[x]

LoverHe couldn't care less about her adoration for philosophy;
the way the word 'existentialism' rolled off her tongue
and gave her nostalgia, how solipsism infuriated her,
the way she became fascinated with hail that broke glass.

In fact, he despised how she remembered every bone
in the human body and how she compared them
to other things: "The pelvic girdle is just misshapen wings
and the carpals are like tiny stones you find on beaches."

What he loved was the way her eyes stole his essence,
how his skin would be gnawed on by shivers and tingling,
how she'd masticate potassium and roll her tongue when
she ingested vitamin c.

Quite f

Stars and CigarettesDear You,

No one writes letters anymore, which is a pity because you can't burn an email from the ex. I might have told you that last night. Or maybe in a dream. Lying next to you, I dreamt of stars and smoke.

The world is ending like you said it would. It's choking.

I can't believe you weren't lying.

When we met, I was drunk (something I regret). But intuition tells me that you wouldn't have said hello otherwise and I hate that. I hate you too. You told me all your secrets because you knew I wouldn't remember, but did you know I would remember just enough to want to beg for more? I remembered enough to crave the taste of stars.

I hate y

Salome Confronts John's HeadPrior to the beheading,
I didn't know the lips
changed the most after death.

I knelt, glared you
in the chalky
face - eyes sunken
as wax grapes,
chin slack as an arse -
and saw your mouth,

blotchy -
a tie-dye
carnation -
wrinkled
as a cauliflower,

lips piggish,
lying like bled sows
side by side.

You had a bit of a pout
going on, so I gratified
you and kissed you.
Each deflated lip
smacked of day-old salt,
come lately from the sea,
and I vomited
onto the platter
so your head, amusingly,
appeared to have been plonked
in a swill of red cabbage
and onion.

ArtistShe splatters her true colors across a canvas,
In hope that anyone will see them,
And love her anyway.

King of HeartsAnd that's when I see him for the first time. The boy. The magician. The thief. The king.

He's facing away from me, on the sidewalk with a small crowd around him. Shirtless, with dirty ripped jeans and bare feet. Crudely painted swirls of ink cover his torso and ripple over his small shoulder blades. His white blonde hair is laced with gel and spiked haphazardly. There's a small chain around his neck.

Despite his bizarre appearance I can't help wonder how old the boy is.
He's just a kid.

The crowd around him applauds lightly. They toss him a few coins and walk away.
He turns around. Right away I notice his eyes, a startlingly light blue

h o p e.She asked him about time, her wide sea-green eyes and twisty child's tongue forming questions that philosophers had been wrestling with since she was nothing but–

there's her first question.

"What was I before I was born?"

"You were a wish," he smiled, crouching down so that their noses almost touched.

"A wish?"

"Yep. A wish, a hope, a desire; you were stardust, floating around in the milky way, just waiting for someone to wish hard enough."

"Oh." Her eyebrows crinkled together as she thought about this. "So my mom and dad wished for me?"

"Exactly." He stood up.

"Wait!"

He waited, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. "Yes

Myocardial Infarction +I like to press my fingertips together
Like this
I like to

Reminisce

I can feel my bones through my skin, and the violet-blue translucency
The oh-pah-ci-ty
Of my veins running within
I like to take the stethoscope and listen to someone else's heart
Because it makes me feel like I'm…
A part of something
intruding
Into their selves… their soul… my call…
I like it when someone else places their hands over my chest and feels it expand as I breathe in
And breathe out
Because that, without a doubt, proves that I am alive
Or that at least my body continues to survive
Collar… sternum… ribs… encasing

Yours ConditionallyLook, this isn't what you were expecting,
What you wanted, what you asked me for.
This isn't about you and me and us and we,
Or about how I simply couldn't survive
Without you in my life (because I have
All these years before), or how I couldn't
Breathe without you near (once again, I've
Done just fine thus far).

There are no cliches to be had,
I admit. There is no symbolism,
Dying roses paradoxically representing
Our undying love, or archetypes in which you,
The knight in lackluster armour, save this damsel
Who is quite distressed by your quixotic notions.
This isn't filled with secret strolls under the
Milky moonligh

Let’s start out as a dream
hidden in-between palm folds,
crushing church steeples
and the finger-wings of butterflies
that would soon fade and rise
with the excitement of big city shine.

The birch trees sway, the paper bark
fraying like stewed meat
as the bone is stripped away.
The night watches him hover,
inching in darkness, white noise & sounds
I once used to confess.

