[x]

Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.

IcarusSun girl,

the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.

Do not let anyone
clip your wings;

you were made for the skies.

Definition of a Writerwrit•er

noun /rītər/

A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery

They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish

A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own

They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone

Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.

The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress

Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.

A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.

Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu

moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:

giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --

burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.

it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.

L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
Saving myself
Being who
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that

Broken Birds and Stark PhrasesWe slip and slide and fall
down curves and carrow places.
We cursive at the wall
in our undefinéd spaces.

Disjointed limbs extend
to strumpet our arrival,
to warn who are not friends
we will kill to survive all.

Hung upside-down haunters
hug branches in the Forrest.
Merry nightmare monsters,
Cheery snarling chorus,

Arachnic children know;
you can run but you can't hide
from this disparic truth,
darkness waits for you inside.

Although you seek the sun,
as all creaky spinsters might,
the night can't be out done
and it has you in its sight.

Missing piecesMissing pieces

There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk in pieces, howling
around my heart.

-SophieCT, 2012, 2013

Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs

I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight

I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family

I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push

I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"

I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says

I can't trust anyone because they do

field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.

MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings

Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee

The PoetFor the work of a Poet to be truly appreciated
he must write it with his own blood and tears for ink
his soul the sharpened quill to nail the words
like so many specimen of unwilling insects upon the paper.

And once he has bled out
becoming the cause of his own demise
the reader is left behind to digest his soul
so plainly trapped within a cage of words
his requiem written as a love song to his Muse.

van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
crying
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
bullshit.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
in hell.
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
misconception.
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
a crowd
of murmuring lips of
god's will.
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
could hear.
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
with chiv

thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns are midnight requiems
That tell me to look beyond the
light and have &

Monday, Erased and Re-WrittenDawn broke brittle Monday morning, the sky cracked like eggs
(All done in silence beneath the roaring of my tinnitus)
Twenty 'til something and I'm driving out into blazing light
Looking for what, I won't know 'til its found but its
Just so damned bright and quiet and I think of a sniper in the clock tower
Fallen asleep waiting to pick off his targets but how can he sleep
in this goddamned brightness and nothings moving anywhere
Empty streets, has the world called in sick this morning?

Am I awake? Am I alive? Am I in a movie, maybe a character
in someone's book? Why don't I feel anything? Am I waiting for
the writer to tell me how I feel,

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ProgressionWe matched our steps in dance precise.
His lead lacked flaws, I followed quick.
The music flowed like wine. The shine
was blinding. Sweat, a lifetime's work?

A friend who glided perfect once,
divorced. Her dull porcelain cup
in hand. Some talk of law and bills.
Not the stars' motion, only ours.

Dream LogicIt seemed to make sense.
We were together, holding hands
under the moon and stars,
when you started talking about cat food
and I responded all too knowingly.
"We can't really feed the cat dog food,"
you said, and I said we were feeding the cat
the dog. With no surprise or urgency,
you breathed deeply and declared firmly this was the end,
that from now on we would have proper cat food.

We were together in a world
where the injustice of feeding the cat the dog
was stopped.

An open letter to 'perfect-line'Dear Sarah:

I must confess that your thoughts about the prom confuse me. I suppose it's because I skipped out on the prom. I had no one to go with, and I didn't really want to listen to loud music and dance, way back when.

But perhaps your expectations for the prom have less to do with the excitement of the moment and more to do with memories.

Memories are like skies in Texas. Sometimes on a clear night there I walk around for hours, staring at the stars that punctuate the deep, dark blue with their light. Evening skies there seem to go on endlessly - my God, those stars are distant - and yet, the sky has a shape. It seems always to encirc

Hope to TalkExcitement of the phone,
the hope of communication.
Initial glances did not know
excitement of the phone.
Then shared gossip, simple notes
about mutual friends' ruination.
Excitement of the phone -
the hope of communication?

Comfort, SunsetWarmth of sun in red,
orange, purple? Resplendent,
royal. But that pink…

Unwanted EndingsThe changing wind reminded me
of lost control of life.
The trees shed leaves, sun sought to set:
a season's resolved strife.

Those hurt do seek resolution.
But feeling all would end
was forest, wind. Surrounding self,
collapses, turns and rends.

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Submitted: May 20, 2012
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Definition

by *akarra, May 20, 2012, 2:48:33 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Stream surrounds: texts,
calls, expectations.

Pulse within,
that blank,
feels strangely alien.

Worry: the seed needs
an acorn shell.

Relief is release.
Bee plays with a blade of grass:
outside discovered.

Definitionby *akarra

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

I think a lot of you will relate to this.

I do ask that you take a look at what I've written on haiku recently: Buson, "Early summer rain." Struggling to be a more thoughtful artist.

love 2 2

joy 3 3

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~rhetoricrae Aug 25, 2012 Student Writer

ohio-writer put it better than I could. I never know how much to close myself off, and when to open up again... it is one of those things people never really teach you.

~ocean-whispers Jun 17, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

I kind of associate this with writer's block. Something I suffer from quite often. Nicely written. (:

!TheKidd88 May 22, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Loved it! The language is very direct and effective. It's also good to see a poem that is powerful without being emotional.

*akarra May 22, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you. Yeah, it's meant to inspire some reflection on how our world creates stress that seems to define us.

~ohio-writer May 21, 2012 Student Writer

I always have felt that living with barriers is one of the hardest steps to maturity. Finding that adult way to emerge from, as you put it so nicely, a metaphoric shell. How we do so is difficult and may take many years, even if we don't realize it. In the end we are treated to the gift that awaits outside: a fresh, new world. Nicely done here; you've shown brevity can be just as strong a strung out piece can be.

Also I liked the reading you did of that haiku of the two houses, or possibly rivers. I like to think it was about homes and that curious sense of wonder - just who lives on that side. It was rather curious in itself, and only gave the details to make the audience do the same. I like your take and the references made the haiku take on a new meaning as well. A really interesting exploration.

*akarra May 21, 2012 Student Writer

We really need a comment of the day feature on dA. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness & time.

~ohio-writer May 21, 2012 Student Writer

you're welcome. thanks for the llama

~Honor2Serve May 20, 2012 Professional Digital Artist

I like the wording! A little over my head on imagery (I stink at this lol), but if you're saying "get back to the basics", I get it

*akarra May 20, 2012 Student Writer

The imagery in this one is pretty tough. I was playing around with a pretty abstract notion, one that isn't real.

How's your day been?

~Honor2Serve May 20, 2012 Professional Digital Artist

Pretty good

You? And it's still nicely written

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