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Of Darkness and DawnTaste not the rancid words, my lips,
Betray not my tongue to filth.

There is poison in the air tonight -
The acid wears my teeth,
my mouth is black with rot.
My words spill out cancerous;
A soothsayer of suffering, I speak death.

Radiate my cells;
Carve out this tumor in my chest.

If we are still alive at sunrise,
- we can endure; we can conquer -
This sickness does not own us, love.
With the morning,
We know our darkness sleeps for another day.
We will bask in sunshine;
Calmly awaiting night -
With serpent tongues and venom on our breath,
We will fight
(each other, ourselves).

Someday, the stars will bring us only rest,
Runaway PenMy hands stopped shaking
My mind stopped racing
I stood still
and reveled in some empty nothing

An idiotic box
A bottle of pills
and a runaway pen.
My Story to TellI considered writing a book

But you'd be surprised
By how much I've forgotten

My urban language
Flows much like my thoughts

In glimpses

Random events from the past
Come to me in dreams
Haunting my sleep
Like nightmares

Visions
Of non beautiful things

Reminding me
Monsters are real
And they live in us all

That's my story to tell

But the world doesn't want to hear
Of monsters
And no one cares for tragedy

People want beauty

Inspiration

Hope

If they wanted to feel depressed
They'd turn on the 6'o clock news

I'm just thankful
They won't ever see me there
Wasting DaysCicadas are like egg timers
reminding you that this thing will soon be over.

These summer days and summer nights
shall soon fall bare and breathless into winter.

Drink it in
before life returns to cold
and
love returns to never-was.
The Science of Suicidei. (subject)
I am hollow bones of a dead bird
singing; decaying disgrace with a turn for
poetic beauty. all that keeps this
decay-ridden chest beating is melodic words, and

nightmares
inside my unseeing eyes

ii. (scientist)
her waking dreams are of
glass monsters eating her freckled
flesh; just to
get the pain out of her skin.

a watercolor artist, she makes do
with canvasses of skin

iii. (subject)
forgoing modesty, my leaf-litter bedclothes reveal
brittle bleached keels and abandoned ribs; remnants of
ships and feathers-
atrophied breasts to be molested
by winter's corpse kisses

iv. (experiment)
she has nightmares made o
Those EyesI saw his last breath escape
into the cold night air.

His eyes empty,
blind to the suffering he had felt.

Yet still it seemed as though he could see me,
as if looking through me.
All my pain and secrets revealed,
almost mockingly;
for he had finally escaped this life

and I was left to bleed.

It's strange how the mind remembers
for I can no longer see his face,
blurred,
featureless;

but those eyes.

Those eyes are as clear as the lies men tell,
and I

no longer wish to dream.
The HeroineYou never really liked villains before,
never much understood the whole
sympathy-for-the-devil angle.
But as you sit across from her
bent over her cheerios, frowning slightly,
bits of white fluff from her bathrobe
caught in her dark hair like seafoam,

you realize your favorite villain would be
any who had to go against
that. She feels your eyes and looks up,
turning the frown on you,
her mouth a delicate knot just off center.
"Stop, stop," you cry, choked with fellow-feeling
for the imagined opponent,
and your words hang startled in the air,
glowing in the yellow morning sunlight
coming in through the window.
Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.

Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.

So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:

(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)

death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.
ArsonAvalon is burning,
like my last bridge and the stairway to heaven,
and I swear that this world has never been brighter.
As the smoke fills my lungs I start breathing better.
Fire is cleansing,
it will make everything new again.

The boatman is raging,
but the fire is calling-
I am staying right here
to burn together with the world.
I will burn till I'm beautiful
and new again.

We'll fall down together,
me and the world.
As ashes we will fall,
then rise bright and beautiful
and new again.
VacancyVacancy

A force fed child smiles
Unaware of opposites
On unbalanced scales.
Life, to him, is sugar
(Flesh dependence) still taken
From the breast.

Pain, banality and fear
Arrive post-pubescent
When a lover's body
Is wet beneath the tongue,
Milk then must sour.

The first casket known
Are the confines of the womb,
The horse in paddocks knows this
For open land is gone.

Death is a human birth right;
To fuck and to perish,
In that way we are no different
To that of any animal.

(Existential despair)
God is a construct
To cope with this,
To dismiss
The empty journey
From the cunt to grave.
In The WindowsillI’m left naked
reflected back from the black
outside my window.
The houses out there
are identified by
lonely empty holes lit by bulbs.
Trees hang like lashes,
blinking in the wind.

My make-up’s smudged,
I rub blackened fingertips
over and around my thighs.
I break the scabbing skin
across my knuckles
and wrap my hand
in my pillow case.

My head is heavier
than the rest of me,
I sit in the windowsill
to sleep,
misquoting stories I’ve heard.
Red QueenI toss and play with the
softness of bluish
that unravels and I chase,

losing itself amongst the
bed clothes where I
burrow and follow

like Alice tumbling
into darkness
through a tunnel endless

leaving bottles in a row
with their red queen
to behead me,

who keep guard on the
nightstand and reflect
in the water glass;

handfuls of nightmare
on an oil-slick rainbow
whose mythic pot recedes

until at last I reach
where I can drink
the shrinking potion.
The Hole You LeftA bizarre kind of high
is the blue depth of pain,
like the pressure in your lungs
from the clear nitrous mask
when they tear out your teeth
and you laugh through the holes
in a bruised, splintered jaw
for the tickles in your brain
and the bubbles in your blood
like a flute of champagne
at a wedding...

