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Hollow Eve by PoetryOD Hollow Eve :iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 2 1
Literature
The Paperwork
I littered her life with the detritus of love.
My adoration pressed by pens into folded tissues, scraps of wrapping paper, backs of envelopes.
She would open drawers and untie shoelaces and lift pillowcases to find me
tumbling out
in a rush of words.
Eager to remind her in my absence that she was loved.
She pressed each one into the pages of a book,
prayers between paper of a long future together willed by design.
She compiled them into a chaotic chronology of us.
Ordering them and piecing the tessellating scraps and scars into a vague impression of my immense love for her.
Bit by bit she pulled ribbons and ticket stubs,
long looks and breath jolts,
shared films and old poems,
and sewed them together.
That was all I could give her.
The Frankenstein tools to construct the telling of my love for her;
too big for words.
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Literature
Dropped
I tried to write them down;
all the moments she made me feel flooded with love.
I quickly began dropping moments.
Watched them hit the tiling and panicked,
as my shaking hands let slip the first time she said “I think I love her”,
the first time she opened her sleepy eyes and smiled,
the first time she asked me to stay close because I made her feel safe. Stable. Strong.
And I bit my tongue and pierced it with the jumble of words in my mouth
about how she was my centre of gravity.
These moments fell from my arms
and I winced to know that if I didn’t stop to pick them up I might lose them forever. That was scary.
But see, when you love the right girl
every second is worth saving
and I’m running out of memory.
Running out of time to write them down
because the spaces between the last time she made me feel like she wrote the earth for me,
and the next time,
is too small for poetry.
There are no spaces in between love, to memorialise love.
But don’t worry.
I do
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Literature
Edinburgh Festival Fringe
Between Niddry’s Street and Robertson’s
Close to the Mile,
crammed like over-full sandwiches
between houses hodge-lodge piled
it seeps up into the night sky
and poisons the black
at the fringe of the thunder, just under,
I hear the humming of an anxiety attack
but I drag in the atmosphere,
pollute my lungs with a fresh cities’ toxins,
because this time, this year
anything is possible, 'neath the heart of Scotland
I push palms into pavements
dig walls into my arms
I carve out a map of each entertainment,
the poets, their psalms,
I embed them in my skin
so when I return home
I’ll find bits of the skyline in my pockets,
remember,
and go.
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Literature
Demolition and Meeting You
I love the stand alone doorways In half torn down buildings
Like someone stepped into the room and forgot -
Everything
The universe ceased to be on that threshold.
And the door stood, open mouthed and astonished,
left behind.
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Asbestos by PoetryOD Asbestos :iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 30 7 Sky Songs (The Lullaby) by PoetryOD Sky Songs (The Lullaby) :iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 28 4 The Still Hour by PoetryOD The Still Hour :iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 17 2
Literature
Amber's Shoes
Today
You left your shoes in my room
And I don’t mind
Cos its like you’ve moved in
Like you’re slowly infiltrating every part of my life
Cos you don’t want me to be on my own anymore
Cos you’ve been there before.
And its just black patent leather on a wrecked dorm room floor but
You left your shoes
In my room.
If you’re looking for a way into my heart sweetheart don’t worry
Your feet are already firmly under the table
If you missed the presentation these are my notes for you, spoiler alert, they’re love notes, I’m telling you – you’re the best thing to happen since superglue – I can’t live without you,
Cos you make me smile.
And I know you know how to do that because its hard for you too
So pull up a chair, relax friend, rest.
And maybe lets talk a while.
Maybe lets leave trinkets in each others homes
And words trailing behind us like ribbons
So you can bind your hands with my love when you can’t find a
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Literature
On Grief
I told the psychiatrist: "It's not that I want to die now she's dead, that's not it specifically... it's more... like magnets. You put us on opposite sides of the veil and of course they're going to cling to it, yearning for the other side."
