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Admission of RegressionIf I spliced my syllables together
and only scripted childish sentences
onto stacks of thickly lined paper,
would it stress my lack of progress?
I've been wishing for a word-storm
but writing novice-grade nothings
that could never become novels.
I tried to return to my roots
but was left with only nonsense,
and these whittled-down words showcase
exactly how heavily I've regressed.
JumpEight buttons run down my chest,
are they shutting me in?
They're blocking you out.
You tell me you love me,
and the corners of your lips
dare to rise into a smirk
that reminds me of summer nights since past,
when eight buttons came undone
and your sweet-whispered syllables
shadowed hush-hush kisses along my arms,
but when midnight melted into morning
all that had lingered was lies against my skin.
But your hands still think
that they control my mine,
that lead to wrists who are cut-free,
but bitten-bruised, clenching into my thighs
leaving crescent-mooned creases behind them
like the ghosts of your windswept script
once scribbled in red ink onto paper, written to me,
and I still remember every word
You used to tell me you wanted to go cliff diving:
to feel the tips of your toes pressed
up against nothing but air,
you wanted to feel
to have the world
in the palms of your hands
just so you could drop it.
Instead, you settled for the palm of my hand
I Destroyed A DiamondI've seen what's left behind when you leave
when your split your bit lips and call it quits,
decide someone isn't worth the drama anymore,
and I'm terrified I'll trip over the boundary.
You'll become so sick
of seeing me break myself,
that you'll break me for me.
Backing away isn't an option
when I can't imagine burning us -
letting us catch ablaze and blister
until our skin is so scorched
I can shed mine until I'm only skeleton,
leaving not one bit of the flesh
you've come to call family behind.
When will you set me down?
My nightmares are blowing past barriers,
becoming bone-breaking bits of reality,
clinging to conversations and corrupting teeth
that begin biting me, teasing me, teething on me.
I don't want to dare think you'd drop me,
but I've been clutching to the same cluttered,
plastered on disguise for years
and it's whittled away,
translucent in places and spiderwebbed,
letting all of my words whisper through
and God, I can see that they're hurting you.
With Sewn Seams, I Seem AlrightI want to claw my clavicles until they're split
as if I took a blade to my shoulder,
and I'm tempted to twist the tendons in my arms
until the tension trains them to strengthen.
I want to shrink inside of myself
until there isn't a thing left to see.
I want this thing out of me.
Believe Me, I'm Better NowIf I began pushing
unmeasured morsels past my lips
and made no move to rid myself of them
would you suspect that I spent my nights on the bike?
Sometimes I wonder exactly how well you know me
and how far your expectations of me extend.
What if I tore my skin open but taped my lips shut,
biting back my words but bleeding out lies
and creating scars behind clothing lines?
If I keep quiet am I killing trust?
(Am I killing us?)
Clinging to CatastropheI thought I wouldn't be trailing thoughts from my teeth
and dripping fuck-ups from my fingers anymore
but I can feel them pooling at my feet
and you're watching them drown me.
Though I can't quite imagine
these weak calves could hold the catcher's crouch
long enough to be sure nothing leaked through,
that's the catch: I want to blind you.
I want to wipe away your world of color
and leave behind a fine layer of white
or perhaps a black so heavy
that every other hue would dissolve inside of it
so that the crimson crossing and creasing my skin
would stay unseen, swept between a pitch and pastel
and the smiles would stay framing your cheeks
I am selfish.
I've bitten the bullet of fucking up again,
and with a blade biting my own skin,
I've bled words even deeper than before,
so it is my responsibility to be sure
you won't be subject to seeing the scars.
By now I should be skilled
at sweeping my secrets away,
It Burrows Into Your Bonesthree.
you have to wonder
exactly how long everything will last.
i've been wanting to strike a match
and touch it to the tip of a candle's wick,
then count the seconds until it is quelled.
it is four forty-one in the morning
and i am fighting off the urge
to score my frustrations and fears
onto my skin as if i am a piece of pottery.
this is what i imagine it would feel like
the second before squeezing the trigger
a strange calm that slithers around your scapula
and settles in the curve of your collarbone
with such an easy euphoria you don't notice
when it begins to constrict.
Some Nights Are Better ForgottenLet me slam into the linoleum
allow the tiled wall to leave lines behind
that will blossom into bruises on my skin.
I want to feel your five-fingered strikes
caress my cheekbones like the sick love story
of disaster and self-destruction I've created
by downing one too many drinks.
It's a relief to be marred
with a mark made by a hand
other than my own.
I don't think I ever admitted to you
how your handprint hovered on my skin
in sickening harlequin and hunter greens
I imagined it appropriate to mask it with my make-up
and use foundation to build my smiles in the morning.
It's Getting That Bad AgainI've almost run out of eloquence
and no amount of strung-together emotions
can come close to describing a thing.
I am broken with broke-skin legs
hiding beneath bare-thread quilts
so that if I'm bothered,
I can smile and small talk it all away.
But that isn't good enough.
No, in that I see publication possibilities
and praise that I know perfectly well
I couldn't possibly deserve.
