MorningsThere is something about
Waking up to the smell of coffee
And pastries on the bedstand.
The sound of the morning rain
Tap-tap-tapping on the windowsill
While you lie there, dreaming.

As birds are chirping
You slowly awaken from a peaceful
Slumber and know that voice.
The voice of reason and love.
It speaks slowly and softly
With pillow-like syllables.

Your feet pad down on the
Wooden floor: cold and hard.
The rain is still tap-tap-tapping
And you smile to yourself.
The mist settles outside
And a day slowly begins.

BelieveI believe in blue skies,
And I believe in rain.
I believe in rush-hour jams,
And missing the last train.

I believe in taxes,
And "honest rates of pay".
I believe in Downing Street,
But never what they say.

I believe in "good laughs",
And I believe in pain.
I believe in caffeine shots,
And pills to keep you sane.

I don't believe in martyrs,
Just cynics gone astray.
I don't believe in Peace-On-Earth,
'Cos nothing works that way.

I can't believe in blue skies,
When all I see is rain.
I can't believe in preachers,
When all books sound the same.

Let me believe in justice.
Believe the skies are blue.
Let me believe in angels.

Tomorrow I'll watch a movieI have inked my eyelids
for your precious dust
and let that bulky man
play piano up my skirt.

I'll feel nothing tomorrow
after a jar of pills.

He's licking my neck,
time to forget before anything happens -
favorite t.v. show on at midnight -
a box of chocolates waiting - do my nails - take out the garbage.

Warm breath on my collarbone
and at least this wine tastes fine,
better than his usual tar tongue.

Wait. Breathe. Wait.

I can't look,
even though I already have.

What a Poem Should BeA poem should be new,
New as "spring" is not.
It should be incandescent and alive,
Spinning and mad as a Hatter.
It should be chalkboard dreams
And tea cup wishes that
Contain tears that salt your Earl Gray.
It should be an umbrella smile
With glittering jump rope arms.
It should be groaning with delicious, sibilant words
Like decadence, luxurious, lucious.
It should roll and tumble
Like a silvery-moon-pulled tide
Foam whispering, breathing, breaking
Along a pebbled beach of words.

In Love With Your WeatherIt's been blue sky and easy breeze
for two years straight and I can't wait
for your rolling clouds and rain,
it's been too long, and I'm no younger
than before

You always struck me as lightning,
a brilliant flash, knocking me back
on my heels, leaving me stunned,
wondering at how you stuck around
for so long.

If you've got to storm somewhere,
feel free to rain on me. I don't mind
being soaked to the bone.
I miss the thunder of your
company. It's so quiet,
too quiet for me.

The forecast calls for yet more sun
but I've still got faith that it may change,
and I've been told I'm insane
but I'm praying for a hurricane
to blow m

Actually Spitting VenomThe cat is actually spitting venom.
It has been fed a diet
of amphetamines, opiates,
and selective serotonin
reuptake inhibitors
which were recommended by our veterinarian
in lieu of sunbeams of affection.
(It's not our fault.)
The sounds escaping its throat
are perversely appropriate.

I called the veterinarian,
but she didn't answer
(she promised by proxy to call back)
so I went to pet the feline
engaging in emesis
but became distracted along the way
by the immaterial nature of
justice. I batted the idea like a string,
a selfish pleasure (like stretching in the sun.)

Ipecac syrup
is contraindicated in animals.
(It's the

...Makes the Heart Grow FonderThere's a girl out there that I seldom see,
   Erring somewhat, but caring for me;
I glimpse into her eyes and from time to time
   Our impish spirits rise, and she is mine.
She believes in many, excepting herself
   Being blessed aplenty, and neglecting help-

Her tender embraces
(eyes closed)
move my heart in different ways

And render our faces
-like asymptotes-
so close, yet so far away.