Then things happen: boys, glasses askew
& noise – a buzz at being called beauty
full head against thighs. Only clothing left to clutch,
the spread of skin as yet untouched. Time has grown.
Rising to my mother’s cheek, I turn
only to give a ma

traditionalismi am the unrequited
optimism of a generation sunk
by love drunk parental units
who value friendship over authority
and teach their children
nothing. i am desperate dysphoria,
slicked along the spines of whale-men
and elephant-women who think
one more chip will stave off the craving.
i am gay humans in Uganda, low castes in India,
the disappearing middle class of America --
each shrieking in harmony to the swelling
wallets of the rich and moral-less.
i am the present, atrophied and apathetic
to the siren song of the future.

we don't know anythingyou wrote right-handed, but you played
the guitar left-handed. i asked you why
and your chapped lips formed a crumpled
smile, the smile that always reminded me
of a pink accordion, and you said, "i guess
my brain was just wired backwards that way."

those were the days when i was not a girl
made of smoke and charred bones,
(we pretended that i wasn't, anyway)
the days when i did not need a bottle the way
i had as a baby, now glass instead of plastic
(i hadn't yet recognised that i did, anyway)
and the words i love you spilled so naturally
over my lips like strawberry liquor.
i never told you how odd you looked
with your clothe

ApplesMya was dancing. She had on a beautiful, white dress that flowed when she twirled. Everyone was watching her, but without the usual expressions of contempt. They looked at her like she was pretty. They were awestruck at the grace and beauty of her dance. They looked at her like she was white.

"Mya, wake up child!"

Mya opened her eyes and saw her grandmother looking over her. She'd just been dreaming. She was still lying on a bed of thin straw and dressed in dirty rags. Mya danced across the room, still in a good mood from the rush of dancing in front of all the white folks in her dream. Her deepest wish, besides freedom, was to learn how

Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.

Broken in June, buried in August -
haunting September from the boughs of hazel,
where not even the rain could reach me.
How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;
but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.
And the season moved on, without me.

Once, long ago, I was spring,
delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,
believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -
before the wind breaks their stalks, and they fall
defeated, drained, limp upon the ground;
crushed and forgotten as tears.

But no, I was summer -
when I looked into your eyes for the first time
and forgot to curse the sun.

Tin

Slippingthere's a difference between
falling and letting go:
if only gravity gave us time to choose.

Jones Gap, JulyIt will have been estimation mostly: my return to you
this way, just this: like the decline of a body,

all dolled up—smiling, anyway, of course smiling—
and full of something: you can tell; when I am addressing you,

I can tell: you feel a yellowness in me, a kind of hope: an envy.
I watch you when you are eating, when you are watching me

prove myself in eating: how you manage your silver; where, when
I have finished, I fold my napkin. I suspect

something will be put to death here, soon, and then dinner,
plated and served—that these will be the years of two mutes

between us, our organization of hands in the air silentl

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PlungedHollowed eyes and unapologetic skies
Shadowing a sea of melancholia.
The echoed screams of the swallowed shore
Thunder and bellow
A distress.
Foreboding fog ghosts over the layered monotony
Casting a dim glow to the skeletons
Of the frostbitten delilah.
She heaves and writhes
And aches,
Venal in her own plight.
Lacuna salvages battered breath,
A glimpse of flooding skies.

DryIvory veins
Mutilated and stained.
Drained of existence
Overflowing with pain.

Beckoning BladeDo you miss me
And my metallic bite?
Do you miss me
Numbing lonely nights?
Do you miss me
And the solace I give?
Do you miss me
Or a reason to live?

DreamerWords written on sand are washed away by waves.
Syllables scribbled on the sidewalk never seem to stay.
Love is only temporary,
Hope is lost contemporary.
Should I trust the storyteller or the dream weaver?

SuicideTighten the noose
Surrender your breath
Welcome the silence
Six feet closer to death

CasualtyCan you cope with this disaster?
The smoke is rising faster, faster.
Clouding your vision, you can't see.
Obscuring all you mean to me.

Will there be survivors?

Can you withstand this obliterating plague?
Your body is deteriorating and memory is vague.
Corroding and crumbling, you can't breathe.
Asphyxiating your love for me.

Will there be survivors?

Or will you become another victim?

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Life in Spite

by ~TheAmericanAverage, Mar 12, 2011, 2:58:27 PM
Literature / Poetry / Horror / Free Verse

Life is a promise to be broken,
Death is a privilege left unspoken.

Life in Spiteby ~TheAmericanAverage

Literature / Poetry / Horror / Free Verse

~

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~WrittenRevolt May 24, 2011

Hey, this has been featured as part of #theWrittenRevolution's spring update.

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~TheAmericanAverage May 25, 2011

Thank you.

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~WrittenRevolt May 25, 2011

No problem.

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~Lazuleaf Mar 18, 2011 Writer

Congrats on the DLD!

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~TheAmericanAverage Mar 19, 2011

Thank you.

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=DailyLitDeviations Mar 18, 2011

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DLD (Daily Literature Deviations) in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

Keep writing and keep creating.

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~TheAmericanAverage Mar 19, 2011

Thank you very much.

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~MewPocky Mar 14, 2011

Simple, but nicely put.

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~TheAmericanAverage Mar 14, 2011

Thank you.

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~MewPocky Mar 16, 2011

You're welcome!

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