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August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,
hold your secrets between my
ribcage-embrace & just
                      breathe.
FifteenThe blushing crows
Land on my clothes.
They tease my ears
With regrets and fears.

So I suppose
This is how my life goes.

Purples, blues, greens, yellows…
It's something that I never chose.

My eyes squeeze shut.
Another cut.

I mend and stitch
The holes and splits–
The ones I etched
And the ones you stretched.

Six hundred pounds of flesh
Resting upon my chest.
It's harder to catch my breath.
I hope this is not my death.

The worms withdraw
While the vultures claw
And begin to gnaw
At my limbs of straw

My skin bursts open
To release words unspoken.

Down the street
Tires scream
Headlights creep.
A young teen
moving onThere's no reason to write anymore.
Toss the dice and
don't ever look back.
Walking the opposite way through smoke-
broken voices,
static cling.
Echos of clanging pipe and
dim light and
all the rest of me.
Slight tap and pad of
sneaker on asphalt
sounds a bit different when damp.
Mist of rain washes the fog
down to the pavement 
through the cracks.
Don't look back.
ConfidenceThe mirror said nice things about me today.
But tomorrow it will probably be biased,
And strongly opinionated,
To say otherwise.
Abeo Solus
Flitting heartbeat, sparrow high,
twisting round the mountain's eye,
tracing breath of shattered skies
and filling velvet palms.

Falling sparrow, cry of stone,
wings of mist and powder bone
sipping, slipping from thy throne
within their crimson throng.

Treading now, beneath the clouds
As what was once so heaven bound
now falling, falling, to the ground
And singing silent songs.

Fly no more, above the arcs
singing side thy fellow Larks
curl beneath their shadows dark
and sing your silent songs.

Your flitting heartbeat, Sparrow high,
now sings of silent songs.
Agoraphobic
He would often catch the coursers of a newly printed page
or lock upon the wingspan of departing poetry.

But once the years corroded and the pages crumbled,
fantasizing was no longer enough

Soon he found that these shallow fabrications had all the depth
of a black and white page.
ReflectionI stare at myself.
And try to see whats inside.
Look past the body,
See the soul and mind.
I wonder what secrets
Lay deep in my heart...
All the things I hide.
The girl I kept in the dark.
Am i still the same person?
Or am i someone else.
Sweat, Spice, and ScarsYour eyes,
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.

I want my insides back.
Will You Marry MeYour face is smooth
        like the edge of a freshly wiped blade

Your skin is warm
        like teardrops in a steel morgue

Your hands are soft
        like linen sheets over pale, cool remains

Your hair falls to your shoulders
        with the accuracy of a weighty noose

Your stride is as confident
        as a blood-spattered Gladiator

Your legs send my heart
        into a state of hysteria
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,

devoured blasphemy-

hallowed out, & spit back up,

( you are afraid. )

Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;

god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves

grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.

( spread your legs. )

Red-inked and trembling,

prosetry masked as screams

knots into her anatomy.

Misery
The very thought of home,
allows me that smile
which I once took for granted.
I long for that open door,
the welcoming gap
into warm familiarity.
Away from this,
All my misery.
Was It All A Lie?The funny thing is,
You can walk past me
And totally ignore me
Acting like I don't exist
Without an inch of guilt in your black heart
After all the things we have been through
After all the times we have been there for each other
And you act like it never happened

The funny thing is,
You can look in the mirror
Thinking you're the best
Thinking you are too good for everyone
After all the things I have done for you
After all the things we have put each other through
Through thick and thin
And totally forget that I was once in your life
That you needed me

That you loved me

It's like you're a totally different per
Browse More Like This
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More from ~exactlywhatiseem

MonotonyMeasure success in lines
Like rain
Bother with each day
Again
Forget the rhythm forget
The rhyme
Find a way to set
The time
Wake up early its time
To wake
Take only what you need
To take
Its time to go away
I say
Its time to run away
Create a new
Better
Life
Find a rhythm a new
Delight
Strife and strike
Pain is life
Find a new
Way to
Describe
The way
The sun
The stars
The rain
Can
Matter
And
Matter
And
Matter
Again
10/5i forgot my
allergy medi
cation this morning
(take it now-
washed down with salt.
never too late
til it hits you.)
call an old friend.
static from the speak
ers on the computer
(play a song
she wont answer
anyway;
shes done with you)
moving onThere's no reason to write anymore.
Toss the dice and
don't ever look back.
Walking the opposite way through smoke-
broken voices,
static cling.
Echos of clanging pipe and
dim light and
all the rest of me.
Slight tap and pad of
sneaker on asphalt
sounds a bit different when damp.
Mist of rain washes the fog
down to the pavement 
through the cracks.
Don't look back.
starlight and sidewalksi don't understand anymore.
i look to the sky and see bright lights
and faded umbrellas:
the universe all wrapped up, like
the people milling, mulling on the street.
theres too much to see, to describe;
i want to focus only on what is important,
what will be important,
fifty and a half years from now
maybe someone will have forgotten.
maybe its why i can't help but forget to mention
the dried-up, pitchy gum scuffs that i couldn't identify
til i was thirteen-
the year i decided i didn't exist.
instead i'll focus on the
cracks where cigarette butts
and old pennies, rusty from age,
waste away; used and unwanted.
i'd like to know who last saw them.
the world twirls and twirls:
a middle-aged woman with a
bright pink umbrella that
wouldn't even match her when
she was seventeen.
what would you say toa slave to bright lights
buzzing and
almost painful.
bright blue & frustration
what would i give
to stop it all.
i could be invincible.
ill hide away in a glass room.
the dust specks dont know
theyre on display.
i want to read.
but
all the books are gone.
i cant remember
any of the words
or what they mightve meant
even just to me.
(once i knew them all)
im slipping.
all i wanted was
to be the best.
idiotic stereotypes
and foolish hopes.
white tomorrowEvery day is the same:
nothing given,
nothing gained.
(And of course,
it seems a shame.)
But what if I
chose to change?
Chose to fix it?
Make it less strange?
Would it matter?
And anyway,
it's not for me
to save the day,
halfheartedly.
(I've naught to say.)

