

to be edited.

On self-harm.

Probably pretty obvious that the eyes are her own.
Criticizing herself.

"the eyes close once more", not necessarily death.
Just a temporary relief.

~TheWriTer999 Jan 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I like it a lot, but I needed the explanation. At first I didn't really think self harm I thought for some reason more... rape. Idk why. But it's beautifully written

~daffodil-disease Jan 26, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you, I appreciate it.

and, reading it over again, I can definitely see where you got that

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Purity Burns

Purity Burnsby ~daffodil-disease

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