[x]

Mooncalf"You are a sad little mooncalf," you whisper in my ear "who still watches the stars and needs to know she's beautiful."

I roll over so I'm facing you, kicking back the blankets. "You are a lazy cat who lives in pools of sunlight and is scared of mice because their grey fur reminds you of storm clouds."

You laugh like the rain on the roof, pressing your lips to my neck. "At least I'm more than skin and bones. Your collarbones are like shelves!"

I sit up and lean over the bed, reaching for something to write on.

"What did I say?" You ask. I find an old drawing pad under a pile of our clothes with a pencil
stuck into its spiral binding. yo

Your Collarbones Are ShelvesYour collarbones are shelves,
He tells me, like he could be a poet
Who wrote verses for a living
Instead of working in a garage
And stained his paper hands with ink
Instead of motor oil.

Under my neck, across my chest
Juts out a pair of ivory shelves.
Upon them sits a thousand things,
All little memory fragments of sorts
That clink against each other when I dance.

A pair of green high-heeled shoes
A tea-set printed with blue Japanese designs
A handful of paper aeroplanes
A jaguar toy that speaks when you squeeze it
A bowl of spices and fossils
A dress with yellow ducks embroidered on it
A baby blanket or two.

He asks if the

blue house and gravesgoodnight and i breathe out
shutting my eyes
to images of
jumping fish,
stormy theme parks;
a solemn grin
that drives
my fingers to
my throat
and lets go.

we're pacing down
a broken hill, green
and deep,
though i have little doubt
you're losing me
the trail past the graves
is somehow screaming
and we can both feel
the blue house
a curve ahead.

there's a picket fence.

i've never been here with
open eyes, open the
vibration of my cells
that knows this place
in some life
(maybe past-life or a
half-life yet to come)
this place never
let me go.

but then why are you here
with your dozing e

Miss ManiacHer heart.
Oh, that. She lost it quite some time ago;
Perhaps it's behind the refrigerator
Caked in dust, or
Dropped under the dresser
To make friends with earring backs and post-its
With sweet nothings scribbled in sharpie on their surfaces.
Or maybe it was washed down the toilet
Swirled with mascara-stained tissues
Into the sewers to rot.
Who needs a heart, anyway?
She mutters.
I don't.
She runs her fingernails across her wrists.
Red nail polish.
Scars.
Fishnet tights and hot rain and dark nights
And there are too many adjectives, clauses verbs and nouns
And they swirl around in her head
And it's too warm, too warm
And

I'll Fall With YouI'm holding onto your heartstrings
and binding them to my own
with double knots of garden twine
so that maybe roses will grow
through the thorns that encircle your ribcage
and rise against your lungs.

You find questions in the space
of each sentence
and you aren't satisfied with answers
because you're more interested in searching
for the rain in rainbows
than the secrets I keep-
that I wish you would find.

You tell me you don't understand
why I'm still chasing a falling star
instead of exploring night skies

because you strike like lightening
and my veins are filled with thunder
so every time you race ahead
I'm only
se

ConfidenceHer back straight,
Her jaw locked,
Her eyes forward;
Cold.
Her walk brisk,
Her body relaxed;
Yet tense.

The very picture of confidence.
But inside,
She's everything but.

Catherina
She had chocolate curls
That skimmed her waist;
And alabaster skin,
Paper soft and worn thin,
Like all the books,
She lost herself in.

She liked to wander,
Through quaint book shops,
Breathing in the musty scent.
Sipping cinnamon lattes,
She'd sit surrounded by worn leather
Hard backs and sepia tone pages.

Wearing her little tea dresses;
With the high lace collars,
But no makeup,
She'd fawn over the classics,
Faulkner, Brontë, Dickens
Austen and Tolstoy,
She'd sigh, and lose
Herself to another world.

They all peeked out of her
Over sized hold all;
That contained her entire world.
She quoted William

HOW TO TICK PEOPLE OFFHOW TO TICK PEOPLE OFF

1. Leave the copy machine set to reduce 200%, extra dark, 17 inch paper, 99 copies.
2. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sexual favors."
3. Specify that your drive-through order is "TO-GO."
4. If you have a glass eye, tap on it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
5. Stomp on little plastic ketchup packets.
6. Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up."
7. Reply to everything someone says with "that's what you think."
8. Practice making fax and modem noises.
9. Highlight irrelevant information in

Pleasantly autistic6:45 The alarm clock goes off, time to start a new day,
a new torture.

Go downstairs, grab some cereal, special K,
as usual.

