[x]

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.

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

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

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

the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.

i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;

i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)

and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
elsewhere.
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leav

PocketLeftover religion in the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
A key that unlocks nothing
A penny, a scrap of paper
With half of your name
Written in black ink

A song that is usually in my head
In the shriveled carcass
Of a long-dead dream
In the pocket
Of my trenchcoat
With the lint

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

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

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

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.

SisterSister

A sister is like a soul mate;
Someone who is always there
to guide me through fate.

A sister is,
a part of childhood that I cannot erase;
A sister like you,
is one that I would never replace
because you always know how to
put a smile on my face.

I know I can depend on you
to always be there for me;
This is one hundred percent guaranteed!

I've had great memories with you
in the past;
and I hope there are many more
to come,
in the future.

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Exhaustion

by ~matrix7, Aug 31, 2001, 5:07:41 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Sitting at my desk with
pen and paper in hand.
A stack of poems sit by
the corner. Each one
finished. Each a piece of me.

Dip the pen of my soul into
my heart's blood and begin to write
one last time before sleep.
Exhausted....stumbling.....
blind......deaf.....
words pour out from me
like from some Pandora's box.
I am unable to stop them,
unable to slow them....
Faster, faster I write but
it is not fast enough.

There! One more finished
but three more have painted
themselves on the canvas of my mind
and refuse to be silent.
Screaming to be expressed,
demanding to be portrayed
agonizing voices I must give life.
More paper...more blood...less me.
Writing faster now.
My pen speeds slong the paper
so fast it bursts into flames.

Put out the fire with my tears
and run to the keyboard.
Booting up....FASTER!!!
Come on, come on....
Too many poems, too many voices
must express them but which one,
all at once? None at all?
Typing with a sound like a
train rolling by. The keys
fly beneath my fingertips.
Spelling errors appear....
it doesnt matter. Fix them later...
must express, must see, must....feel
It has been so long.....

Write, write, type, type
until I begin to cry and
embrace the nothingness I have become.
What am I without my work?
Am I still a poet? Still one of
the chosen few people envy for
their words on page? If they only knew...
Then they would not want this gift...
beautiful words cost you pieces of your soul.
Letting strangers see the real you,
unsure of their intents, yet needing them.
I hurl my pen across the room....
burn the poems to ash
but the ashes still move, still speaks.
And I cry, for I have nothing left to do..
yet so much at the same time...
Exhaustion?? Far too simple a word
to describe how I feel.
But it will
have
to
do......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Exhaustionby ~matrix7

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

....no more feeling...no more tears....only exhaustion at having expressed so much of myself that I have nothing left for me. Feel like I am falling (down or up? does it matter?)...hope I land on a bed. I am just so very tired.....
This is my 8th poem today (I will upload it in the morning)....heh...the Midas touch comes to mind. Everything turns to gold...but at what cost?

Comments....

~crazymanbc Sep 2, 2001

VERY VERY VERY SO MUCH LIKE ME. Ilove it. Sounds like what I do often? It didn't seem Cocky to me, that part you was talking about, not wanting the gift. I just got over writers block and the past week all I can do it write down the first thing that comes to my mind, the error thing was cool, I always wait until later to fix my errors, that is if I ever do. hehehehehehe.......I have been going into Mad Rages and write a poem in a flat over eating two min: or less. It is blood pumping juicy that I feel I still have it in me................GREAT POEM....

°jsenn Sep 1, 2001

After awhile they stack up on your hard drive. The strange thing is some are not to be posted here, could be burned in the corner for being too.... too whatever. The folders stack containing the stacked files, "to be finished" "posted" "not" "journal poetry". All have purpose, all have stacks and sometimes there is not time to post one before another has begun. Stacks of pages....pieces of our lives, they really could be burned but for that very reason.
(¯`·.,¸¸,.·´
j♥y

~btrsweet Sep 1, 2001

wow. very real.. it's unfortunate i never get to experience that kind of exhaustion - i never CAN write more than 1 poem at a time! :D (Big Grin)

again - great job.. :) (Smile)

!xshock Aug 31, 2001

thats amazing. i never thought of it that way. but then again, ive written 2 (real) poems in my entire life...
i like your description of desperately needing but not being able to express all your feelings in words. when i write stuff i go really slowly, thinking it out as i write. great poem about writing poems :) (Smile)

`sanguru Aug 31, 2001 Hobbyist Writer

8 poems today. Don't overdo it Wes, I could do that if I wanted to, but I know that my mind and soul shouldn't write that much so I write about 2 a day continueally. This is a wonderful poem. Just beautiful in ever aspect. Keep up the good work Wes.

---------
question silence.

~matrix7 Aug 31, 2001 Hobbyist General Artist

I can always count on you guys to give me honest reviews of my work. Thanks for the help, I appreciate it mooey mooey much!

I didnt really realize that the part about people not wanting this gift sounded kinda cocky. Did it come across that way to you guys? Let me know your interpretation of this as I would really like to know

*crosses fingers (and eyes) and waits *with baited breath*" (Not sure exactly what that means but I heard it in a movie once 8) (Cool)

Peace

~----josh---- Aug 31, 2001

Oh, I envy you. When youre hot youre hot, and theres no use trying to hold it back. Ya just gotta hang on and go for the ride. And afterwards it is oh so much more than exhaustion, it is ....

ah nuts, I cant find the words either...

I want that flow, very nicely written, now go have a rest..

:-) (Smile)

Psalm 139:13

For you created my inmost being. You knit me together in my mothers womb.

`faithwalker Aug 31, 2001 Student Photographer

THIS is one of the best poems I have read!! Excellent!

Faithwalker

Grow

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