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Under a Witches SkyAnd lo there he said: "I am darkness rising"
— ‘an apparition bleeding into a dreaming sky
Distilled in the timbre of windswept voices,
black feathers enchant earth in fevered-song
Magick ebbs & shimmers thru earthen veins,
seething like a migration of hungry wolves
Silvery eyes peer, drinking the ether of souls;
watching the spirit world fold into the mists
And where Shadows and Witches conjure,
— myriad talons beshrew Winter’s prayer

For eons I hath wandered in forgotten lore  
— a sleep walker thru ash & fire, hunting ..
Beneath Moon solemn and drifting,
I covet thy ghostly figure velvet, undressing
Pools of
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.
SpeakeasyI can feel you like a phantom,
sensation without touch,
like breath in winter
or a misty mountain morning
that stays with me
until the stars fall in evening.

Your eyes contain the secrets
your lips would dare to betray,
but your body tells the story
and I am trying
to read between the lines
of your paperback smiles.

A grazing touch, a covert glance,
the memories remain
as skin grows warm and red
beneath lying fingertips
that claim incidental contact
a thousand times a day.

Of course,
it's not the kind of thing we say
when we are speaking
without talking and feeling
without touching
and thinking without knowing...

       all of the things
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
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.
We Can't Be Together.Every kiss you plant on my lips,
Takes a little bit of my soul away.

You're stealing the passion,
You're invading my heart,
And killing what emotion I've left untouched.
Stop this.
I can't love you.

I've tried to before,
Oh my god,
Have I tried.

Tried to unlock the doors to myself,
Tried to open up,
And let you in.
But as soon as I took one look,
Negativity took it's opportunity,
And struck the hot iron I'd been molding.

Every word you mutter
My knees falter under
You're killing me

You're my kryptonite  
I'm your paradise
But in this odd peace that seems to be approaching
I can't find happiness.

We aren't meant to be together
But this
Poet as PainterThe world
Your dusty palette,
The pen
Your muddied paintbrush:

Dip into
The impossible
Colour
Of imagination

And stain
The pristine slate
With an
Image distilled.
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
BoyfriendI thought you were good.

You WERE good.

You played with my hair.

You held me when I cried.

You were a gentleman.

You made me laugh.

You kissed me.

You loved me.

I loved you.

It was then that I learned the truth.

The dirty, rotten, stinking truth.

About you!

You cheated.

You played with her hair.

You kissed her.

You loved her.

You made her laugh.

I saw you – don’t you dare deny it.

I saw you giving her that love.

That same love you gave me.

I break up with you.

You don’t even seem to care.

Did you ever love me at all?

Or was it only ever her?

Much later, you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

I
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.
You Don't Know ItYou don't know it, but you kept me sane
I nearly went over the edge
With a knife in one hand and a gun in the other
But you grabbed me
Pulled me back on my own two feet
Emptied my hands
And when you realized that I couldn't stand on my own
You hugged me
Like a mother would do for her child
Like a friend would do for, dare I say, another friend

You don't know it, but when you saved me
I felt free
I felt wanted
I felt needed
I felt, dare I say, loved

You don't know it, but when you showed me kindness
I fell in love
In love with your kindness
That same sweet kindness you saved me with
It felt like I found a new home
One that I could be, dare
untitledGold abundant at your feet,
Heart ripe and pumping on your sleeve,
And eternal admiration;
To say happiness has evaded you
Would be asylum-esque lunacy
For you have nothing to lose,
Fate is on your side,
The odds are in your favor infinitely
Do not waste the gift you’ve received
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.
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
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More from ~neoshayna888

Dying is an Art - XVIII.
XVIII.
(P.S.)

I wish I didn't, but I still
think of you.

I still remember
your details, and I
miss them.

Why couldn't you listen to her?

Why didn't take the chance that
I did?

I hope that you will
tell me.

Someday,
any day.

Give up your silence and I will
give you mine.
Dying is an Art - XVI.
XVI.
(Chaos)

I can feel things moving,
even when my eyes are closed.
They are fast and swirling,
particles bumping into
each other without so much
as an,

"I'm sorry. Pardon me."

You left me. You left me
alone and shuddering,
convulsing and abandoned.
You left me for yourself.

How can a mother do that?
How can you do that without
a second thought?

I lost you and was angry.
And then I lost him,
and I felt guilty.

Do you think it hurt when I had to
sign away his body to cremation?
Do you think it was easy to feel
like I should be feeling something,

anything at all?