It sounds like sentences stamped onto paper
in bold black ink and set on my English teacher's desk,
with my name precisely penned in the corner -
but I feel much more like the wastebasket
that was always sitting beneath the tabletop
filled with everything no one else wanted to touch.
There's a problem there, too.
I'm covering everything behind metaphors
of desks and worthless wastebaskets,
full-well aware it's too easy to lose my meaning
between the letters of my language,
but I can't let it go.
Every time I open my mouth to speak truth
I spill nothing but shushed-up apologies
and bits of the big pictu
Death isn't a fresh perspectiveI saw my mother
swallowing something small
when I was just a child
The anguish in her eyes
faded, as she told me
it was just a
with a little extra kick
maybe years later,
that's how I convinced
to swallow fifteen,
give me a fresh perspective;
in the end,
my breath reeked
instead of mint.
Our Captain (Robin Williams Remembrance Poem)Oh, Captain
We’ve never had,
A Friend like You.
You came to us as an Alien,
from the Planet Ork.
But through the Years,
You made Home in Our Hearts
We Saluted You over the Airwaves
We Watched You get Sucked in a Game,
And Haul Your Family in the Big Rolling Turd.
You were a British Nanny,
Who was actually their Dad.
A Business Man,
Who was actually Peter Pan.
A Crazy Scientist,
Making a Being called Flubber.
Who Just Wanted to be Free.
You were a Robot,
Made of Rusty Old Parts.
We’ve never had,
A Friend like You.
You became the Man of the Year,
And the Wax Figurine Exhibit
Of the Twenty-Sixth President
Of the United States of America.
You Were the World’s Greatest Dad,
And the World’s Greatest Therapist.
You Had a License to Wed
And be a Kid,
Who Grew Up Four Times Too Fast.
You only Won One Oscar.
But that’s okay.
We Love all Your Other Works Anyways…
We Will Miss You
to a crucifix
on the left side
of his neck
tells me he can end all
of your suffering -
and i look at him
and i cross my arms, thinking
he can't even do this
DoormatI let you walk
All over me
Like the floor
Beneath your feet
And I never complain
The floor doesn't
If the floor complained
When you walked on it
You would be very annoyed
And you would probably
So I don't complain
Because I don't want
To be replaced
And I let you
Push me around
Like a cart
Through a shop
And I never push back
The cart doesn't
If the cart pushed back
When you pushed it
You would get hurt
And you would probably
So I don't push back
Because I don't want
To be left alone
Now, and forever more
Who lets you
Wipe your feet on my face
I love you
But I question
If you love me back
Because who would love
A dirty old Doormat?
It Trapped Her, It Released HerWhen I was younger, and little girl, I wanted a little brother.
So when she got home, I excitedly ran down stairs to tell my mother
She looked at me nervously, and brushed my question away.
“Honey, I don't have time now, we'll talk about it another day.”
I was slightly disappointed because my friends all had younger siblings,
I only had an older sister who tried her best to ignore me.
But that day she heard what I asked my mother and after dinner, pulled me in her room.
And with a sneer she whispered silently, “Mother sent our little brother to heaven too soon.”
At the age of nine, with a child's mind, I had no idea with that meant.
“Is that why Daddy went away, because he misses him?”
“Daddy got depressed and died,” she replied with a scowl,
“But don't be sad, he's in the clouds, he's with our brother now.”
Days went by and I remained silent,
yet I could see the light in my mother's eyes no longer lit.
After my question she w
I died todayI died today
Took my own life
I was tired
I was desperate
And now I'm dead
People never cared
So I left them behind
Now a new life awaits
Beyond the gates of Hell
SkinnyI wish you'd believe me,
When I tell you you're pretty,
That you don't need to skip a meal or run 7 miles,
Just so you can be skinny,
You talk about how you hate yourself,
You wish you could be stunning, beautiful, gorgeous.
You think that if you looked like a model,
That you'd never be lonely,
Everyone would love you.
You think you d get that guy you ve been dreaming of,
Maybe mommy and daddy wouldn't be so harsh if they had a pretty little girl.
You re skin and bone,
But that is not good enough,
You need less and less,
And every pound that disappears,
You begin to lose yourself in a vicious cycle.
Until you re consumed and it eats away at you.
I beg you to listen to me,
I want you to know that you mean everything,
But you don't care,
And then when the ambulances came,
And carried you away...
There was nothing more I could say...
I guess you were unaware,
That you were already beautiful.
Breathing RoomI leave chrysanthemums
scattered at your feet on tile floor
like the pencil shavings piled
on your desk.
"The flower of death,"
with Rorschach roses on your knuckles
and the hint of a warrior
in the line of your lips,
you sketch bears with open jaws
and black-shadow eyes
in the margins of your math book
with permanent ink.
The hooded abyss of your gaze
you can't bring yourself to say:
Love is short
and prone to fading.
It's a good thing I don't mind breathing life
into negative spaces.
an ear to lean oni want to edit my sentences
before i even utter them
but you tell me to speak in ink
like i'm a pen and you're the paper,
promising its lines won't judge.
and i don't doubt that,
but spilling my secrets
is like splitting open a sand bag
and it's impossible to accept
that it's okay to overflow ,
and that you'll fight for me.
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More