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October 8, 2012
Sta.sh Writer
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because who'll care?

:iconexactlywhatiseem:

i wont bother to check
my words anymore
my works anymore
i do what i want
yeah
ill be what i want

grammar and spelling
and grammer and speling
noone cares
anymore you see
its all about me

half- composed rhymes
out of space, punctuation
fixing takes time
and time is a wastin.
:iconexactlywhatiseem:
Meant as a parody of how some people put so little thought into some works. Sometimes that's fine and it'll lead to a raw feeling, but others it'll butcher works completely and render them difficult if not impossible to decipher. Finding that balance is basically what literature is to me. What about you?

Also: Is it clear that this is satire, or is it too far? Not far enough?
What kind of feeling do you get from it?
The errors are intentional, but do they seem too deliberately placed?
Anything else?
(I don't mind if you don't want to/ have an answer, all comments are welcome!)
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:iconacca-larentia:
~Acca-Larentia Oct 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
The initial burst of insecurity I experienced when reading an implied criticism such as this faded pretty quickly, considering I am rather paranoid when it comes to checking my works for grammar (these days, my computer checks my spelling for me, and punishes me with that wonderful little red line when something is amiss). I do wholeheartedly agree with the premise of your piece - In my case, it's a 'take pride in your work' kind of thing. Why not fix the errors so you can present something in a cleaner way? The same way you'd scrub yourself up for work - Laziness, to me, isn't really an endearing trait in an artist.

On the other hand though, I do live in fear of that one person with a little too much correcting-gusto, who finds the singular mistake and pounces on it with that kind of mad, ravenous triumph. There are few things more muse-crushing than a thoughtful piece being hammered to death by a thoughtless grammar-enthusiast.
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:iconexactlywhatiseem:
~exactlywhatiseem Oct 9, 2012
Oh dear, I didn't mean to criticize anyone! I was aiming at the idea that grammar isn't important at all. It is.
This is aimed for the "Why check? Who cares?" mindset, not a few errors. They happen sometimes, even with the best editing.

It isn't endearing, and it is almost always detrimental to a piece.

I think you're talking about the way it's worded. I agree; vicious wording is nowhere near helpful, even if the message is. I don't think being thorough is a bad thing in and of itself.
Reply
:iconacca-larentia:
~Acca-Larentia Oct 9, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply that you did <3 Simply an artist's insecurities, is all. And yes, that attitude really is becoming more common and more noticeable of late, isn't it?

Perhaps that is true. I do believe that criticism, although sometimes difficult to take, really is important in furthering one's abilities - And it does make all the difference, whether that criticism is put forth in a constructive way, or that kind of loud-mouth holier-than-thou way, which is most unpleasant.
Reply
:iconexactlywhatiseem:
~exactlywhatiseem Oct 9, 2012
Ah. I know the feeling.
I thought it was just my luck at first, but I suppose it is.

I've never experienced any of the second sort in my little corner of obscurity. I'm glad I haven't.
I wouldn't blame someone for putting aside such criticism. It doesn't seem helpful and I would end up wondering about the intent behind it. It might also lead to motivation? I guess it depends.
The first is definitely a better option.
Reply
:iconferalglance:
~feralglance Oct 9, 2012
Real emotions with Facebook style lack of finesse. Well played.
Reply
:iconexactlywhatiseem:
~exactlywhatiseem Oct 9, 2012
Haha thank you!
Reply
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:iconprincesaylala:
~Princesaylala Oct 9, 2012
I am an absolute grammar-Nazi. I almost went ballistic attempting to read your poem, as I was mentally correcting everything as I read.

That being said, I do appreciate why you chose to write in that format. It would be like drawing a stick-figure and claiming it the Mona Lisa. I don't understand why people do that.
Reply
:iconexactlywhatiseem:
~exactlywhatiseem Oct 9, 2012
Haha I suppose I fall into the same category sometimes! I hope it wasn't too upsetting.

I know; the idea may be there, but the execution is not its best.
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