[x]

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

we are not a fairytalewe are not a fairytale.

I am not the strong lead with a heart of fire,
bones of steel, and eyes of vapid curiosity;
motivation seeping through
my every last intended action because
I was written this way

(the heroine falls only to rise again:
proverbial phoenix, burning out
because it is the cycle of my
life) and you, you are not

the beautiful travesty, perfectly composed
to strike me where I’m weak and
[almost]human, delicately woven
like the tapestry of my dismantling—
a subtle irony where somewhere, a writer
chuckles softly, understanding

we are blinder than church mice, born
in a makeshift world of darkness where
I&rsquo

Onceyour beauty lies restless behind those
hills, where you fought valiantly. and
the man you once were was brave and kind,
but now you are possessed by a passenger
of darkness, whispering words of your
loneliness.

the man you once were is forgotten, and
the man you are today, is only a ghost, a
shadow, of what you were before.

SurelyIt was raining
when we kissed for the first time,
for the last time.

Thin rivulets
sunk into the shrunken space
between our bodies
and divided us
like nothing could before,
like everything will
from now
until that never again
when we will
see each other once more,
no more.

Your eyes were
that bewitching shade
of dull brown blue
with all of the light darkness
whirling
in a placid pond
around a pupil
overflowing with vacancy,
and me
and my frowning smile.

The winter heat
fell like a rising tide
and,
for our every breath
was another death
so black and full of life --
embracing our boiled ice skin
as we drew apart,
came together and broke free

Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?

Prelude       Nocturne;
I conjure the moon
as dusk crests,
       a wave across the sky

       I am lovely and lonely in
       the night, shadow-
       shackled to the mountainside

and the moths
unfurl their hamsa-wings as
mama calls me in.

FossilizedLiving proof of fossils alive,
and no horseshoe-crab am I.

Nor, inhabitable harsh compression of plates,
residing under humid marsh-scapes.

I mold into the walls, as chalky old coal.
But I am no mineral, no era.
I am not, Mesozoic.

Through the ages
Iron
Bronze
silver, gold and heroic.

I remain a still-life; and no Iduna's apples would retain my youth
No magic fountains, or time devices, or wrist watches.
I am the machine of time.
The watcher, omnipotent, the wise.

But

no God am I

Somewhere, sweet tangy sap trolleys down cracked bark.
Somewhere, celestial bodies erupt unseen.
Somewhere, a abrupt breeze blows overturned bi-cycle tire

bookworm“there is no such thing
as reading too much.”
that is what I tell you
when you insist

that there is some danger of
becoming lost in the stuff—
mistaking seriphs for serpents,

swallowing a story so whole
that its hook
sticks in my throat.

“there is no such thing
as reading too much”
I tell you, bold-faced,
surrounded by snakes
with a line through my lip.

VaseA broken heart can be excavated.
Damaged tissue can be scrupulously removed
and the cracks can be sealed
with the molten trails of gold solidified.
The upturned cavity,
once proofed against further damage,
can become a pulsing vase for tulips,
because even though your heart has been broken
it is still valuable beyond comparison.

silver dreams.i won't say a single thing
about what you and i did that night.
it wasn't anything bad, we were
made to do it.
but the way your tears fell down
in the shape of a cloud
and the pounding on the doors
told us the stars were calling.
more like the gates of hell, but
you think stars make the most delicate
corpses.

HorsepowerHorsepower

There’s a knife turnin in my soft parts
And heat burnin my mind on hard starts
The motors runnin but I lost the wheel
Just want it to be numb don’t wanna feel
Take two steps back and put it in park
Before I leave scarred up black marks
I need a u-turn on this highway
But can’t go back on the by-way
So look ahead, the pavement goes on
Break the rear-view mirror it’s gone
Contemplate
Reiterate
Put it in drive
And say goodbye
Let’s see how fast this bitch can fly

-Cygam7

nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.

Here and There, Now and ThenBurnt umber dawn, swaying electric trees
Thousands of souls chant in the summer wind
Journals of the dead are read by schoolchildren
They awake shaking someone else's dreams from their heads

Static electricity on the nape of your neck
In the television, on your phone, in your dinner
The calling of a murder of crows from the trees
You remember the view from the hospital room window

A smorgasbord of life and limb, death and decay
The antiseptic smell has an undercoating of rot and dirt
Talismans won't work any more than prayers and candles
Soldiers still fight lost wars, glory in the faded night

Tall fences are built to keep the worlds separ

Puppet My tears fall,

like invisible

diamonds.

My heart beats,

like soundless

drums.

Unwanted,

because of the

strings attached.

How To WriteHow to write:

Write a word.
Now write a sentence.
Write a paragraph.
A chapter.
A story.
The end. ♥

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Desmonda of the Cedars Ch 8The city was busy and loud, which for some reason I did not expect. I had not before considered that others would be going about other business while I was being cast into exile. It simultaneously irritated me that it would go unnoticed, and comforted me that I might go unnoticed. But my comfort was short lived; although some of the people we passed as we came to the city kept to their business, many more stared at me, in my fine gown and regal bearing and well-known face, and nudged each other and murmured. Surely, I thought, they could not all have heard what had happened yet, and stared only for the rare treat of seeing the princess out of

Some NightsSome nights I get unreasonable. Some nights
The ceiling gets a little too low, and the walls too close,
And the light at the end too far off,
And I forget all my careful planning
And want it all now, true love and golden glory
And balls that end at midnight and fortunes coming true.
It's time, I say, it's time, I could grab my purse and coat and just run,
Run run run down that street underneath the cold stars.

