[x]

Agoraphobic
He would often catch the coursers of a newly printed page
or lock upon the wingspan of departing poetry.

But once the years corroded and the pages crumbled,
fantasizing was no longer enough

Soon he found that these shallow fabrications had all the depth
of a black and white page.

Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their way
to the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.

Until you.

You carried them away saying, "I'll use these
to fill the empty spaces of my universe."

You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,
wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs.

"I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."
Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.

Shh. (Extended)Shh, and hear the silent scream
Of the girl you used to be.

Blink; let her flash before your eyes
Let her smile take you by surprise.

Isn't the sight of those curved lips strange?
Stranger - how quickly this life can change.

Notice how she doesn't reek of pain.
The purity of her soul is difficult to obtain.

Wait...do echoes of the past have a soul?

Her Musethese words are not poetry

swimming liquid fire through ashes

of dead phoenix veins.

no, they are rough and callused

with over use, their own faithless artists

spewing black tar from their lungs

in the hopes to one day breathe again.

nothing moves her.

she would rather scribble her heart out

on physical manifestations of her own reality-

on skin and bones she worships like a temple.

"Write of me," he says, "right here."-

planting sun-stricken kisses

along the hollow of her burning throat.

"I want to be where your heart sleeps."

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.

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

i really want to...
i allowed the word to curl
against the ceiling of my mouth.
cradling the absence of a
storm that never came
roosting over rafters of a
note stretched far too long.
seeping through my teeth and
pulling moisture from the rain.

"fly"

Soakeda rainbow
spectrum of
soft bruises
nestles in
the space
between her
fingertips
and heartbeat.
a silent reminder of
all the nights
she spent in
the solitude
of your
company.

EchoesThe embers are cold.
All that is left are footprints
and your fading laugh.

The Littlest ArtistThis life isn't easy
I weave my work
Wherever I please
But I've been run out
Place to place
Wherever I end up

I've had fans
Who I'm thankful for
Critics that ignore me
But the one thing
That I'll never understand
Are those who hate me

They see me
They destroy my work
They try to kill me
My legs are tired
I can't run
I can hide
But if they find me
I fear the thought

Is it because I'm so small?
In such a big world
Is it because I scare people?
I don't mean too

Or is it because...
...I am merely a spider

The Broken BrightsJust let me go to where those broken brights shine
To a place that has been forgotten by time.
Let me go to where the lost lights barely survive,
Just this once, let me be alive.

A place where stars whisper and darkness sings,
Filled with broken, lost, desperate things,
That claw and howl at their trapping holds,
It's a terrible, magnificent sight to behold.

Let me wander until I reach the end,
The place I have searched for again and again.
Let my tattered soul escape its binds
And allow me peace, a hiding place for no one to find.

There are bars on my windows; there are bars on my heart,
There they remain, where they've been fro

Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.

I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.

Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.

I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.

I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-

but death becomes me.

Ghost StoryWhat is this
on the next horizon
holding strong against the wind,
it is a figment,
it is an oil stain,
it is something
less than a blur
and more than a photograph.

WillowYour confessional arms are Willow trees,

draping lonely limbs around an empty ink-jar heart.

Scars worn down like henna tattoos.

A night witch scrawling her incantations on blue moons,

rolling her letters into sentences like a curse.

But, it is in these coffee eyes you have found a home.

Sane InsanityHer mind is a dangerous place;
and when left unattended too long
she could lose that precious thing
that we call sanity.

To the white brick walls;
only revealing themselves
to the wind
and the spiders that climb the corners,
leaving webs of fine thread
to capture the dead leaves and
critters she knows not the name of.
Propaganda,
laced with sickly sweet venom;
adulterated with lies.
For if she should remain there too long
she would choose to clean out the cobwebs,
toss out the leaves
and dead bugs,
and scrub the white walls clean of filth.
Because that color so pure,
is the dirtiest white she's seen.

My mind i

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Ash-Tray Bride

The cigarette bud

Blossomed wings thin and bare

It puddled like drapes,

Taking flight it the air.

One tendril extended

Beneath veil and hair

It left for her movements

footsteps in midair.

Creativity - StupidityThe line between creativity and stupidity is extremely thin and greatly skewed.

Alcoholic
A dead man's how he spent his days
Afloat with money. Drowned in haze.
A drop for every crushing wave
should send him back to sleep.

