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Unfinished - A Portrait's PoemThe orange sky bleeds blue, onto
skeletal husks disguised as trees,
limbs lost, and searching,
barren of leaves.

Their taunting arms wave to me.
Please chop those lonely trees,
Down, down, down.

It is strange to think
that I feel alone,
among thousands.
I am not yet complete.

These golden-frame walls are my prison,
save they used to hold my greatest joy,
and may yet,
should these bleak brush strokes change.

But what fruit will grow,
when the stem is cut?
My father has long since withered.

You are my executioner.
Snip, snip, snap my tendons.
Sip, sip, sap the blood from my veins.

I am at the mercy of your eyes and mind.

Your Name's My Best ObscenityThe sweetest curses are sugar on lips
If I died this evening, you'd find your name
aflame- the words I last shouted in vain
lingering on my tongue like a toxic kiss-
revenge is addicting, venomous pain,
even spent on cries I know are mundane
No fixing up this unholiest tryst,
forged by two fools who believed in their lies;
or maybe it was I, eager for light
even in spite of the flaws I had seen
Can light be fake? Were your twinkling eyes
a mere disguise to make me ignite?
Aflame, in vain, impure light fuels my screams

another fix, pleasethat feeling of relief
in darkened days –

remembering once
with hollow eyes and broken gazes,
floods my skin like taut stares,
uncomfortable –
the key snapping blurry worlds
into focus.

I dissolve, scars upon scars,
building tales of months
forgotten and
pain bleeding outside borders –
only blissful addiction.

[ breathing monitored,
as watched as I am – ]
confusion, hazy like counting
backwards

for that feeling in freedom,
for waiting.

perfection comes in blood
and agony, for searching
out hungry addiction.

watch –

addiction, hungry,
out searching for agony
and blood.

in comes perfection,
w

and zero is the biggestraspberry thorns piercing through membranes
of adroit ballerinas with pointe shoes,
bones smashed against the wood;
they are mangled bodies of birds with suitcases tucked in their wings
phrases spilling from their lips:
(i might lose important papers)
scattered along with liquefied brains on the floor.

he was so afraid, that his immune system was having a seizure,
(its brain was falling apart [birds, birds, birds])
and they opened up the zeroth dimension
(you're the biggest zero out there)
infinity upon infinity, negatives, and ten.

among the scattered papers, she will dance with you again

enamorHer body like that of
a fawn,
trembling
unconfident
hesitant. He lays her
fecund bones on
the bed, plants them with woolen
fabric under the
covers
drapes her with skin,
his
and falls into her,
enamored
sonic sound

she is

embryonic,
amazonian,

but he
folds her like cloth
until she is but
a thin line
blanketing the astral
phenomena that is
his heart.

The lilies she lent

In some mystic woods, bloomed an innocent bud
It nurtured delicately; from the vile world she was shut.
But alas; 'fore she left, ten love lilies of red,
that withered only at her will, she plucked.

She roamed the wide plains, with her beauty ablaze;
her scent aromatic, earning many a praise.
Yet gullible was she; the sprout of love
homed in her when she met the boys gaze.

Such charm and enchantment; oh what lovely art!
His ways did betray purity of the heart
his wines curled around the innocent girl,
poisoning her soul with his impulsive darts.

Yet one, con by birth, never has a strong hold
over one true love only, thus her l

Little IngenueBorn with wanderlust
imprinted on her
beautiful star chart,
like the freckles that
dot her sun-soaked skin;
her heart's wild as the
red tangles, snarled
like brambles, coiled
like crowns, twisting through
her autumnal hair.

No one can convince
her, she will always
willfully believe
that Wonderland lies
beyond the next bend,
no matter what road
her capricious and
come-what-may nature
should choose to travel.

They say she is fey,
and she believes them.
She dreams of faeries
that take her away,
(it's the second star
to the right and straight
on till morning) to
fly on wings that Fate
forgot to give her.

Dog Days of SummerThe city is a raw, open carcass.
I rip into it with my teeth,
tools and weapons alike.
We are bred from our surroundings;
I was born in August,
the son of Sirius and Sol.

Let me tell you what it is to be brought low:
it is a streamlined form of hatred,
to awake in unrelenting heat,
shoved down among vulgarities, drifting
as their glares catch you at every corner.
Is he a threat?
You can watch them drag their ribs through the dust
while you greedily tear into your scraps
behind cooking temple-blocks
(not the scraps they threw at you,
but the ones you fought for).
You're vicious by nature,
but wary by choice.

Asphalt ignites with my stride
as

RecollectionsTan-orange waves break
Upon a magenta
Ocean.

Someone
Is touching my shoulder,
Their purple breathing
Overwhelming my mind.

Why
Am I lying on the
Floor?

And now I see that grey footprints
Surround me,
Encircle me and then fade.
Solid, translucent,
Gone.

Just as I open my eyes,
More voices are starting.
The overwhelming medley that
Usually, I can recognize,
Is pushing me back into a gaping
Darkness.

What has happened to me?

Between sharp bursts of color,
I can see eyes,
And the eyes see mine.
Someone is pushing me upright,
Repeating my name,
A fire-red mantra.

My own voice is shuddery,
A small purple cloud,

Who am I?1.
I have my father's crooked fingers
And my mother's vicious teeth.

There comes a time
When these things become necessary
To the defining of me.

I am not defined by you
Defining me.

Though the entry you write
May suggest otherwise,

I am not defined by you
Defining me.

2.
My sense of self is hyped
On stimulants and praise
Before it dashes itself
Against darkness
Robbing itself of substance
And boundaries.

