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Literature
do you?
i will always ask
i will often need to know
if i could understand what you are
and hurt myself in the way you hurt
i would not ask you so
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 2 0
Literature
thirty ____ street
sometimes when i take the wrong street
(which was still the right street six years ago
and simply home before that)
sometimes then
when i pass your blocked-off door
and boarded windows
(that seem to sit lower than they used to
but you wouldn't even know that i'm getting taller)
i think maybe you did win
because maybe being alone with time to forget is a better prize
than having to hide scars and tell things to people who rarely say 'well done'
and maybe it's like when you're a child and you close your eyes and make believe that everything's gone
except that you're fifty-four and barricading a house (not a home) but i bet it's almost as good
all i know is i was the child that closed my eyes and always heard you say "i'm here"
and now you don't want to be
but maybe you did win
because maybe
just maybe
having no-one to tell you that you're wrong feels just as good as being right
i say maybe
i say maybe because you know
sometimes i don't walk down that street
and sometimes i
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 4 1
Literature
re-lying
relying
(on you)
is like
telling the same lie again
and (or)
depending on you
to believe
(me)
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 3 0
Literature
yeats
come away
they say, they say
in a chittering of voices
to the water
youngest daughter

they laugh away your choices
then the wild,
o human child

a hand holds tight to yours
now she comes,
the water numbs
the tears were never ours
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 6 2
Literature
for basil
you found a boy in the ashes
and you made him a star ;
a mere pile of dust and leaden colours
but oh, how he shone
fools wish upon shining stars,
and fools fall in love ;
twice he made you for a fool
but oh, how he shone
he's a boy, just a boy
but stars have to burn to shine brighter,
and your artist heart melted
as the burning dust boy grew darker,
dry and shrivelled and harsh,
but still--
still
-- he shone
boys are cruel,
and stars even more so ;
hard and bright and so far away
lost in their own time
but oh, how they shine
and oh, how they shine
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 192 28
Literature
manners, please
you don't learn manners at a funeral,
because who is there to thank?
and really, who is welcome?
you don't learn manners at a funeral.
you learn the metallic taste of sorries,
the shape that loss cuts in you
and the gritty feel of dirt.
you learn the size of questions,
the burden of breathing,
the sharp grip of hands upon your shoulder.
but no,
no.
you don't learn manners at a funeral.
you learn new lives;
they make you bury the old ones.
there's no one to thank.
no one is welcome.
and
god knows
we've worn out the word please already.
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 9 0
Literature
10-08-2012
one shot
and
with a bang
(or a whimper?)
a father
blows a hole
through
each of his
six sons
and a world ends.
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 9 2
Mature content
flat 108 :iconanniba:anniba 2 0
Literature
wrists that roar
mama says
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see

but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger

and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
who says
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
:iconanniba:anniba
:iconanniba:anniba 111 27
Mature content
selfish wishes :iconanniba:anniba 1 0
Mature content
i am not a singer :iconanniba:anniba 15 4

Favourites

Literature
BAD WOLF
here is a list of things that you will never know about me:
i am magic
i run through the stars with all the blood in my veins and
the whole of the universe inside me
there is a sun imbedded in my bones that refuses to die,
and a timelord heartbeat that will never stop
not in a trillion years of shattered glass
and fiberoptics;
not with the shaking of continents
and the wars of masters and kings
if you had a skeleton i would pull apart your ribs to use as drumsticks,
pounding that onetwothreefour
into the bedrock of the galaxy until all the minds on all the planets tremble
and everyone to the farthest reaches of space will know my name
here is the marrow of the stars;
it clings to the engines of the last great time machines,
woven into their spiderwebbing energies
and tight inside the fibers of myself,
a pendulum swinging to remind us of our visceral-ness,
the paradoxes of our skins like soil,
across time and space in search of a hand to hold
:iconssleep:ssleep
:iconssleep:ssleep 19 6
Literature
fourteen
you're fourteen and you don't let anyone read your poems.
you write for your family
the kids who threw your backpack in the toilet
that one person
you think about
spending your life with
(and yeah, you're young, but
if this is real enough
to keep you awake
until your skin hums
and black sand tumbles
down you like a
crescendo
doesn't that
count for
something?]
and for your
imaginary
doctor.
and you keep the cover
tightly
shut
with "good" or "fine" or
i'm going for a walk
see you soon
because if they read
the words in the margins
like jagged teeth,
"
   there's a cloud in my head
   pushing against the edges
   filling the space between thoughts
   with less than nothing
   i'm a radio wave
   and you're a radio wave
   we pass through each other
   without touching
                 