He flits from one drop to the next
Unsatisfied with who he met
From high to low and foot to head
His mind long gone in fleets.

The bottle is the only voice
Which listens to his every choice
It comforts him above the noise
And so his tears do dry.

This isn't him. He's come undone.
A fly beneath the captor's thumb.
The man is weak. The mind is numb.
So here the dead man lies.

But there's no need to worry.

"He can quit at any time."

The Boy Who Wanted The Sun

a sleeping boy lay, conflated with sea,
He imbricates current and shore.
A frame of chalk bones marinates in his skin
His hand round the broach which he wore.
A silky sand pillow to cushion his head
Acquainted with linens of waves.
Each gentle ripple tucks deeper in bed.
Deep 'mongst the glass offing's frame.
His eyes lay ajar, gazing into the sky
Though acknowledging not which he saw.
His ocean-kissed lips left with dustings of blue
Clothes in ribbons and skin growing raw.
The folds in his fingertips; soft like the sand
His hair decorated in shells
As the azure sun splits past the blankets of sea
The boy lays asleep where he

4: DarkSleepwalking:

My sight a'skewed and pupils wide
I dance the night away.
My dampened skin
Grows cold and thin
When stepping in the fray.
As once warm apparitions pass
In junctures and in fleets
I crystallize these warming flits
Of once sweet memories.
In bed I lay and here he stays
To keep awake my dreams.
When sunlight clears
He reappears
And all my fears reprieve.
When windows crack and curtains fail
Into the ground he flees
I think he's dead
But 'round my head
His shadow follows me.

She Smokes Away Her SinsBurning.
Burning.
Always
      burning
is the cylinder flak of her blunt.
Sweet.
Sweet.
Forever
       sweet
was the cigarette's soft serenade.
it sang away her thoughts.
Ticking.
Ticking.
       ticking
was the conduit of hour glass sand, suspended in the air between her glass lips.
Decreasing.
Decreasing.
       decreasing
were her minutes.

to seconds.

and Then...

Nothing.

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Submitted: September 9, 2012
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Stepping Over Leaves

by ~HoldTheNoise, Sep 9, 2012, 4:06:26 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

And so I tried to hold your letters the way you used to hold my hand; fingers spaced between torn edges and around undotted i's. Guiding me away from those gentle autumn leaves that I had loved to crunch so very much. But instead, I stepped against the sunspots of every promise you had broken trying just to pull some meaning from a sentence ending with "goodbye". And when my eyes began to slide over the words you had misspelled, I closed your note and tore it into nothing. Nothing but a sad reminder that once again you had cracked like those gentle autumn leaves that I had loved so very much.

Stepping Over Leavesby ~HoldTheNoise

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Just a little something to let you guys know I'm still alive

School's been really heavy since I started a few weeks ago, so I apologize for my inactivity....

But anyways, I'll try to upload something more substantial later!!

Commets and favorites are very very very very very very loved~!

love 2 2

joy 3 3

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`dreamsinstatic Sep 14, 2012 Professional Writer

Your fantastic work has been featured in Friday Night Features.

~HoldTheNoise Sep 17, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you very much!!

`dreamsinstatic Sep 18, 2012 Professional Writer

You're welcome.

~BelaRoseWolf Sep 12, 2012 Student Writer

This poem is really beautiful!

I love the emotion, the theme, your word choice, and of course the flow too! I really enjoyed it. Great work!

~HoldTheNoise Sep 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Aw, well thank you so much for taking the time to read it

I'm glad you enjoyed~!!

~BelaRoseWolf Sep 13, 2012 Student Writer

You're very welcome~

Flagged as Spam

~HoldTheNoise Sep 10, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

~akky3210 Sep 9, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

(There really aren't enough emoticons to describe the awesome-ness of this!) Woah! This is really really good! I have to strive for weeks on end to get something approaching this quality. You have a really good sense of rhythm, so the poem barely even reads as free verse. You convey such a sense of character in only a few short lines--I've read novels with less characterization (which probably says something about the novels I like...

). Absolutely stunning! I can't wait to see more of your work!

~HoldTheNoise Sep 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow!! Thank you so much for the encouraging comment <33 and thank you for taking the time to read it~!!

I will try my best not to disappoint!

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