I am rebuilt cyclically,
Did you know?
I don't think you did.

But I am not defined by you
Defining me.

I am a natural monument
A force of nature
That waves its banner
In the thronging masses.
Among many, I am

Dead Bodies Don't Cryi.

You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God it's over.

She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.

The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.

ii.

When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain c

UnsatisfiedHere I lie -
One vulnerable ear
to the marble silk of galaxies.

Even though
Your figure is an act
of miracle meteors
raining on the soft,
shocked retina,

the valleys
between your eyes and mouth
a dazzling constellation,

Your lullaby voice
a play of centered orbits
carved around me,

Even though the slow breath of you
is the many pulsing
gases, bright beyond
the fire of any human glint,

I am, firstly,
a sacred satellite
for the cosmic murmurs
of something grander.

GiftsI'm a finicky soul, with an infinite void to fill.
I've been told I have a gift for making the confusing tangible.
But I can't hold onto that.
I've been told I have a gift for caring for everyone around me.
But I don't care for me.
I've been told I have a gift for brightening others' days.
But I can't find the sun.
I've been told I have a gift of a face men would kill for.
But I can only see its reflection.
I've been told I have a gift for writing verse.
But I can't type my soul.
I've been told I have a gift for the song a lark.
But I can't sing for my freedom.
I've even been told I have a gift for skill in bed.
But my own skill

On StoriesSome people write fanciful stories
Ephermal as a spider's web
Others write plainer stories
Famous only after death
Others write boring stories
Deeply set in granite-stone
Me, I write many stories
But only in my head.

Garden Shed!Abandoned in the garden shed
Through winter months neglected
We stare at each other for a bleak moment
Dreaming perhaps of summer.

Dried grass clings to rusty blades
Clumps of last years summer
Counting the months till the seasons change
In the cold wooden shed I shiver.

Memories linger of a perfect day
I've gardened and cut the lawn
Impossible to forget that emerald smell
Waiting for winters end I mourn.

2012 Delice1941

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More from ~HoldTheNoise

InertiaSometimes, I feel so very sorry for
the letters that I write.
Born onto a blank page and
trapped there all their lives.
No new sites to see, no unfamiliar faces to meet;
standing in a lonely row
just to express my thoughts as words,
and yet, completely unable to express their own.
They lie paralyzed in their birthplace
lacking the ability to grow and learn.
Immovable to change for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes, I wonder to myself,
why I choose to be the same.

Human Nature When you are young,
they will treat you with the softness of spring.
They will guide you through the winter winds and
over snowy hills, admiring the brilliance of your
midday innocence; pulling daisies from the earth
just to place them in your hair. And they will
whisper to each other of how beautiful you are.
When you grow older,
they will treat you with the indifferences of autumn.
They will urge you from the complacency of your own
fleeting fulfillments, and they will watch your
brilliance fade with the swiftness of the sky. You
will shed your fragile childhood with the colors of
the trees, and you will learn to face

SadnessSadness had always been an active resident in the places I had lived.
It swelled and breathed and scented the breeze like the dying petals of spring,
floating through open windowpanes and settling like dust on the empty shelves.
Sometimes it just appeared without visible entry like the cobwebs that roost in those corners you had thought so clean just a day ago. Or it unraveled in the morning dew and graced the cold spring skies, scattered like hundreds of wandering stars only visible in the light of a window.

It would melt into my morning tea, cooling the little tornadoes of cream and sugar that spun around my spoon and it would pass behi

October EyesSuch gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.

Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.

Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.

With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.

UntitledThere was something of the night, she would say, which had always frightened her.
It wasn't the moonless shadows or the strange prolixity of sounds, but the way the skyline would shatter just beyond the city's crest, as if proving to her childish mind that nothing is truly limitless. Not even the sky.

Abeo Solus

Flitting heartbeat, sparrow high,
twisting round the mountain's eye,
tracing breath of shattered skies
and filling velvet palms.

Falling sparrow, cry of stone,
wings of mist and powder bone
sipping, slipping from thy throne
within their crimson throng.

Treading now, beneath the clouds
As what was once so heaven bound
now falling, falling, to the ground
And singing silent songs.

Fly no more, above the arcs
singing side thy fellow Larks
curl beneath their shadows dark
and sing your silent songs.

Your flitting heartbeat, Sparrow high,
now sings of silent songs.

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Submitted: July 29, 2012
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Pianist

by ~HoldTheNoise, Jul 29, 2012, 11:46:36 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

His fingertips splashed through the ivory keys With ripples that scattered in rows While windows bloomed petals of watery pinks Each kissing his cheeks with a glow Releasing his notes like a bird caged in spring He untangled the keys from their din Making sense of a sequence not meant to be seen He etches them deep in his skin. He performs for the windows and plays for the halls The curtains will sway in his song The picture frames quiver and jump from the walls Beneath the great rush of his palms. So I open my window, before I lay rest Just to capture a trace of his spawn It's been years since I've heard it, but still I await for the chime of the Pianist's song.

Pianistby ~HoldTheNoise

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Traditional Fixed Forms

_{My brother's a pianist..... _yeah.}

Preview image found here [link]

_{EDIT:
Holy CRAP GUYS!!! You all have no. idea. how encouraging it is to log on to all these wonderful views and comments!! I'm literally speechless. You guys here at Deviant Art have just been so warm and welcoming to me my first month and I just wanted to say thank you very very very very very much!!!!

Other Poetry By Me:
Beneath The Black Willows: [link]
We Dreamed Of Silver Sails: [link]
In The Garden: [link]
Yellow Spring: [link]

Poem © Sadee Esquivel}