Submissions by DystopianMelody
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Pretty new to this, I like playing around with different styles etc but I usually come off as either disturbed, or as if I'm trying to choke you on a dictionary. I like my stuff to flow right
Oxymoron (by proxy)
I don't need you
I'm the guy who was never alone
but not the one a life is built around
cold-toed confidant is not a phrase
there must be a reason
depending on the season
It was either nuzzle on your neck and Netflix
or beads of sweat between your breasts and starlight
fears creeping into lazy ears
soft like the sound of a summer nights rain
pain falling from hidden clouds
above wide swimming eyes
but your smile
soft like the feel of a summer nights rain
and I have a fear of deep water
even though the...
I'm the guy who was never alone
but not the one a life is built around
cold-toed confidant is not a phrase
there must be a reason
depending on the season
It was either nuzzle on your neck and Netflix
or beads of sweat between your breasts and starlight
fears creeping into lazy ears
soft like the sound of a summer nights rain
pain falling from hidden clouds
above wide swimming eyes
but your smile
soft like the feel of a summer nights rain
and I have a fear of deep water
even though the...
105 reads
2 Comments
The dreams in which I'm dying
Used to be I slept like a cowpat
moist and sticky
with a sickly sweet smell
not much to look at
but soft and warm enough
for barefoot nudges to be guilty pleasures
way back when
I'd hear the same song
playing on the radio
just a little too often
and made singing along
an unnoticed waking ritual
knew every word by heart
but never understood a thing
see, that was way back then
before I woke up sudden
five nights from seven
moist and sticky
air ripe with the tang of old sweat ...
moist and sticky
with a sickly sweet smell
not much to look at
but soft and warm enough
for barefoot nudges to be guilty pleasures
way back when
I'd hear the same song
playing on the radio
just a little too often
and made singing along
an unnoticed waking ritual
knew every word by heart
but never understood a thing
see, that was way back then
before I woke up sudden
five nights from seven
moist and sticky
air ripe with the tang of old sweat ...
109 reads
10 Comments
There is poison in the words
don't listen
when sleep is squandered
and sanity is slipping
every rasp of rough cotton
has her name within the sighs
no
more thoughts
of Sistine chapels in invisible ink
or the futility of grand gestures
sleep now
picture stroke
after perfect stroke
layered upon each other
and dream a pretty scene
of a daydream on a summers day
the sun would warm
the air would soothe
but those almond eyes would never rest
and even in that world
without a word
the end would always come
calling
when sleep is squandered
and sanity is slipping
every rasp of rough cotton
has her name within the sighs
no
more thoughts
of Sistine chapels in invisible ink
or the futility of grand gestures
sleep now
picture stroke
after perfect stroke
layered upon each other
and dream a pretty scene
of a daydream on a summers day
the sun would warm
the air would soothe
but those almond eyes would never rest
and even in that world
without a word
the end would always come
calling
82 reads
6 Comments
A haven for unloved words (and misty eyed adventurers)
It would be a quiet place
where dust beneath footsteps
would swirl glimpses of fantasies
into the waiting space
that brushed silence the same way
as fingers poised above a pianos keys
that is the sound of comfort
and in the half note hush between pieces
would be the creaking of leather couches
and the turning of pages
would be fingers
pressed to almost opened lips
a moment please
for the lonely flake of ash
that fled on the wind
from Alexandria's burning
to find a home amongst the dust
resting...
where dust beneath footsteps
would swirl glimpses of fantasies
into the waiting space
that brushed silence the same way
as fingers poised above a pianos keys
that is the sound of comfort
and in the half note hush between pieces
would be the creaking of leather couches
and the turning of pages
would be fingers
pressed to almost opened lips
a moment please
for the lonely flake of ash
that fled on the wind
from Alexandria's burning
to find a home amongst the dust
resting...
98 reads
3 Comments
What are the right questions? (Ask the dead)
Footprints on tombstones
bear the noise of creaking floorboards
that turn the shadows beneath the door
to a place of solitude in worship
the door is closed now
but there was a choice somewhere
between the gentle tap of paced rosaries
and the rustling of ashen sheafs of letters
left for the past to find
clarity of mind or pureness in memory?
so many questions
and they must have their own
but if the answer differs with every asking
and the silence speaks in many voices
what use is honesty?
bear the noise of creaking floorboards
that turn the shadows beneath the door
to a place of solitude in worship
the door is closed now
but there was a choice somewhere
between the gentle tap of paced rosaries
and the rustling of ashen sheafs of letters
left for the past to find
clarity of mind or pureness in memory?
so many questions
and they must have their own
but if the answer differs with every asking
and the silence speaks in many voices
what use is honesty?
86 reads
3 Comments
The moral of the story
The art in breathing fades
just a little more with every sun
waking on an isolated mountainside
where the wind might just drown a conscience
perhaps that's the place
that the ignorant lead the blind towards
claiming the arms of faith
will lull them into a peaceful state of mind
where every night the colour is renewed
If every man slept soundly
a blade under the bed could be the ocean
that flows around every island
and that's a sleeping draught fit for any king
but that analogy defies logic
that much...
just a little more with every sun
waking on an isolated mountainside
where the wind might just drown a conscience
perhaps that's the place
that the ignorant lead the blind towards
claiming the arms of faith
will lull them into a peaceful state of mind
where every night the colour is renewed
If every man slept soundly
a blade under the bed could be the ocean
that flows around every island
and that's a sleeping draught fit for any king
but that analogy defies logic
that much...
