Lost invincibility

Note: The title hooked me, if for nothing other than it’s basically my two favourite things, but it’s the second stanza in particular that had me falling in love. The imagery, the internal rhyme (the littering of which throughout I enjoy), and passion it lends the rest of the poem… I admit, if I had read no more than this I would have already fallen hard for the piece. The third stanza simply continued this, and the emotions were more than flowing, but the ending -oh, if only every piece I read ended as well as this, I might never be lost for beauty again. 

This is, by far, my favourite poem I’ve read to date. 

messagestothemoon:

Wrap me in moonbeams
And squeeze your smile 
In between the spaces
Of those heavenly strips
Of light- I don’t know 
Which will be brighter. 

Hold me like a feather quill
Shivering among quivering
Fingers as you write out 
What it means to make love-
The lull of your lungs as you
Search for your breath is 
More poetry than any lines.

Store me in the silence of 
Nights you spent bent by 
The stars when life seemed 
Spent in its hours and nothing
Made sense anymore. I will
Find the little boy crying in 
Your eyes, and point him 
Towards a moon that was 
Full even in its crescents
Incomplete as a smile.

Play me like piano keys in the
Falling tear drops of down town
New York, and let me be your 
Music. There is no song that 
Could escape my lips to make
Melodies holier than that of your
Heartbeat, but as the rain laps
And the thunder claps, the elec-
tricity in my soul will be enough
To make broken parts more whole.

And when we wake to a world
Scattered in the swirl of two 
Tunes that fused mid-turn on 
The corner of life and tragedy,
There will be no songbird more 
Beautiful than the smile in your 
Eyes as the thunder taps at the
Wonder of the way you hold this
Broken girl, and write her keyboards
Into typewriters, making beauty 
Through words that never kissed 
Skin more thirsty than hers.

Note: Writing about writing is often bland, and it’s ridiculously overworked by most. The imagery surrounding talk of simile and metaphor is done in a way that I’ve never been so pleased to see before, and the last four lines… 

I didn’t just ‘like’ this piece. How could just ‘like’ a piece like this? I love it. 

messagestothemoon:

My fingers are heavy. They are dead weight of all the words pushing at my prints, aching to be set free, but not knowing how. You can see similes and soliloquies skirting to the edge, waiting for a release, and upon failure, soaking back into my bloodstream and circulating again. I am a cycle no child can ever learn how to ride. 

These words- they are more than twenty-six scribbles splattered between white spaces. In the tilt and turn of each jagged curve, and every straight line, rests a story, a person, an entity. Breathing, deep and slow in the womb of our ink, sleeping, stirring in the lull of its own beauty. And every time one makes it to the page, diffuses out of our pores and into the abyss of white and light waiting to embrace its fibers, we lose a part of ourselves. And the miracle of it is, that by shedding that skin, by letting go of a piece of our soul; we become more whole. And sometimes, the magic woven into its threads, carries it upward to the eyes of someone dangling off the other edge of the world, and seeps into their existence. 

These things- these scribbles and spaces and sentences. They can save you. And if there’s anything holier, I haven’t found it yet. This cycle inside of me- it is something I will never regret.

Note: I’m not the biggest fan of rhyming couplets, usually, but I really like it here. The imagery in the piece isn’t glaringly obvious, but it’s there, and the subtly of it lends the piece just that extra bit of depth. This is, of course, to say nothing of the message of the piece itself. 

ishouldgetpaidforthis:

It seems every day I’m dragging a weight,
I stretch myself thinner, ‘till I merely abate.
I’m not even a man yet, but already I’m aged
As I look in reflections of dull eyes and greys.
I could have sworn that I perished the other night,
And I kept up the illusion ‘till the midday light.
The sun was at it’s highest peak, as in every other day
As I’m sprawled on the ground for the vultures to take away.
And there’s no use dwelling on mistakes, they say,
But I’m running out of ways I can break away.