[x]

real footprints aren't made with shoesone.

she walks down the street five mornings a week, but the
pavement is still a stranger

(her hopes fall in between
the cracks in the sidewalk when she
swings her satchel too high.)

little-girl feet hopscotch through imaginary chalk
squares – she kicks off her sandals and
runs barefoot when her mother isn't looking

(calloused soles love sockless grass-between-the-toes days)

[two.]

gnarled fingers trace distorted
windowpane glass seven mornings a week

(old eyes hide
behind glasses perched on an aquiline nose – they
have seen many childish thoughts skip by.)

she hobbles down the stairwell with a
lion-footed cane

white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
sometimes,
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
&

Stranger Than FictionI.
Little did she know that
they were the catalysts-

He was the leading man
of a story whose author was
doing her best to kill him off
by the last page.

II.
This is our stage, but
we are their puppets. And
some one, who isn't god,
is writing out our movements,

allowing us to believe in freewill.

III.
My life started as a tragedy, but
broke into laughter in the third act.

And I probably wont get hit
by a bus
today
or tomorrow
or the next day
or...
I'll probably die in my sleep
when I'm old.

And I never will have
saved a life;
but if my author
would let me, I could.

IV.
Isn't that
the kind of person
you want to

soul-spun threadlittle bird has the key to
fly from her cage,
but she's too afraid to turn it
in the lock.

she is a sleeping beauty,
soul taken for a ride on the spindle, and now
she can't unravel her eyelids.

(i wish i could teach her how to
turn back into flax…)

clipped feathers grow back, but
leaving those metal bars behind will take
a hundred years.

things i wish i knew why you follow me like a ghost
though i let you go hoping,
praying,
that you'd find your way out of this
godforsaken place

but you linger in shadows
you fucking haunt me
and it hurts
[more than leaving you
did]

fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end
“i know you,” he says.
and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks like
he's a boy who may one day realize how much
he cares for you, so you cut him off and say,
“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”
“well, yeah, minus those.”
“then you don’t know me at all.”

and then you tell him,
i love you. but you don’t use those words
because those are taboo. are jinxed.
are knock on wood three times fast.
instead you press him in a hug and say,
i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understand
that this is the first time you ever cared for some

Mea CulpaI.
I thought you were the rain, but no,
I was the rain. I meant to drown you. I
wanted you to be inescapably drenched-
your trachea clogged, your mouth an 'O'
of desperate gasping, your lips parted
and blue. If I wasn't enough to die for,
I wouldn't ever be enough.

II.
Your disappearances were noted with
darkened clouds- thick and heavy, tight
with waiting. You always returned with a
thunderclap, moving me to a downpour of
deprived longing. I was a flood and you
were a desert begging to be a sea. But
flood-waters river into oceans, and
deserts are meant to be dry.

III.
It was selfish of me to treat you
like a boat- I l

calamity.the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary
"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins"
"but it was urgent," he stutters.
"it couldn't wait, it was now or never"
he was simply told
"take a number, and wait over there with the rest
who 'couldn't wait' "

bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
tonight,
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
tonight,
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
so again-
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
my th

Ocean-childThe ocean has whipped the bones within her into a frenzy; they clatter loudly, violently, as the wind shakes the silt from hair burnt the colour of autumn.
She breathes deeply. Shakily. She imagines, for a moment, that her bones sound like wind chimes, tinkling softly under the starlight; but the moment passes. Even wind chimes sound ugly when the wind gets too strong - and it has.
It strips him from her skin in too-thick layers. She watches him drift away within the embrace of his newest lover, cloud-tipped fingers holding him in all the places she never could.
When she thinks about it she feels nauseous. She wonders the things that everyon

slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your head
begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot
into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.

pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.