And the gaps left behind
in a moth-eaten soul –
like a sheet on a car
that's been out in the yard
for twenty years or so,
like a veil on a virgin
or a shroud on a corpse,
maybe coming, maybe going,
never staying very long,
like a Hallowe'en ghost –
but I digress...

No, the gaps left behind
in that sandblasted s
Conversion, so she flung herself off the edge of reality,
swallowing sins of her ancestors and
type AB wine.
let's go insane again.Everyone called me insane
because I had a different mind
when I convinced myself into believing you were the most gorgeous girl on the planet,
and the truth is that whenever I thought of you,
my mind went blank.
(It feels like you ripped my heart out.)

Whenever your world crashed,
you exposed your scars to the world
because you believed scars were beautiful.
You always said that scars show your struggles in life.
(You convinced myself into believing that pain was the new beautiful.)

(You rip hearts out for a living,
you make ''forever'' seem like nothing but a lie.
But even demons can't save you.)
Browse More Like This

More from ~SummerRayn

Evil, ComeEvil, come out!
Evil, come forth!
Serpent, do not hide in the Tree;
Beast, do not hide in the Pit.
Come and meet my children,
Them whom you cannot have.
Come and see my dwelling,
That which you cannot enter.

Do not crouch in darkness,
Where the shadows flatter
The horrors of your face,
Where my children must draw near
To find what you look like.
Come forth!
Stand here, in the light.
Let them see
Every wart and scab and bleeding pustule.
Stand here, in the sun.
Let them smell
The rank stink of its heat warming your decay.

Come!
Come though you come trembling,
Though I drag you from your hole
By a knotty horn.
I know why
WondersThe fairies that live in the flower vine outside my bedroom window are only there sometimes. Mostly it's on Thursdays.

The flower vine, in fact, is there more seldom than the fairies are. Which is a bit hard on them, I suppose, but the sorts of days when they're there are the sorts of days when I can't be bothered with things like vines. It's just the way it works out. But I guess it's a little rude of me.

I am trying to be more careful about the vine. Sometimes, though, it's a difficult thing to remember.

---

The vine is actually very obliging, as far as elusive foliage goes. The bush, on the other hand, is nearly impossible to catch. It

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On Not Being Hit by Lightning

:iconsummerrayn:

According to the National Weather Bureau, the average person
has a one in ten thousand chance of being hit by lightning.

It is storming, and I go for a walk.

The rain is light and irregular,
flickering on my face, sparking off puddles.
The night sky shatters white with lightning like a china saucer
dropped on a black floor.
The thunder hums in my sternum.
The thunder is lions, bass drums in a canyon, empty barrels
bouncing down staircases.
The thunder is nothing in my mouth it hasn't been
in the pens of a thousand poets.

I am barefoot in the rain puddles.
The grit and gravel on the sidewalk
bite at my soles, but that's all right, it's part of it,
It makes the puddles feel cooler and sweeter.
The dark, rich scent of grass and mulch and the fish
of far-off lakes is spiced with ozone, like cayenne in chocolate.

I stand and watch the flashes reflect off the dome of grey cloud,
And speak poetry into the wet air, spooling it out
like kite string. None of it is very memorable.
None of it sticks. None of it brings the storm inside of me,
to flash and mutter inside my chest,
to make my scalp tingle
and my nervous system shatter like the sky.

There are too many trees and streetlights
and tall buildings around for me to fear lightning.
That is not why
I do not fear it.

I have walked in thunderstorms many times in my life. I will yet.
I have written this poem many times in my life. I will yet.
I will walk in thunderstorms ten thousand times
if I need to, for the chance
to find the words that mean
air choked with sound, dark shuddering with light.

Tonight is not one in ten thousand.
Tonight I go home with only
a wet kite string,
to drink a cup of tea and go to bed
with my windows open.

193

10 9 7
:iconsummerrayn:

On Not Being Hit by Lightningby ~SummerRayn

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I need to stop writing poems about writing poems.
©2011-2013 ~SummerRayn
Category: Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

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Submitted on
August 8, 2011
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:iconoptimusyarnspinner:
~OptimusYarnspinner Sep 3, 2011  Student Traditional Artist
LOVE
Reply
:iconmissdudette:
*MissDudette Aug 13, 2011  Student General Artist
The sound of it--- :clap:
Reply
:iconyoucouldbesohappy:
~youcouldbesohappy Aug 12, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
If only there was a Double Favourite button....

For this has captured my soul and stolen my mind.

I will be wanting them back you know.

But can't afford the ransom.
Reply
:iconlazyrayfinkle:
*LazyRayFinkle Aug 10, 2011
I kept imagining Ben Franklin while reading this.
Reply
:iconbark:
=Bark Aug 9, 2011   Writer
I like this! You've captured the feel of a thunderstorm and the search for inspiration with uncliche'd imagery.
Reply
:iconconsolecadet:
~consolecadet Aug 9, 2011
i've written this poem many times too. but i think you did it better :>
Reply
:iconfackeltanz:
~fackeltanz Aug 9, 2011   Writer
You should write a poem about writing poems about writing poems.
Reply
:iconsummerrayn:
~SummerRayn Aug 11, 2011
POEMCEPTION
Reply
:iconfackeltanz:
~fackeltanz Aug 11, 2011   Writer
WOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAH
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