(5) handpicked: intricately-ordinary

Aug 30, 20139 min read

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Published: Aug 30, 2013

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here is a journal page for pieces of art that might inspire you the way they inspire me.
thank you for taking the time to bask in their beauty.

handpicked updated version by wispy-blue

intricately-ordinary

on self-assessmentThis is a poem for all the people who still
have something to see in me. I could
cut myself on the sharp edge of my thoughts,
bleed out a saturated river of
something sweet; I could be like a million
other gifts from mother nature to preserve
in glass cases and scientific journals and
buzz words, to picket and fight over and
eventually forget. I could
write a million stories about the universe
in my stomach, and my lack of
a gag reflex and the irony in that.
I could write about the blooming storms
in my head and about how I’m addicted
to bad weather, and how I can’t hear myself
over the static waves rocking me to sleep.
My best friend is the most beautiful hurricane
I’ve ever seen, slow motion wreckage who says things like
what does it even mean, where are
we going, maddie, what am I even here for;
My first love wasn’t special. It was
ignorant and narcissistic and orbited around me
like some neglected planet, like I
was finally the center of a universe
besides m a different explorationwe talk about
astrology and ex lovers. the raspberries
dying in the heat, the way the water
bit our skin, the homeless man set out
to buy California, the center of our universe,
you. that feeling labelled “blah,”
and the notion I am not my own.
we leak questions
like overrun rivers, excess spillage,
draining curiosities about that tragic skeleton
balled up beneath your clothes.
and for you,
I’d travel the length between heartbeats,
shallow and vain like your promises,
your liquid eyes.
above all, we were lucky.
miracle children. one in ten,
one in a million, a pair of stragglers
in seven billion exempt from
clarity and unclaimed skin.
-
I know this guy who had
sorry lips and scars down his spine
without a story. we didn’t have
a thing to say so we talked about
how the stars were our newest horizon,
the undefined, and how we’d escape to them
some day. Nostalgiashe fell in love with the sound of
dying storms, and lost herself in
the blind spots accompanying her
every furtive glance
her downturned spine labeled her:
pitiful,
and her relentless divulging to
overcast skies defined her as
needy; but still she offered the
seeds of her pomegranate heart
to anyone willing to settle down
inside the breeze
and she was abandoned, long ago,
(once upon a time, no one cried)
by wolves with insipid fangs
and human eyes (her glittery irises
never quite belonged)
they discarded her when she asked if
self-delusions were a state of mind
and
she is poorly veiled, so see-through under
our cracked gaze; you can watch her
heart beat and her thoughts spin
(and you can watch her when she
invites death in)
she's a glass asylum, they breathe
in dampened sighs-
and when she shatters to a thousand
pieces, she only smiles
because love would do the same Beginnings and Endings Both Sound the SameI woke up this morning
and the sky was falling
I cried, because
it was bleeding, too
(and I wondered what happened to God
to make him shed such painful tears)
but they said it was only a sunrise
and I was being too loud.
I asked why it was that solar rays
ran in rivulets throughout
prominent moments of time
(like wars and funerals and departures
and those heavy events we pretend never happened)
but they ignored my cries
and the sunbeams that were entangled in my feet
and trailing behind me,
showing all the wrong turns I made
(they wouldn't see my limbs
raw, ragged, from running
with no destination in mind)
I guess I was a little too loud-
they can only hear you
when you're completely silent
and, by then, it's too late
because the sun has already set
(the opposite of a sunrise,
but they each have the same affect
because they both signal an end
of everything you've come to know)
it's too late for me, I think
God knows, too, and he weeps for me
bits of sky and bleeding sunrise
I'm growing

Lovebirds' Sorrowshe was the girl with cat
eyes: broad and judging and
carnal; he was the doe
with a broken collarbone,
yet she found herself lost in
the warmth of his sighs and
asked simply for a set
of sweeter lies
[because it's only after you
sell yourself to the earth that
you learn love is not a
chemical reaction anticipating
every ignited glance and soured
word; no, it is a thing
of obligation that sleeps upon
your doorstep, knowing you
will always come back,
knowing you could never forget
its name]
he called to her on hollow
nights, and she found his
voice when she had nowhere
left to go
he was the cereal box savior;
she only needed a place
to bury her bones
[it was never sparks but
instead a dull roar that
filled their ears until
life was a blur of static
commitment]
when she whispered I love
you, he really believed it. defeatheredand this is where we bury our hearts,
between self-defeating personality disorders
and burnt bridges and midnight ramblings
we promise ourselves aren’t true;
embedding our memories in forsaken homes
like it is a conscious decision to shed
our wings (reptiles don’t fly)
and maybe I am the monster of every
myth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed and
looking to regain a piece of myself the
world borrowed, many moons ago
as I falter and stumble over my own unaware
feet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--
all I ever wanted to do was belong.
dreams are flaws much like the hearts we
flaunt on our sleeves, and I seem to
have lent all mine away; I am
something entirely ignorant, in the dark,
believing fingers fumbling can find answers.
they never told me reflections are backwards
and the world spins the wrong way and
hurricanes are really an embodiment
of all our own withdrawals:
but one day, these walls will crumble,
and I will learn to breathe in dust. softenedthe sky whispers,
ribbons of crystalline quiet,
same shade as the angel dust
you shivered every time we were
alone.
in the darkness, we were
sorry birds searching for
open dawns. you, the
swan, me, the
raven,
black as night and
just as hopeful.
and there were poems
written in your skin, universes
blooming in your hands; your eyes
were a December sunrise saving me
from any sleep.
I’ve decided that
people are a composition of
all their greatest memories—and you,
you were always the most
beautiful piece of
me. Subliminalthere was something about the way his whispers
entwined around the vertebrae of her neck
and caught in her ragged throat
that was reminiscent of nights long ago:
a heavy sky incensed with fears
forgotten, and a boy with full moon
eyes. she blamed her starry stomach
when she gagged on innards, unaware that
she herself was actually
undigestible.
stale and forgotten,
lingering like a smoke cloud off the lips
of someone with nothing better to say.

previous features:

^{(4) handpicked: sex}

^{(3) handpicked: characters}

^{(2) handpicked: death}

^{(1) handpicked: kiss}

^{if you like reading features, check out:

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Comments2

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Lovely choice! I adore Maddie.