Sit on the couch, watch tv, wait till 7:30,
time to go to the train station,
put in my earbuds, volume on max,
sealing away the world around me,
making my little world safe again.

I arrive at the station, take the 7:44 train,
as usual,
sit with the usual people,
someone different has joined,
not as usual...

Arrive at my destination, meet with my usual friends,
wait till they go, I follow.

Arrive at school, meet other usual friends,
talk about video games and other computer things,
as usual.

Lesso

October
Her skeleton pushed outwards while her skin caved in. My fingers crawled up her spine. They dipped into the hollow above her collarbone and memorized the sheer slope of each protruding rib.

I watched her die.

-

               I gasped for breath in an effort to satisfy my ribcage, but the heavy air snapped my bones.

                 {I was trying to breathe you in}

-
Each breath seemed to puncture a hole in your lungs.

When I Become GreenWhen I was younger, I used to sit on the lawn in front of our house—that was when we still had a lawn and not just some scraggly brown weeds—and blow dandelion seeds off their stems and watch them float away in a little cloud of cottony forgetfulness.

I'd find some by the edge of the road, just between the beach and the windblown grey asphalt, and pluck the stems between my fingers in a bouquet of sorts.

The only way I can really describe the smell of a dandelion is that it smells of green. A bit sour, maybe, or kind of sweet, but mostly just green. Maybe if I was more creative or something I could tell you what it really smelled

convictiminimalism.i can feel you scream under my shirt.
the teacups clatter on the table
and we sit in a moment of silence,
the hesitation between chaos and calamity,
the drunken gasp of air
as you find just one more reason
to bellow, screech, squeal.

your hands,
like heroin clocks,
burden the shivers
down my back
and turn into knots,
aches like curved nails driven
into the dip of my spine.

i miss you,
the way i miss lies.
there is something very sweet
about believing something that is untrue.
i can go on with the very naive
images of soft bea

I will enchain in a cageI'll shut myself up in a cage
to stop killings
to that the calm
replaces the blood in the forest

I'll shut myself up in a cage
for that my pain and my anger
does not turn into a bloodbath

I'll shut myself up in a cage
because I love you
I do not want to lose you
once more

I'll shut myself up in a cage
to give me time
to find a mantra
to become a human

and loved,as in the past
before that this spell
transforms me into a wolf
at each full moon

follow the spiders.the storms don't stop pounding your ancient windows, single pane and prone
to freezing up. you knew there was always a chance you'd wake up and find her towering over you, her eyes still cobwebbed and her skin swollen from the
throes of sleep. most days, though, you woke starving and alone, sheets halfway torn and your ankles feeling like they could run miles.

and when you actually ran, you doubled with side stitches and falling lungs, collapsing in on yourself until that girl walked out of your brain. and it felt good.
i feel like i should have told you that you'd never truly let go.
passing women at a bus stop, looking stealthy and wa

Eclipsediana sets
little fires
on the surface
of the moon

because
earth let her
down;

she chars
craters
and blackens
lunar hills

because
earth
let her down.

diana
sets herself
alight

because
earth doesn't
worship
her sacrifices.

(we never
deserved her
anyway.)

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I. The First MeetingThe cool wheat stalks brush against Cy's legs as she wanders through them, arms out like a bird in flight. Her brother's in the sky now, scattering stars and running his fingers through poet's hair, and she's nothing to do but wander in wheat fields and chase wolves away from flocks of sheep. She's waiting patiently for her turn, when she can climb with her scraggly, spindly limbs up to treetops and paint the dawn gold, and untangle the last loops of night light from bird's feathers and caribou antlers and chipmunk's stripes.
There's a boy on some high rocks at the edge of the field, hair red as maple leaves in fall and long eyelashes like a

PoppyThe poet stares at the moon, tired of looking for her lost words amid the stains on her tablecloth, and she sighs like a draft seeping through the floorboards of an attic. The wheat fields dance outside the window, lit up silver by the moon's little glowing lantern he hangs on some clouds. Her bones creak, this poet's thin little bones, and they moan and ache and rattle, and they click against each other like beetle's wings. But she's only twenty, her hair still loose and rippling, and her eyes glow, lit from behind by old words and gentle words that weave onto the paper from her thin fingers like threads on a loom. She sucks a stick of peppe

GreyHis hair's red, red as foxes, and eyes green like souls. That's the first thing you notice, when you see him spinning through wheat fields or letting his thinness get pushed back and forth by the wind at the top of a tree. He's no god, but it's easy to see him perched among the stars, kissing the clouds and humming like he always does; he's a mortal, knows it, and makes the most of it. The heels of his hands and the rolling hills of his knees are red like plum juice, scabbed over and streaked with mud; his cheeks are smattered with freckles, little brown raindrops across the pale. He's easy to love, but easy to lose. Loses himself even, in th