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Literature
Song: The Only One
I can't wear that perfume anymore
cos it reminds me of when you still loved me -
and I can't walk along those streets anymore
with the weight of the sky hung above me
and I don't want to say it out loud again
but I think that this time we're done
and I can't think of you as just my friend
when you used to be the only one
   (the only one that I called Love)
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Literature
A Serene Pond, After
Glass fragment flashes
of sun off of the water -
and broken windscreen.
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Literature
Brussels Ankara
Although not my native tongue
I do not want to be able to speak Terror -
I want to awaken in a world, confused,
and unable to comprehend travesties.
Remind me of what it was like before,
before we mutated our genes
and evolved haphazardly into a species
turned in on itself, and biting.
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Literature
Of Omission
He wants to know
why girls need so much
cotton wool in their lives.
I laugh and cover the stench
of TCP and Marijuana,
that betrays that all who survive
in this house are just trying
to make the pain stop.
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Literature
The Secrets of Stars
They are thousands
of miles from each other.
Hanging orbital
around their own skeletal frameworks,
built out of isolation,
desperately stretching with light fingers
to try and reach another,
to touch each other.
They are failing.
This is why some stars fall from the sky;
the unlivable weight of loneliness.
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Literature
The State of Denmark
When he put his hands on me
I withered to the root; a weed. Released my toxins, almost dead;
something rotted in the seed.
You kissed me once in spring-time, your mouth black with aniseed;
it reminded me of the flowerbed
where he'd put his hands on me.
And though when I frost bit us down to bud-nubs
and begged “Stop!”, you agreed; I still can’t help but hate that
‘Something Rotten’ in the seed.
You stop like you’re supposed to, but we still bleed sunset red.
I don’t know how to excavate the rank and rusted from
where he puts his hands on me.
I’m down-trodded on, I’m wilted
and I can’t bloom the way you need, because
when he put his hands on me
something rotted in the seed.
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Literature
The Village Drunk
He just wants another drink.
Curled up in his misery
He tells me he just needs time to think
but I see him drowning in his memory.
Curled up in his misery,
in an amniotic sac of apathy, he’s going down.
I see him drown in his anxiety
without hope that there’s any hero left around
Breaking out of apathetic black, he’s going down  
to the village post office to buy wine again,
without hope that there’s any one around
to care, to stop him from folding under the strain.
To the village post office to buy wine again.
It’s the closest numbness to happy these days.
It helps him bear the folding under strain
and sweeps him, breathless, into a kaleidoscopic daze.
“It’s the closest numbness to happy these days”
he tells me. He just needs time. I think
of having to sweep him urn-ward, and I’m amazed
that he still wants another drink.
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Literature
Longing
The sea turns over heavily, restless.
Sleeping uneasy on a bed of broken glass and ship shards.
It shrugs. It groans, breathless
and retraces its wet hands over the same ten yards,
the same sandalstone, the same feet. Over and over.
Sleeping uneasy on a bed of broken glass and ship shards
the ocean fidgets, lonely. A friend yearning for our attention
it retraces its wet hands over the same ten yards.
I sit and ask the sea about the sky, about longing –
it shrugs.  The sea knows longing. It groans. Breathless
children listen to the bedtime stories with no endings
as the sea turns over heavily. Restless.
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Literature
Ifs
If ev’ry time I closed my tired eyes
to try and seek the solace in the black -
if ev’ry time it blocked out all the cries
I wouldn’t have to keep on coming back.
If sleep could rob me of the smell of you
or better yet, if it made me forget
the haunting way my mind says things untrue
ru’ning my reality with regret –
or if it drew you back in to my hold
and gave me reasons for the tears I’ve shed –
if sadness stopped your blood from running cold –
if crying brought you back home to your bed –
Then I would gladly cry forever more
to bring back the one that I am crying for.
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Literature
Cohabitating
Flies splay a constellation in reverse
across the wardrobe door sky.
They thrum and gossip at the smell of blood.