There are lips on her that I've ne'er touched-
   Th'air that whips past her tongue is much
More blessed than I in this respect-
   For its kiss

Revolt of the Caged SoulA faint light shines between these bars of iron,
As shadows drift by me, memories of days long past.
My tears fall onto the stone floor below,
As my freedom drifts away on crimson wings,
And hope fades into the silence of my dark cell.
Hells ebon maw is closing shut around me.
Yet the gentle wind that ebbs between the bars keeps me alive
For iron gates and razor wire cannot command it
And like the wind, I shall be free one day
These chains cannot bind my wings forever

OceanA pit of seething anger
lies beneath an ocean
of calmness;
As liquid ice
it exists
without life
within.

A sudden spindrift
may appear
as another ocean's wave,
it hurts

The ocean
convinces the world
it's peaceful,
but monsters live
in the pit,
melting it
into sadness

Seven Deadly ThingsThe Monarch

He was the envy of many, our king. He was neither the richest king nor the most powerful. But he was indeed blessed. He was more blessed than any man could ever hope to be. It was because of his wife, possibly the most beautiful woman on earth.
I, for one, can honestly say that the mere sight of our dazzling queen captivated me. I could look no other way whenever my eyes fell upon her. And apparently, neither could any other man. And our king believed he was by far the luckiest man in the world.
And so it was a tragic affair in our king's life when his wife died. Gone was his beloved. And misery came lik

A HungerTongue pressing against stained skin
Lapping up the crimson sin
Removing all evidence of pain
Feeling no need to explain

Teeth and jaws ripping at the flesh
It had looked and smelt so fresh
Tender and just there for the taking
Didn’t have anything to do with hating

Hands dancing over her masterpiece
Nothing more than a cannibals feast
One piece is far from sating
All this just to feed her craving

Lips dyed a ruby red
She doesn’t care about who’s dead
Just another kind of hit
On and on she feeds it

Scared minds of those who have seen
Who have cleaned up where she’s been
Soon she

Forgotten InnocenceIn time of war and disbelief,
A flower withers between ash and smoke.
In a space of unknown realms,
The song of light falls to silence.

The sky darkens to hide the victims,
The music is no longer heard.
The silver moon attempts to guide the virtuous,
Hoping they will someday heal her wounds.

Hands are tainted with the power of force,
Vengeance seeks to ruin our kind.
The white clean soul of a guiltless child,
The blood shot eyes of a man now grown.

The child, scared and now forgotten,
He shivers at the thought of death,
He cries at the sight of failure,
He prays for the moon to shine.

The man, corrupted and now the traitor,
H

Everyday ObjectsDear Narcissus,
You're a mirror. Honest, sharp, hard, fragile, and cold. When I'm look at you, I can see what's behind me, but it's always foggy when I try to look around the corners. I can see myself reflected in your eyes, but you don't show me anything else. No depth, just surface truths about myself that I already knew anyway. You may be smooth and unchanging, but I can't seem to risk seven years of bad luck to break you.

Dear Pane,
You're a window. So completely transparent, but your shutters are closed and the curtains shut tight. You keep hiring new window washers and they come, bringing their own methods of squeegee-ing, polishing,

Your Hair Was Beautiful...Her long hair was clipped
And beauty was snipped
Right off her shoulders today
I smiled like I should
Said "Yea it looks good"
What else could I possibly say?

YoursThe deepness of your eyes,
Rivals that of mine,
Reflecting my world,
Or is it yours?
Inverted, changed, it is unfurled:

The trees I see,
Are not of thee,
For in their place,
Lies ash, defaced.

The flowers grown in Spring's soft hands,
Disappeared from the fields of your lands,
With every death, each person slewn,
My understanding had been run through.

The ground's adorned by weeds, not grass,
Sewn by thee, not caring, but crass,
The sane man's mind always relents:
There's only chaos is your intents.

The world itself had lost its life,
Drained to death by your parasite,
From within the womb you were a curse,
An evil seed I

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LaceI walk through college campuses in the city, where boys bum cigarettes, bad jokes, beer cans, and brittle belief in their life goals.

There are the frat boys who wear letter jackets and haven’t changed much since high school. I know these are the boys my best friend is going to turn into, the kind of boys who don’t have time for me around their other friends, spiked with hair gel and stupid jokes. I can’t help hoping I’m wrong.

