theenemyisyou

The Garden Mother Wears a Corset Children snap at your fingers And the worms That writher among your dry, cracked flesh. They pull the golden locks And drag your skull into the pavement; The rocks in your cheek daily reminders Of the stones of your failures. An onslaught of ants march Through the blades of green existence And into your mouth and crevices, Sporting fire, Armani and ambition. You've found it hard to move your legs Into pastures These fifteen years past As they were too occupied With the gnashing claws of adolescent palms.

youre right alaeha, i shouldnt use amphetamines, that was incorrect usage on my part. substitute in diphenhydramines (active drug in sleeping pills) cuase thats what i was going for. i'll def consider breaking it up, thanks.

thanks peredhil, im new to this whole writing community thing and wasnt sure of my level of writing capability so its nice to hear some possitive reinforcement. is there anything you guys think i should change though? im trying to get all of my poems polished and perfect because my goal is to publish a book of poetry within the next few years.

And the earth quakes for its deliverance A crack marks the ceiling; plaster pieces, when caught, still, inevitably, crumble away: dust in the palm. It travels from the corner, stopping in a lovely point right above my head where I lay, hard wood panels for precious pillows. Earth shakes, or maybe just my soul, for 'tis hard to say in time like these. Fat gray cat, which somewhat resembles my father licks my face to draw me up, but I budge not, only lie, paralyzed by the beauties of this world. I watch as the crack, widening, travels its way into my torso. The cats ran and left me to break in two.

i do really like the lines "this is my proverb/this is my psalm." kickass

Termination of a Pregnant Mind (title is subject to change) She fell asleep in her closet, the door pulled shut tight and the robes of her changing moods falling off bent hangers to serve as blankets, pillows, and the stones to be rolled away come morning. The anti-claustrophobe, the anti-romantic, the anti-everything: mother of the Anti-Christ. She would shroud her deep sleep In the endless lines of excuses that those stiletto heels weren’t meant for heavy loads. Those leather sandals were not designed to withstand the cold harsh winters. The snake skin purse would never hold enough change. The scarves stood as transparencies against relentless winds. Her dresses all lay folded on the narrow twin bed behind the wooden door. The photographs of the woman who has shunned her sat up upon dressers with lipstick and perfume. The context of conception was stagnate in the sheer pantyhose strewn carelessly across the corner chair. The final words were spoken downward, to the pawn under Lucifer’s hand. "The world's not ready for the likes of you, precious as you may be." So, she drowned her unborn child in a bath tub of amphetamines before he ever learned to breathe.

Manes and reigns fall short, always kissing under moonlit snow with a casket and a horse, with military force fingers trace the lighter edges. angry hooves and broken wood are way down the main hall where we took our final fall into loveless breaches on ourselves. lips keep moving when they shouldn't though I never said a word, yet somehow you still heard phrases praising your sweet breath. heat moves up upon my face as chill wraps round my waste at the places you would taste though I'd advise you otherwise. I'd make comments on myself with the seraphs in my head in the grave that is my bed where I rest with solemn urgency. I changed your face and changed your name as I moved and knelt to pray that bodies shifting in the hay would not deny me future gifts. clocks chime and horses cough, it seems best for me to leave, but in time you did not believe, or in speeches leading to an end. the stars will never send me back and you will never see, you would never learn to see, that each breath is leading to an end.