:iconmissingnumbers:missingnumbers
:iconmissingnumbers:missingnumbers 19 8
Literature
closure
bukowski once said that the best often die by their own hand -
but you, i think you died at the hand of this world,
in all of its cruelty and darkness
-
i can't help but wonder if you were scared,
if your hands shook when you fell from this world into the next
i'd like to think though, that you were calm in your dark, concrete haven
that you closed your eyes unafraid
i'd like to think that there is a god -
a gentle hand that wrapped itself around your tired body
and that you were truly happy, where ever it is he took you
but for some reason, i think you're a bird
somewhere warm
you'd make a beautiful bird.
-
i hope that my words, when you scribbled them down
in fury, in desperation, in a numb void
gave you at least a bit of comfort -
made you feel, even for a split second,
less alone
-
i will remember you by the mornings we spent together in the sun,
outside the grey lockers, legs outstretched and warm
and the smile you used to give the world when things were,
for once,
beautiful
and f
:iconrachel-rhapsody:rachel-rhapsody
:iconrachel-rhapsody:rachel-rhapsody 34 27
Literature
scars
they caught my eye when he passed me a pile of papers.
i stared not too long & not too hard because i knew.
i asked are those scars? and he said yeah, did a little
laugh along with it. shame wouldn't let me look him in
the eye but i could see his eyes because see, i play
violin and that trains your peripheral vision. i said
sorry, don't know what for but i felt ashamed for point-
ing out flaws, he wasn't flaunting those scars but he
didn't do much to hide them either. i said sorry for not
stopping it, even though those razor blade lines adjacent
to the floor boards are old, they still hurt to look at
& they hurt to make. he said it's okay, don't worry about
it & my orchestral eyes spied him squinting in my direction
at my expression and i wanted to say what the fuck are you
looking for? you're not looking at me, you're looking inside.
i don't know your story, just that you write strong poetry.
you could break bones with your words but choose not to beca-
use somehow you know that i've
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 24 21
Literature
losses and gains
they say there are two kinds of people
in the world; good & bad.
the kind that just go to church because
their mommas make them, and the kind that
actually feel a twist in their hearts, a
pain their chests when they think of Him.
the kind of people that, when asked would
you like something to eat, always answer
no despite their sunken stomachs and the
kind that say oh sure, don't mind if i do.
the people who smile at the poor & homeless
and sometimes hand them 34-cents, and the
people who smirk and don't even feel bad.
two kinds, always two kinds;
good & bad
bad & good
the kind of people that say that
the two kinds are black & white,
and the people who say fuck you
to them, we're all still human;
it's our humanity we've lost.
there are the people who give a fuck and
try to be the difference, and then there
are the people who are counting down the
days until their caterpillar-bodies turn
into butterflies;
the losses outweigh the gains, dear child,
the losses outweigh the gains.
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree 5 4
Literature
crippling disappointment.
it was so quiet that it was so loud.
kind of like when something is so hot it feels cold for a second before it burns you.
your body deceiving you from that initial shock.
something like that.
but the woods were silent as i sat up in my tree.
and it really was my tree because we had carved our initials into it.
SH + RD with a heart around it.
it was more like a circle though because we were both so drunk we couldn't see.
later on, i'd asked you, 'sean, what the fuck had we been thinking?'
and before you kissed me for the first time you said, 'we were thinking straight.'
i wish you hadn't because then maybe i wouldn't be filled with such remorse.
in the distance i could vaguely make out the sounds of the highway.
the occasional honking horn or screeching tires or just the way the wind is pushed by.
it made me think of your car, that rusted jeep you loved, with the top off.
you always had the top off and there were no doors and it was terrifying, to be honest.
it wasn't something that i
:iconRoseShadow975:RoseShadow975
:iconroseshadow975:RoseShadow975 8 4
Literature
bloody ankles, bruised knees.
your rogue mind is
playing tricks on
your soul, but where
do you go when home
is a hole?
bloodshot whites
from crying to the
devil inside, release
me my father, for
i have lied.
:iconchurchmouth:churchmouth
:iconchurchmouth:churchmouth 9 13
Literature
you are my favourite illusion
the china tea cups would rattle at night
followed by a series of sirens
a smash of glass, young boys broke into cars
the mothers would look over at the cups
frowning and clasping their dressing gowns closer
and going back to the fathers of the boys
lost in their own misery
they hated the modern world
one of this world had a swollen eye
i glanced at him and he staggered over
his swollen eye reflected the sunset
he said my hair 'was burning'
i liked it that colour
sometimes i'd properly smile in the mirror
i guess ammonia and chemicals have that effect
but oh no, lets not discuss that
we got on pretty well
he drew clocks and holding the bony fragile hands of time
carried a phd in ocd, numbers were his favourite
sometimes I felt him touch my ribs and squirm
from this i knew he wasn't tough. not properly
i also knew this from hearing his tears at night
when the clocks punched two
i was meant to be asleep, but how could i be?
i'm sorry that i am sober
i knew you were there
your heartstrings
:iconcostello7:costello7
:iconcostello7:costello7 8 15
Literature
disorder me.
i line my paper eyes, let me see the world
in words placed neatly, scribed sweetly.
you're so beautiful, hair rumpled
between the crumpled sheets
of my diary,
of your unmade bed
the smell of sweat
the taste of beer
and ibuprofen,
the feel of
smudged
outlines
kiss me,
kiss me,
kiss me.
:iconqueenofrelax:queenofrelax
:iconqueenofrelax:queenofrelax 12 15
Literature
the organs spoke
she told me i was beautiful
on the
sidewalk, and she
cut her hair in
the bathroom. he happened
to glance and
catch my
purple stardust -
too bad the back
window was open
and my penlines drifted
out in a
cloud of nicotine.
we wrote on pads of lined
paper five
inches wide, and
believed with all our
guilt-smoked hearts
that one day
light would come
save us from the
things we didn't know. the
ice-cream wasn't sour,
so she dipped
her pearls in
my sympathy,
having a hard time
keeping it together.
i could tell the gallows
were mossing over
and our
chance would
be gone soon;
i pulled
them into the
streets -
it was cinco
de mayo -
and walked
into puddles of
widow's graveyard
tears.
we told ourselves
that rain was
love and sun only
burned, but
the taste iron
left under my
tongue couldn't
be ignored. i
quit ballet and focused
on restoring
lawns, hoping
my meteorites would
save dying
children.
2am is the
most cliche time
to write poetry,
so she generally
waited until
four in
the afternoon, driving
:iconShimmeringHeart:ShimmeringHeart
:iconshimmeringheart:ShimmeringHeart 20 24
Literature
i don't know these people
"amelia, you can't drive home"
   