There are the hipster boys with their battered guitar cases, expensive haircuts and cameras, and tattoos sprinkling their bodies. I find myself wishing for their hipbones and lazy smiles.

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Long Live the KingMahogany man with a dream in your head
Your voice like the roar of a nation
Bloody lion’s heart clasped in your hands
Thunderous King, the legions are at your feet
But, ebony angel, a martyr, a warrior, a king is just a man
And you collapse like any other.
All the same, the hushed pages of library halls,
The children of those armies of peace marching in Memphis
Will chant, Long live the King.

Seasons of Love-Winter.-

He’s numb and confused as he hears I don’t love you anymore.
She’s not as numb, but just as confused as arms wrap around her in the cold, the same hands that just a week before had texted, No, sorry, I don’t like you like that.
Together, they share their confusion, but the numbness they keep for themselves.

She can’t remember quite how it happened, but somehow his eyes never leave her, not once. Not for six hours. While it’s not something she’s used to, it feels okay.

He knows in these three weeks that he doesn’t have to be alone at night.

She writes him letters but never sends the

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Turned On My Spine

by ~IndigoSkyes, Aug 31, 2009, 3:13:38 PM
Literature / Poetry / Horror / Free Verse

I've been dreaming in black and gray.
Raw things
Like pigeons fluttering, shuddering to a bloodless death,
Skyscrapers bracketed by barbed wire,
And drowning feathers.
Everything is blisteringly skeletal and dry
With a few splashes of crimson.
I feel like this is home flipped on it's spine.
It looks like concrete and train stops
But it's full of needles and glass and combs and teeth.
The bones roam the streets and endless alleys,
Silently clanking and rubbing together
Ribs, joints, and limbs.
Leering, grinning skulls looking for home.
They ask me if I can find them, like I'm "It" in a hide-and-seek-and-die.
It shake my head, but point my rotting fingers in what
I dismally hope is the right direction.
I turn and lurch towards the icy washed-out river,
Looking for the limp and bedraggled feathers
From the pigeons that hit the glass one too many times.
I'm dreaming in black in gray,
I am home, turned on my spine.

193

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Turned On My Spineby ~IndigoSkyes

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Yes... um... it's odd and morbid and dry. I think I like it.
Inspired by dreams I'd been having.

This is pretty experimental. Do you think it has enough imagery? Too much? What did you think of/feel when reading it?

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Submitted on: August 31, 2009
File Size: 1.1 KB

Views: 193
Favourites: 11 (who?)
Comments: 36
Downloads: 14

~Aro-chan Mar 15, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

You've got writing style. I liked the imagery, but I rather felt the poem a bit random.

~IndigoSkyes Mar 18, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks!
Yes, it's very random. Dreams happen like that.

~TheForgottenKnight Mar 15, 2010

oooh I think I like it too. I love freaky dreams=]

~IndigoSkyes Mar 18, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

~Sapient-Butterfly Mar 15, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

I think its beautifully morbid. It seems to lose the flow a little in the middle/last half, but picks it back up again towards the end but I love the imagery

~IndigoSkyes Mar 15, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

Hmmm... how and when does it lose its flow?
Thanks!

~Sapient-Butterfly Mar 16, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

The part between "They ask me if I can find them, like I'm "It" in a hide-and-seek-and-die." and "I turn and lurch towards the icy washed-out river," it sort of seems to fall a little flat compared to the rest of it, perhaps the repeated use of first person references in such a small space where as through the rest it's minimal. Its like a sudden section of action where the rest has been all thoughts and feeling and it just sort of threw me when reading through if you see what I mean

Still it doesn't take away from the overall effect of the poem which as I said before is great.

~IndigoSkyes Mar 18, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

I... sorta see what you mean...
It's just weird to look at your own writing, you know? Which is why we all have each other.

~Sapient-Butterfly Mar 18, 2010 Hobbyist Writer

Very true, I know exactly what you mean

*Phyllipa Mar 15, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

I don't quite understand it but I know I like it. The imagery was beautiful, it reminded me of what being in town is like when all the shops are closed and nobody is in; a ghost town. Amazing poem! *****

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Turned On My Spineby ~IndigoSkyes

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