93 reads
7 Comments
Maybe it's been written (and the raindrops got the leading role)
Do you believe in fairytales?
the kind that say
that records sound better
because of the crackle
someone insisted
that the quiet movies are better
something to do with the way
that rain is written into the script
and how you can see what he feels
by the way he smokes a cigarette
believing is a tale all on its own
but nobody can say how it ends
chapped lips might feel better
and maybe the guy shouldn't look back
so he doesn't see her walk away
the best kind of stories
leave an aftertaste
that...
the kind that say
that records sound better
because of the crackle
someone insisted
that the quiet movies are better
something to do with the way
that rain is written into the script
and how you can see what he feels
by the way he smokes a cigarette
believing is a tale all on its own
but nobody can say how it ends
chapped lips might feel better
and maybe the guy shouldn't look back
so he doesn't see her walk away
the best kind of stories
leave an aftertaste
that...
119 reads
7 Comments
2nd February, 23:54
I walked in on everyone watching your wedding tape today.
And they all looked at me like I was the one who died.
They visit your bones, come back and watch you smile on tv, then carry on.
Every year lay back and pretend to sleep while they leave, pockets double checked and tires kicked at 10am.
I must be the only one who remembers that we buried you at dusk.
While it pissed down so much we threw mud on you instead of soil.
Couldn't light a candle for you even if I had one, so I've been bringing them ever since and hoping you've forgiven me.
Because...
And they all looked at me like I was the one who died.
They visit your bones, come back and watch you smile on tv, then carry on.
Every year lay back and pretend to sleep while they leave, pockets double checked and tires kicked at 10am.
I must be the only one who remembers that we buried you at dusk.
While it pissed down so much we threw mud on you instead of soil.
Couldn't light a candle for you even if I had one, so I've been bringing them ever since and hoping you've forgiven me.
Because...
77 reads
7 Comments
Lighters up
The preacher told me to burn the harvest
said men like me always want more
so better I should starve now
because there's no better time
why wait until the winter grains been planted?
he put bells and whistles on my collar
and told me to smile
like a cat that doesn't know it's crippled
lit up a smoke and handed me the flame
to burn everything I own
so I started with the box beneath his feet
said men like me always want more
so better I should starve now
because there's no better time
why wait until the winter grains been planted?
he put bells and whistles on my collar
and told me to smile
like a cat that doesn't know it's crippled
lit up a smoke and handed me the flame
to burn everything I own
so I started with the box beneath his feet
98 reads
6 Comments
Throw them away
The crumpled residues of word wanks
ejected from the depths of romanticised remembrance
hued purple around the fading edges
a peck on the cheek
filled with longing and haunted premonitions
of monotone moments without me
a parting glance
that's speaks in disdain of every unneeded word on the lips of the world
her lips barely moved
but her seven letters were the white in pages of poetry
expressed in the blood of innocent musings
she said goodbye
the lonely word sang of salt in bitten lips
of futures...
ejected from the depths of romanticised remembrance
hued purple around the fading edges
a peck on the cheek
filled with longing and haunted premonitions
of monotone moments without me
a parting glance
that's speaks in disdain of every unneeded word on the lips of the world
her lips barely moved
but her seven letters were the white in pages of poetry
expressed in the blood of innocent musings
she said goodbye
the lonely word sang of salt in bitten lips
of futures...
53 reads
1 Comment
Adrenaline junkie
A heart dug it's anchor between an eagles wings
that won't beat again
until the end wants to meet
for tasteless drinks at 8
but keeping hold of feathers on the way there
that's hard work when every fan is set to pluck
with strained fibres calling soft bluffs
and waiting for the snap
of wings stretched or broken
same end either way
a white water shroud for a broken heart
seen through the keyhole of a door with no seam
that won't beat again
until the end wants to meet
for tasteless drinks at 8
but keeping hold of feathers on the way there
that's hard work when every fan is set to pluck
with strained fibres calling soft bluffs
and waiting for the snap
of wings stretched or broken
same end either way
a white water shroud for a broken heart
seen through the keyhole of a door with no seam
66 reads
3 Comments
My kisses stain the stones
The time of year is coming
when the grass is always damp
when I'll be left drenched
with tears for lives poured down the drain
they gave me a parting gift
every one who left in search of deeper rivers
they all sank at the start of the year
and left my summers empty
so when the tears have come and gone
there's no space for anything a while
except shallow laughter
and glazed eyes
if I'm not who I'm supposed to be
forgive me
leave a message, and he'll get back to you
he'll be busy doing nothing
but watching some...
when the grass is always damp
when I'll be left drenched
with tears for lives poured down the drain
they gave me a parting gift
every one who left in search of deeper rivers
they all sank at the start of the year
and left my summers empty
so when the tears have come and gone
there's no space for anything a while
except shallow laughter
and glazed eyes
if I'm not who I'm supposed to be
forgive me
leave a message, and he'll get back to you
he'll be busy doing nothing
but watching some...
68 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by DystopianMelody