My personal existence,
it crumbled, it swirled,
it tri
Dying is an Art - XV.
XV.
(Kneeling)

When I am bound,
I am flying.

When I am punished,
I am smiling.

Take from me,
take anything and
everything.

That is my gift to you,
the promise I make
every time.

Life will make me stronger,
resilient. I will never back
up, never back down.

I will fight for everything,
I will be at peace for
everything else. I will resist
and battle, and I will rest
in between. That is life.

But, for you, things are
different.
Things are love.

I will lay here and wait,
I will give up and
be silent.

I will bow and listen.

I can't explain,
I can't even know
myself. And for that,

I will know you, and
you will know
Dying is an Art - XIV.
XIV.
(6-14-2010)

I am
connecting the dots as they are

falling

and collecting the fragments of
childhood.

You were once a part of me

(but never knew);

You took a part of me

(but never will know).

Because I thought I had more time,
I ended up with nothing but
chimes striking one o'clock.
Too late to try, too easy to --

A landscape portrait without you. Every option,
every possible path presented here, is
lonely.

In time, I have lost you (and that
piece of me you tore off on the
perforated line).

In time, I will look for you, behind
every second hand and
binary calculation that
picked you out of my life too soon.
Dying is an Art - XIII.
XIII.
(Closing Time)

Things were going to be over, so I wrote for
You.

Do You remember when I asked
on a whim and expected nothing?

Do You know how much I was shaking
because I thought I had made a
mistake that I couldn't take back?

Do You think about what You felt,
what made you reply with a
clear and simple
yes?

I know it will never mean the same
for You. I know you may
forget it in time, but You
need to know.

You need to know --

It meant something to me.
It meant I could be
happy without over-thinking it,
just for a little while.

Quiet between the
conversation, and the
sun out the window
with the thin clouds.

A
Dying is an Art - XII.
XII.
(Broccoli)

When my heart felt like it was
stopping, it was worse to know
that theirs' actually were.

To witness, to cry,
to feel their blood
on your hands.

To feel their knives,
their claws and their
hooves beating into
you, a thunder of
life.

There is no way to ignore.
There is no way to ignore.

(There is no way to wash it out of you
mind.)

The stain remains,
plain and unscrubbable.

But until leaves scream and
grains rain tears, I will
have to suffer them
instead.

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Dying is an Art - XVII.

:iconneoshayna888:

XVII.
(Ett, Ensam)

I am lonely,

an anxious, fearful, awkward
infant.

I talk too fast and too much and too often
and too confusingly.

I talk about things people don't understand
or don't understand what people talk about.

I avoid what others run to and
seek out what others avoid.

Who am I?


                  Who
                  am
                   I


I think I might be crazy.

I keep existing, though, somehow not
yet taken by Evolution. Is that right?
Am I a correction or a mistake?
Am I the eraser or the scribble of pencil?
:iconneoshayna888:
I'm posting the various short poems from an autobiographical project I did last semester. They aren't amazing because I (admittedly) didn't take a lot of time on them. I'll include the description from some of them (since we had to explain them as well), but for some, I'd rather not since they are very personal.

Comments:

The subtitle of this one is important. Ett, Ensam can be roughly translated from Swedish (my favorite language) to “One, Alone.” It is short because it’s something I have a hard time explaining. When I first got to college, I felt terribly alone. I still sort of do, but not nearly as much as then. I was really hurting, and this is about how out-of-place I felt and still sometimes feel. This is also a good tie back to the original question posed -- “Who am I?”
:iconthermadoriangrey:
~ThermadorianGrey Apr 4, 2011
The end is strong. The rest of it sounds like what it is, to be honest. An uninvested autobiographical project, and I feel like some of it might be more at home in prose than in poetry. Don't know if you've ever read Dostoevsky, but his "Notes From Underground" begins very similarly to that. I don't know if the picture associated with the poems is yours, but I like it as well.
Reply
:iconneoshayna888:
~neoshayna888 Apr 5, 2011
Thank you for your feedback. I admit that this one, out of all of them, is probably one of my least favorites. I completely agree that it is more prose-like, but I was such a rush at the end of the project that I didn't pay enough attention to it. I'll have to check out "Notes From Underground." I believe I've heard of it, but I've never actually gotten to read anything by Dostoevsky thus far. The image actually is my own; it's a combination of three images that are my own (except the one with a typed poem). I threw it together pretty quickly because I felt that the project should have an image to go with it, and I'm glad that you like it. It ended up working with the project overall much better than I had thought it would.

Again, thank you for your comments. I'm always open to hearing feedback from those that will take the time to give it. :)
Reply
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