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The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselves
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet

(you tell me to be
quiet,

dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)

tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name

my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words

you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)

I want to go home
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav
Overgrown ColorsRed like blood on a rose.
White like bone and stars.
Black like reclusiveness.
Green like dead air.
Orange like the savage instinct.
Purity like a god's heart.
Red like thawing hatred.
White like a frozen, severe cry.
Black like the night's deprived shadows.
Green like the wind in the grass.
Orange like the light in the shadows.
Purity like the sun rising.
So discharging through the moon in a wheeze is like luminous white, dispersed red.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.

The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.

But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white a
PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint
WindowsHere am I, repeated,
and beyond waits everything
but everything is more
than I can bear.

I am not built for altitude
nor looking far afield;
groves and granite-sided mountains
stop my gaze

like rest for every tired wing;
a cover in the coldest time
snugged up beneath my chin.

Windows nothing more,
but safe lies there behind them
as the chambered hours pass;

safe sleeps there behind them
on the soft side of the glass.
Dry Spell   I am immobilized by time.
by the idea that it is somehow slipping,
  fleeting,
        evaporating
              through the cracks of
      my fingers and high

             above my head.
  I am terrified by the incessant notion
that no combination of thoughts,
    words,
         silences,
              or actions
   could possibly satiate it.

I realize only now that it can never be filled:
     all which is tossed into it is swallowed in haste
              or stretched
                       so far
           that it dissolves into non-being.
 I find that I am caught within its furrows
much like the words it devo
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
Condemnedbeneath the beaten earth they lay,
their dreams condemned to ashes,
and our restless bodies stretch,
for forgiveness, for direction –

survivors of the abyss,
amidst wide-eye, silent soldiers –
so many dead, so many maimed,

how many graves are we standing on, today?
Pull Her Hair/Stare At The StarsThe ghosts have crashed their ship
on the other side of town,
you can see it from the second floor
all the way over here.
You can see the white clouds
rising from the wreck
and a nova of heat, a big bright
nova of warmth pulling the moths and wolves
out from the woods (with their noses up and searching).
You can smell the yearning like bees
leaving the hive, like the grizzly brown bears
on the jagged white mountains (concrete and imposing).
They call it fear,
but I see these ghosts
scrambling up into the sky
and I like to think it's
something different entirely.
SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.
Life, Death And A Pork Chop SandwichAll tangled up, hard to breathe
This steel cloud day that swirls
With heat and pounding hammers
I shake in my boots and cough up
Blood, rust and damaged flesh
Waiting for the second coming
Maybe next time around there'll be
Some chance for more than this

A twisted barbed wire halo
Wrapped tight around my skull
Blinding white light aura
Swarming with flies I'm flying
To pieces, thousands of shards
Cannot be brought back together
But I will remember the summer
Of my first Chevrolet in each bit

Gleaming bits of glass in the desert
Each reflecting a different moment
Still, now, enduring until the waves
Of a new ocean sweep them away
No pain
A Night By the FireNo light,
The light sired by the night
All above whilst the day's delights
Now disappears from mortal sight.

Faded away is the sun's power,
Taking the stage now is night's sallow flower;
Now mortals may behold the stars and falling shower.

Set in a pit Nature's skyscraper ablaze
And revel in the emanating heat as you gaze,
Looking down on occasion when you hear a crack from the fire
And witness "fireflies" flying away from mother's blaze;
Dying shortly after but not lacking burning beauty do they desire!

I look out towards the teasing shore
And meditate as we sit upon her door,
Thinking on what my future has in store;
Who I am now and even
Pretty little things called words and dustif you weren't a hypocrite,
you'd be wrapped in the sweetest
perfumes
(learning
how to engulf the ocean
with your lungs
and think of how to cup it
in your hands
despite
your broken prayers and
still be beautiful)

dance with the gypsies
'till noon
(a quake in
your hips like the thrust
of continents
and the faultlines
emanating from
your spine,
but still
so, so graceful)

sing with the nymphs
in tune
(your voice,
it's growing old,
raspy even.
your throat's burning dry
like a monsoon
faltering in a desert,

and tones
still octaves
powerful)

be nestled in a king's arms
soon  
(oh, you precious
little thing.
how
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More from *Emma-hime

Stone the crowsStone the crows, there will be no shelves nor frames in their territory, the windows are the way to opportunity, we’ll set the sail below the nests. Next time contact me with more concrete news, I care not which. On other matters tomorrow marks the start of a far more important step in my life, the importance of being me, which you might say is Wildly earnest of me. I am not a happy prince I say to the crow, your feathers are far too close to my face, could you please remove them? And when you do, do not make me long for them when my heart does not so…
                                           II
But if this should not go throu
The wizardOn her way home, to her single cell apartment, the pear shaped girl was met by a most alluring wizard and in that wizards pocket, straight to palm, perhaps he held her answers.
He gave her the option, told her he could show her the meaning of the laws of beauty, the laws of attraction, in hesitance in heart, outwardly haste she accepted. And so a more conventional shade, sort of shape he made her. Approaching her person of interest did she find the confidence to say all but the boy turned and all she saw in place was the wily wizard.
                                                    II
All along it had been he, played a trick upon her so

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self-indulgence

:iconemma-hime:

Soft inside, like self-indulgence can only provide, we can be described as mellow, mallow, melodramatic queens, all elements of fantasy. But all can be perceived albeit on different terms exceedingly real.  Melting, a little bit like chocolate, a red hot blood flow from within, actions that speak louder than a world of words. Things said in anger only seem sincerely for you will respond as the situation facing you shall demand, such is the infection the contagion known as humanity experiences.
                                        II
But some others smiles cannot be seen nor their rage, some will not even respond, they have no feathers to ruffle and it will drive you insane to see it for it is so obvious that this is how their bile takes form.  You know from observation they are laughing uncontrollably but there is no evidence for it, they only seem soft inside unlike your realistic unrealism they are far more self indulgent…cold to the core…you know it…
But they either can’t.. or won’t show it…
:iconemma-hime:
This poem is about how when people get angry they can say things that are not sincerely true, they exibit unrealistic behaviour, soap opera, melodramatic, dramaqueen behaviour, it exists in reality nut is unrealistic.
Some other people when argued with will respond through silence knowing it will irritate the other person when they themselves are clearly mocking them in their own heads without saying a word.
love 0 0 joy 1 1 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconkreba:
Mood: Humor ~Kreba Feb 19, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
i do that to people in college, whenever the talk to me about something pointless or make a stupid observation, i just stare at them without saying a word. and they end up shutting up.....maybe that's why i don't have any friends
Reply
:iconemma-hime:
*Emma-hime Feb 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Of the two methods I would probably be one to run away from/ignore it when people say something ignorant or if they try to rile me up.
Reply
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