Untouchedquestion marks rest
on his parted lips in eternal curiosity -
unconditional love's open-mouthed kiss;

flower petal cheeks
and poster child eyes for the hopeful -
I pray he never sees the world for what it is.

we are all waiting to be found.August 17, 2012

I met a girl five years ago on a train to Paris and she told me she was running away. I asked her why, and she said she didn't know why—just that she had lots of things in her life that would justify her escape.
She held a cup of coffee in her left hand and periodically, she'd inhale the steady steam and sigh. I think she caught me staring at her once when her nostrils were on the plastic lid, so she explained that the smell of caffeine kept her heartstrings alive.
Her eyes were forever open, as if she never stopped to blink because she was afraid she'd miss something, and the sun sat on her eyelashes like birds on a wi

32you were gone before it even sank in that you were really there.
habit is the worst thing, cause it made me so blind to the fact that you could
just as easily be snatched away from me.
i should have hugged you at least four more times
i've spent the better half of a year being your definition of evil and insane
at the same time. i've known better than everything i've done, but done it
anyway. god knows i've repeated the same tedious/dangerous/stupid
actions over and over wanting/expecting different results.
you wouldn't be proud of me for anything anymore.
but i'm still mad at you, i'm sure of it. if you waded through the
rising tides, or peeled away my blue like old house paint, you'd find something
that screams how you broke everything inside me. and how you were one single event
that taught me that just cause something ends, that doesn't mean its over.
and that i will waste every single change given to me.
the only thing you ever told me that i listened to, was to rest occasionally.

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More from ~Adagiobunny

Reconcile to the simple...Reconcile to the simple

Crimson sky

blue lily

chameleon

ever-different

complex

The sky, then flower,

then heat,

ice

But still

Remaining

true

Feelings -

Simple.

The Dreaming Poet - PrologueACT I: SPRING

PROLOGUE

(Curtain rises. Spotlight rests on the BARD, who is furiously scribbling at his desk. Scattered papers are strewn about the small study; it is late at night. He finally puts down his quill in satisfaction and speaks.)

BARD
Never have I slept a dreamless night,
For blest unconscious thoughts do crowd my mind.
A muse's wispy breath drifts by and by
And with it brings a sea of clear-sung words…
So, full of dreams, as I in profound sleep
Did lay my head, again she came to me;
Bringer to inspire humble verse,
Seraphic muse, my light in dark of day.
Believe me, long I struggled through my work;
Choked, was I

Unconscious RevelationsSquinting into the darkness
You can almost remember why these thoughts
Permeate your recently awoken mind.
Like a tattered wisp of memory
The harder you ponder, the more it slips away…
But no –
Wait –
It doesn't leave.
It has always been there, always has
And always will be...
A dream is an answer to a question
We haven't learned to ask.

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Submitted: June 2, 2012
Image Size: 1.1 MB
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[x]

(------)by ~Adagiobunny

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Visual & Found Poetry

Every book has hidden harmonies.

[link]

Let things belong--
facts really ought to learn
the sensation of color.
white-black may
mingle with
(pigments). the
fundamental confusion of
definite consciousness...
black implies absence of
logic - recognition
is itself a perception.
Any human eye sees
peculiar
dreams.

Enjoy.

*0hgravity Feb 3, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

oh, I really like this. it requires each line to sort of sit in the mind a little before moving on.

well done.

Reply

~Adagiobunny Feb 10, 2013 Student Writer

i'm so glad you like it! it was a nice shift into a new medium that i've fallen in love with.

thanks!

Reply

*0hgravity Feb 10, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

welcome

Reply

~Same-side Sep 2, 2012 Writer

Dreamy.

Reply

~Adagiobunny Oct 18, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you so much... glad it spoke to you.

Reply

~Same-side Oct 18, 2012 Writer

My only concern is that there isn't quite enough contrast in the word "dreams." It's kind of neither here nor there, and not in an artfully ambiguous way.

Reply

~Adagiobunny Nov 11, 2012 Student Writer

I was debating that as well - the pencil didn't quite pull off the effect I was going for. I've considered going back over it with a white or silver marker... What would you suggest?

Reply

~Same-side Nov 11, 2012 Writer

That might work, or maybe even a colored marker? I'd experiment on the digital image with Photoshop* or Paint, first, though.

*If you have it.

Reply

~Adagiobunny Dec 29, 2012 Student Writer

I'll definitely get to experimenting.

Reply

~Same-side Jan 2, 2013 Writer

Cool.

Reply