Tag: original poetry

tucking flowers behind your ears
watching the sun dance in the sky
waiting for the air to clear
i never want to leave your side.

from this hill we see the town
i twist my fingers between yours
to keep myself from falling down
because your love my soul secures.

and when the earth begins to shake
fear will not grip my stuttering heart
because with you i know i’m safe
though the world begins to fall apart.

horsebarn hill // a.s.m (via wingedpiglets)

You Had So Much Space, You Just Wouldn’t Give It Up For Me

wingedpiglets:

I’ve lived my entire life
squeezing myself into pockets
working so hard to shrink,
to be smaller, to take up less
space– to give others more room because
they’ve always seemed more important
to me than myself. 

But when I met you,
for the very first time
in my life, I wanted
to take up more space:
in your heart,
in your mind,
in your life. Uninhibited,
I opened my floodgates and let you into
all of me,

but you pushed me away
when you weren’t willing to share
yourself, and I could feel myself withering,
shrinking,
closing up like a clam shell. 

I’ve lived my life torturing myself by working so hard to shrink.
I am so sick of asking you for more space. 

է

wingedpiglets:

We’re masked in clever conversation. 
Witty remarks. 
Perfect metaphors. 

But poetry is not always
the set of fine china your mother
keeps locked in the cupboard. 
It is picking through skin
and meat and getting to 
the bones– sucking out the marrow. 

And sometimes it is the stench
of decaying bodies. 
Sometimes it is the taste of
someone else’s blood. 
Sometimes it is supposed to 
break you. 

And we are not flowers– we 
do not give off warm perfumes. 
Sometimes we are fingernails tearing
through the yellow wallpaper. 
Sometimes we are covered in
scars (inside and out). 
Sometimes we are our own tormentors. 
Sometimes we are the pain 
we write about. 

Don’t you see? 
I live with my hands permanently 
dirty, covered in everyone and
everything I have ever
touched. 

Winter’s Kiss

wingedpiglets:

There are strawberry fields between your knuckles
that crack and bleed when you close your fist.
But you won’t wear gloves, you won’t wear mittens;
you say you love the winter’s kiss.

Even when the rest of the world has hidden
underneath the frosty snow and ice,
you stand outside with your arms wide open
and tilt your head up towards the sky.

Though your hands and legs are red and numb
and the snow and sleet begin to fall
you won’t come in until you’re frozen
because then you cannot feel at all.