i went and
put a fist down my throat
just to be able
to drive a fellow drunk
back home.
this guy,
his name was owen,
he plays the saxophone.
he's 33 years old.
he asked if i was okay.
his sincerity helped me up
from the bench i was draped over,
spinning in circles.
this girl,
her name was rachel,
we sat in the middle of the pond,
in the dark,
and she dropped her
material possessions.
she cried.
i laughed.
and we paddled our way
back to shore,
with drinks in our hands
and new stories to tell
that we wouldn't remember
tomorrow.
i drove.
only because
i pray for a crash,
using up the only faith
i'll ever have.
:iconMaude13:Maude13
:iconmaude13:Maude13 2 1
Literature
it makes me sick
you are a bear; ferocious, maybe.
hiding under your dyed hair
you are a kitten; scared, i bet.
of the stain i left
on your conscience
don't hide, don't cry.
there are so many reasons
why
it wouldn't work out,
after all, i'm a dog.
did i scare you away?
like the others?
like the ones with blond hair?
bad things happen in threes.
that's smith strong and aminoff.
do you want me to disappear?
you try to convince me otherwise.
but i'll try and stay away from you.
putrid meat makes me vomit
and it's all i think about when
i talk to you. but i'm lying.
you are all i want and that
isn't a secret anymore.
:iconmasochistchrist:masochistchrist
:iconmasochistchrist:masochistchrist 3 4
Literature
jenny, no
no, not everyone's all right
and no one's feeling well
jenny
sits at the side of the bed
and strokes
the petri dish of your
paisley face
clock strikes ten
stalactites flicker
and you're out of bed again
stalagmites lock into your skull
the lock-pick troglobites, they swarm
around your misting sockets,
sink their fangs into your scars
sun leaks its juices like a battery
run over by a dodge
and jenny
she sleeps in a clamshell,
no venus in her sky
but her hypodermic fairy-tales
wash the crags of her bedframe
with eddies of delight
:iconunlearn-this:unlearn-this
:iconunlearn-this:unlearn-this 2 6
Literature
two miles to hell
on a stained canvas
i paint my world
portrait of empty streets
and broken bottles
sleepless nights and
splinter'd lips
pasty memories
ghosts
ilusions
of things that now seems
that never happened
(it was such a long time since a sincere smile)
as the clock count the seconds
and from the bathroom i hear drops
echoing throughout my body
i stand still
amazed by the silent portrait
smears of hate against dusty half truths
:iconzero-the-madhatter:zero-the-madhatter
:iconzero-the-madhatter:zero-the-madhatter 2 2

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anniba
ilium
nine and a half years on the sixty-second street.

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:iconohanthem:
ohanthem Featured By Owner Nov 29, 2013  Professional Writer
Love your gallery!
Reply
:iconssleep:
ssleep Featured By Owner Aug 29, 2012   Writer
thank you :heart:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconingle-nook:
ingle-nook Featured By Owner Jun 15, 2012  Student Writer
Thank you so much for the watch! :iconloveemoteplz:
I'll do my best to live up to your expectations. :aww:
Reply
(1 Reply)
:iconrachaelwrites:
rachaelwrites Featured By Owner Nov 19, 2011
you are alive?
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(1 Reply)
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