Their wet little feet patter every surface,
patting every surface, testing them as their own.
Tiny black hearts ache to take my kingdom
if only the knife would slip -
they buzz excitedly as I wretch into their airspace.
They don’t want to share this room with a human anymore.
I grasp for the precious edge of sanity
   - someone knocks
What am I doing? Just thinking about feeding the flies.
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Literature
Under Attack
Anxiety is a tourniquet. It strangles me with the familiarity of suicide etiquette.
I very often breathe just right, walk just right, talk all night, but sometimes I
break. I have to fold the pointed bones in on myself, press elbows into chest cavities
and tighten muscles over my lung space, I have to hold myself together, physically.
Some days I’ll be puking up yesterday’s worries, then choking them back down
like I’m hungry for my destruction, I curl up in the corner places, in the bathroom.
I have to be small in order to survive the eco-apocalypse inside, I have to fight!
Toilet paper blind and sword slashing through my palm, I’m a warrior.
Lifting my head, agony swollen around the vertebrae in my neck
under the weight of every burden on my armour-broken shoulders,
my weak wrists have to lift, have to rip my way out of the attack from inside.
I have to find a way to recover, to respawn, to get up. To get out, and live on.
“How dare you use the disabled
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Literature
A Node To Nonsense
I didn’t
choose
randomness
(it wasn’t a module option).
Randomness was thrust
heaving
and squirming
wet with freshly spilled ideas
into my brain;
crammed between
suicide
and salmon fillets.
I didn’t
watch
cult TV shows
and emulate
the way they became
absurdist
in their rabid dismissal
of reality
and
corneas.
I didn’t
try
to
porcupine
a hazelbut tree
with no resemblance
to the
regional plaguen blat.
I don’t
strive
for nonsense
to biblify
out of my biting
places
every time I try
to introduce geranium:
Helloooo –
I’m destitution and
triangle!
Connor and
Jake
pamper bi-focal sunrise rays
with twelve
beard shoehorns.
I tell them
unlivable viaducts
will behest
camembert
on January 16th
with such twiddlebert that
no
singular
wallpaper glue
of sense
will remain
fossilised.
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Literature
This Is Anna
The convoluted way she wrote of stars
did all but fully mask the way she felt
grasping at dead eyes of the solar system.
She ached to touch the shining face of God,
she tried to reach the love she used to know.
Scribbling wild notes of paper dreams, weeping,
she had to know the stars would never hear –
Still, she sat writing, hoping for the shock
of a heavenly reply. She waits on.
Always hoping for one more kiss returned.
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Literature
The HumanHog
Jake wrapped the barbeque skewers in tinfoil until they formed rigid cone shapes that reflected the dull moon’s attempt to distract him. He heard snuffling and it spurred him to move faster.
Everything was almost finished, if he hadn’t gotten one of his spikes stuck in the doorframe as he snuck out of the back door then he would be fine; as it was he was slightly behind schedule, cold and shirtless in the woods behind Grovener’s House.
He duct-taped the spike back into place on his shirt. It slotted into the formation of cones perfectly and then he carefully slid into the shirt, trying not to move it too much or bend it. He didn’t want to break it so close to the finish line and have to try again tomorrow. Getting out of the house without his mother noticing was difficult enough once.
With the shirt back in place Jake stretched and turned slightly to feel the impressive array of spikes shift in tune with his movements. He heard them clutter against each other wi
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Comments


:icongregorkerle:
GregorKerle Featured By Owner Mar 4, 2016  Professional General Artist
:hug::clap:
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:iconslenderblade:
slenderblade Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015
living in my world
she writes unbeknownst to me
now i must read more
Reply
:iconpoetryod:
PoetryOD Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015
:giggle: Thank you ! 
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:iconslenderblade:
slenderblade Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015
:la:
Reply
:icone-r-k:
e-r-k Featured By Owner Jul 29, 2015   Traditional Artist
How do you do it? every single thing you write is unbelievable! 
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