I forget that
Running makes me cough,
And my coat is thin,
And I have a year before I can graduate,
Before I can leave and not come back.

I forget also that a diploma is not a sword and steed,
That Florida is n

HomesickThis is it, then—the moment when you find
You're homesick for a place where you didn't grow up,
Where nobody shares your last name.
It's no turning point.
You knew the turning point when you saw it,
When you swept out the corners of the closet
And put your hand on the lightswitch and oh, oh,
How was it that a room could be that empty.
It's no turning point,
But a point just past,
Just ahead of the blindness of the corner,
Where you can still see what was behind you.

The road home goes in opposite directions
And ends at two different addresses.
Your front door is two different colors.
Your desk, your dresser, your bed i

PlumSay what you will about the apple of Eve,
Or the coy virginal cherry;
Their feminine sensuality is overrated
And cheaply bought—
Hard and red and sour
And waxed to a high, smiling shine.

There is womanhood to be had in a plum.
Beneath the deep purple peeks deeper red,
Rising from beneath the thin skin
Like a blush in a cheek.
The soft flesh gives beneath a finger,
Warms within the palm—
Warms until it seems to possess
An unfelt heartbeat of its own
Beneath the smooth perfection of its unmarred
And blushing skin,

Warms until it adopts the warmth
Not only of the blood,
But of other inner things, too.
And now th

Desmonda of the Cedars Ch 7Later, I was to think often of things I'd left behind, things I would wish I'd been holding when I walked out of that throne room. A hairbrush. My paint set. A down pillow. The royal signet ring I never wore and my heavy ceremonial tiara with all the rubies.

But at the time I was too occupied with being queenly and dignified to consider this absurd situation in terms of practicalities. As I passed through the great anteroom, I could think of little other than whether my subjects knew who I was, or even saw me. The anteroom guards had seen hundreds of supplicants come in through those doors. Had they ever once seen royalty come out? I wish I'

LullabyChild of mine,
Whom I have yet to meet, yet to hold,
Whose father I have yet to kiss,
It is for you that I practice my lullabies.
It is for you
That I sway side to side on the back porch
Some nights, to the beat of the moths
Wheeling rhythmically around the porch light,
and murmur that the water is wide
And I cannot get o'er, or that once
There was a way to get back homeward.

It is for you that I rock gently and croon
About Siabhra sailing his boat till morn.
It is usually for you.

But child of mine, I am still such a child myself.
And sometimes I, too, need a lullaby,
To whisper to my lumpy pillow
On nights when the air ha

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Submitted: June 23, 2011
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[x]

Electric and Fully Automated

by ~SummerRayn, Jun 23, 2011, 2:00:44 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

It isn't as though the house
is dustier than it has been.
The quality of the laundering has not suffered.
Conditions, she thinks over the rim of her wine glass,
are largely unchanged, except for
a sly smirk when her husband thinks she isn't looking,
and what may be an answering wink
or may be their maid's left optical LED on the fritz.

She doesn't see the appeal, really,
of coy black rubber wheels at the ends of
long chrome legs, of pert metal cones on its chest
like pylons, molded aluminum hairstyle,
sassy chips of color at the ends of articulated steel fingers.
Of course if she did—see the appeal, that is—
this would all be an entirely different issue,
wouldn't it?

It comes around and offers them both
more wine, and he accepts with a cheeky grin.
He probably has no idea his tie is on backward;
it has been since this afternoon,
when he took the maid into the garage to fix
"that sticking right wheel that's been giving her trouble."

She supposes she should be more upset.
It's awfully tacky, of course, that can hardly be argued—
even more so than if the thing
actually had a pulse, a bedroom, or soft
living skin. But then it's also nice and
antiseptic, isn't it?
No friends to be gossiped to.
No begging him to leave her.
Nothing for her to deal with, except for
his poor acting as he cuts his meat and asks it sweetly
for another 4.6 grams of mashed potatoes.
As long as the silver gets polished,
she thinks, she doesn't really mind if meanwhile
the silver gets polished.

She pats her mouth with a napkin and stands.
No, no dessert, thank you. Please input
positivefeedback:delicious to the AutoChef 8000.
And don't hurry, dear. Go ahead and
enjoy your meal.
She can feel their romantic electromagnetism behind her
even as she turns to go.
This is not what it was made for, she knows;
but then, it is not what she was made for
either. They are living in the future, after all.
And what does the future owe them,
if not the reallocation
of inconveniences?

Electric and Fully Automatedby ~SummerRayn

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

My half of a writing prompt with

. You should go read his half, which is pretty darn brill. [link]

Don't even know with the title. It just popped into my head and I knew that otherwise I'd pick some significant noun or noun phrase from the first or last stanza like I always do. So. Should I just put it forward as a given that I would change the titles of any of my poems in a heartbeat if given a more interesting option, so I don't have to say so anymore?

Anyway. Friggin' loved doing this. Haven't done a fictional poem in a long time and this was just what I needed.

~OptimusYarnspinner Jul 9, 2011 Student Traditional Artist

LOVE

~ninjababy Jun 29, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

This is brilliant, reads like a poem, feels like a story. Or maybe that's reverse. Who cares, I like it.

~ninjababy Jun 29, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Oh, one thing: typo in line 6, thins should be thinks, I'm fairly sure.

~fackeltanz Jun 23, 2011 Writer

robosexuality is still a sin and you should be ashamed of yourself for writing this

or maybe we should just let this one slide because it is pretty freaking awesome

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Electric and Fully Automated

Electric and Fully Automatedby ~SummerRayn

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