CyShe's beautiful, the sun, and glowing golden-red like rose gold in twilight, her lion's eyes sparkling when she shifts to push away a cloud. There are birds nesting in her hair, vines snaking around her neck and foxes coiling on the shelves of her collarbones. Her hands are dirty, painted with dust and ochre and forest loam; her feet are tangled in strips of leather stitched with pine needles, soles worn through in places and scuffed to tatters from wandering on lost roads and paths that only the old ones know. She sprawls across the mountains, plucking daisies and scattering their white feathers to the wind, trapping the birds like fireflies

LuneThe moon puts on the night like a scarf made from ragged scraps of ocean and mist, stars in his hair and a sparrow in his pocket, crouching on the horizon like an owl and trailing his fingers through the sea, pulling the tides along and flipping boats. His wings flutter in the cosmos at his back, catching puffs of stardust between their feathers and dripping with the milky way. He casts out a fishing rod with silver string and lets his hook dig deep in the throat of a lovestruck soul gazing with an open mouth and wide eyes green as seaweed. The owls are out, and the wanderers and broken poets with thrumming hearts, and the wolves with strands

Untitledi'm curled up in a sticky diner booth
3 am, dinnertime and no one is alive
but the waitress with limp blonde curls

i'm a girl who died yesterday
not so long ago, neon flickering hours pass quick
past a dead set of ears

i'm waiting for my wings, watching the fan
try to circulate the stagnant summer night
and wondering how my lungs are still expanding
like they won't admit that they've rotted just yet

then he's there and he's not holding any wings for me
but a word which he tosses onto the table like a quarter
and a couple nickels
"whore."

and i know where i'm going

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Submitted: June 12, 2011
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The Id

by ~SugarHeartedGirl, Jun 12, 2011, 9:02:42 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

You tell me you dream of falling.
You feel your electrons coming loose,
Pulled by the gelatinous current of your memories;
Your arms and legs jerk and twist as your eyelids flutter
You moan and cry for me, for your mother.

Follow the yellow brick road, follow the yellow brick road
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road!
Don't get lost in dreamland, love.
The wicked witch will get you
And I won't be there to save you.
Not even a wall of emeralds can save you from yourself.

I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too!
Don't fall!
Your primeval self takes over, your mind turns feral.
I cover the bruises on my arms with sweaters in summer,
You cover the bruises on your mind
With the black cloak of your superego
That tells you what is right, what is wrong.
Don't fall!
By day you smile, I am reticent and unnoticed.
At night, the id takes over.
Don't fall!

You are a wild white tiger
With black liquorice stripes.
You are the wicked witch,
Running from yourself and the water that is your past.
We are standing at the edge of a tower, love
And I might just push you off.

The Idby ~SugarHeartedGirl

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

OK, the first thing is that I am SO sorry for clogging your inboxes. On weekends I get these sudden bursts of inspiration and I just can't help it!

The second thing is that this is a poem for :stickygirl999: as thanks for her donation! Hooray!

The third thing is the title. One's id is, according to Freud, one's primeval, basic self that holds all the urges otherwise hidden.

~~love 0 0~~

joy 1 1

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~ard21 Jun 26, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Ameeeeeeeeeeeeeelia! Dah-ling. This is beautiful. simply beautiful. glad i found ur stuff on here!
-Angie

~SugarHeartedGirl Jun 26, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

ANGELA!! ohmygawd! HI!!!!

~ard21 Jun 26, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

Hey! This place is faboo. So is your stuff!!! me gusta.

~SugarHeartedGirl Jun 26, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Isn't DA awesome! Hey, you should browse through some of my friend's work. They need a little more publicity, cause all of them are awesome. You know Izzy's on here, right?

~ard21 Jul 17, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

yeah, this place rocks. what's izzy's name?

~SugarHeartedGirl Jul 17, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

She's

, totally check out her page! Deviantart's pretty fun!

~glitchead Jun 16, 2011

* Id poem, not id 0.o

~glitchead Jun 16, 2011

*applause* what an amazing id.... I enjoyed it so well..

~SugarHeartedGirl Jun 16, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

This isn't my ID, it's about the part of your consciousness called the id, identified by Sigmund Freud. It's pronounced ihdd or something like that, and it is basically your primeval self and natural urges. ^^read the description!

~glitchead Jul 6, 2011

Read my comment below that one.. I know ^.^"

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