I taste gunmetal
on your lips, you are
beyond my reach, death lingers
behind your far away eyes,
bullets fall from the sky.
We made love
on an unmarked grave,
our flesh carved the stone
the look in your eyes an elegy
how beautiful the Angel of Death is.
Six ways to be a butterfly by seasaltrose, literature
Literature
Six ways to be a butterfly
Land gently and linger among the marigolds and asters, snapdragons and lavenders, daylilies and sunflowers. These buffet of flowers are yours to savor. So don’t settle. Play. Strut. Twirl in eddies because you know everyone is watching. Flit between sunbeams. Let light filter through your splendor. You are beauty. Be careful where you rouse your wings. You are power, rippling exponentially. A creator of hurricanes, you change the world. Emerge backwards into your cocoon. Disassemble each scale in your wings and strip. Be cozy. Stay cozy. Invent cozy if you want to know it intimately. Love your furry plumpness. Caterpillar, you are child again. Unfurl yourself. Let them see you. Let them see your whole self. Then fly away. Follow the tail end of summer with your brethren. Let the wind guide you. The sky is home. Never be one thing. You are a child that flies. You are an adult that never leaves home. You are the essence of metamorphosis. You survive for sanctuary. You
My heart is a poem, wrapped in sea with changing tides that refuse to be measured. I can't really tell you in words just what the inside is like. Words keep failing me. I can only show you through the eyes of hyper puppies and soaring ravens, through the ears of those who cannot hear, and through hearts that only dream about happiness. Most of me remains unmapped, and that which I do know is still confusing. Like a really good poem; you get it, but don't at the same time. My brain is a universe full of worlds that may never be explored.
My Love (Mirror of My Desire) by Melonhead2004, literature
Literature
My Love (Mirror of My Desire)
I sit in the window Thinking of you, Our long nights spent together, How empty these days seem... I can’t last long, Not without your voice I yearn for your laughter, The rich rumble it is. I don’t ever want to lie When you ask if I’m okay I want to be comfortable spilling my secrets Comfortable letting you know me, Comfortable using your name I want to send you handwritten letters and draw pictures in your name I want to write poetry for you and pour out the contents of my heart So, here I sit Writing for you You may not ever know it, But I- I- I can’t even say it...
dark feathered wings and clear water eyes, all grown up, with her own little nestlings now, how they chirp and sing, how her heart chirps and sings, but even phoenixes need their rest, need their alone time, need their own space, with too many crows and ravens preening themselves on her branch, even though she knows they will migrate soon enough, winter oceans and january moons, but it is still a little bit too much right now, and i am too far away to help out, but i hope my love warms her, damages healing, we are two birds of a feather sticking together with all of these miles split open between us, and i love her little chickadees, and i lo
Imagine the call:
When I am already tangled in sheets soaked with summer sweat, the phone vibrates, cutting through the buzz of mosquitoes. I ignore it at first. Past midnight, I assume a drunk dialing friend. But then a buzz indicates a voice mail and for some reason, I wake up enough to enter my pin, brain soggy with sleep, and listen.
“This is the Omaha airport. We’ve, uh, got a cat here.”
“Christ almighty,” I say, already rolling out of bed. “The jerk is early.”
Imagine the drive:
Heat lightning jumps from cloud to cloud, and I can feel the electricity on my skin, waking up my eyes and lighte
At two o'clock there is a shift change. The second assistant manager comes in to liberate the relief night assistant from the hell that is Saturday at our gas station that sat just off the busiest interstate exit in the whole city.
I don't get to leave. I would kill someone if it meant I could leave.
Contempt is an accurate word to describe my mood this cold afternoon. Homicidal is another. It's the high gas prices, it's the disgruntled people bleeding from that nearly-Christmas financial wound, it's the lottery. Every person through the door.
There is always a warning posted on the back wall of the check stand near the holidays. "Desperat
He threw away every nightlight they bought for him.
His parents tried again and again but the colors and shapes they chose did not matter.
He wasn’t afraid of the dark. He liked the dark. Darkness was his favorite blanket he refused to surrender.
He was afraid of shadows.
Shadows moved. They took shapes. Light was the beacon that brought them all, these terrible biting moths and their intangible scratching wings. The shadows were always hungry – hungry for light, hungry to devour every trace of it and twist it up into rib cage sweat and messy hair and twitching fingertips.
When he grew older, he couldn’t get enough shad
Two immortals meet in a bar, only one by choice. It’s a quiet niche, small, cozy. Wolf’s hunting ground with solitude as prey. His camouflage is a black suit, a white beard, and a distant look.
Coyote is a firecracker, all noise and color, blue jeans and an assaultive tie-dye shirt. A tag dangles from the sleeve. Eyes follow his bee-line to Wolf, read the invitation printed on fabric.
Ask If I’m Wearing Underpants!
He plops on a stool next to his cousin and gives him a warm pat on the back. In absence of tail, he lets his tongue do the wagging. “Well, if it isn’t the handsomest humanimal around! How you been p