Tag: original poetry

I knew the lonely parts of your heart.
They were my campgrounds
when my walls began to burn and
the ash and smoke threatened
to suffocate me beneath my
crumbling ribcage.

When it was winter in my heart,
and my veins became
frozen red rivers,
you always had a fire going
in yours.
I would huddle inside the
crevices between
your atriums and swim in your
bloodstream until I, too, was red
underneath your skin.

Annie Munro  (via wnq-writers)

We Look For Answers

wingedpiglets:

in the palms of our hands, 
on narrow roads that 
twist and intersect. 

in wishing well eyes, 
uprooting the fibrous tunic in
our frantic pursuit. 

in echoing cathedrals
where we lay our souls upon 
wilting flower beds. 

in brilliant garbage dumps,
piled high, distorted into 
siren’s songs. 

in the mountains and grasslands and
the coursing veins that run through 
the dirt we were and will be. 

in the folded up papers
whose true triviality is unknown
until we are weaved
back into the earth. 

in the booming echoes of
our voices as we stand on 
elevated hills and yell into the valleys 
below. 

where they cannot be found, 
for they reside far beyond
existence. 

Closure

wingedpiglets:

When you walked out
of my heart, you left
the door wide open.
I poured my soul out
on a paper plane
and chucked it through the
fragile frame,
hoping you’d read the words:
“Please come home.”

I sat for weeks, waiting for you
to close the gaping hole
you carelessly left;
for you to walk through and
apologize for letting the bugs in, you hadn’t meant to, it was a mistake.
but you never did,
so I got up and closed
the damn door myself.

It Makes Music

wingedpiglets:

I write to      release
the emotions and feelings I’m
            too scared
to express.
To see my thoughts
                 on paper. Sometimes
I write to

            remember
and sometimes to

            forget.

I write because it’s the only way to make
my feelings concrete

                                                solid

                        cohesive, understandable.

            When I write, my
thoughts become art
                                   instead of a jumble in my head. 

Rock-a-Bye, Baby

wingedpiglets:

Nobody warned you
that once I left
the warm walls of your womb,
I would be your sacrifice
to this world;
that I was no longer yours to control.
I was destined to move
with the mountains, to walk
barefoot on the soil and let the soles
of my feet close all gaps between me
and the universe.

And yet you fight—loudly, violently, teeth bared—
to tell the cosmos I am yours.
My first unsteady steps, the first utterances
to tumble from my mouth, my every
achievement and failure
belong to you.
If you cannot have them, no one can,
not even me.

And so you destroy
me
slowly; blindly tearing me apart,
consuming me until
I am once again
completely, undoubtedly, a part
of you.