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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. an animal unhinged

an animal unhinged
Heart of a poet.
Mind of a boy.

Original Work
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awkward glances
and silly words
played frilly dances
round and round
what our wild hearts
were howling in their
hollow pound

but in the dark
our hands spoke softly,
leaving feelings stark
and baring broken strings-
our hope in each other
letting us think we could be
anything but broken little things




Anonymous:
Whomever that last poem is about is one hell of a lucky girl.

I can only hope to make her feel the same way someday.

Thank you

in the sunlight her
hair matures to a
rich maroon

the first time i noticed that,
peeking from behind
the computer screen,
it was drowsing lazily
on her bony shoulders
and half-heartedly falling
into her soft eyes

and i promised myself
that i would do whatever it took
to have my hand,
or even just one finger,
lose itself in sending
ripples through those waves

to sweep that sovereign lock
lovingly from her eyes

i count the days
by each slow
pump
of my heart

to the moment you
finally press your paper lips,
your tiny cracked lips,
against mine

and i want to prove
i can be gentle enough
not to break the delicate skin
of a girl’s waist

i wanted to be
the reason
for your laughter

i guess i got
my fucking wish

i don’t care
if i’m the first thing she thinks of
when she wakes up

or the last
before she falls asleep

but in those brief moments of consciousness
in the middle of the night
when she rolls over
or sneezes

that is where i want to be with her

we get high before school
and after school
and sometimes during school
and on weekends

and some of us do it
because everyone else is doing it
or because we want to be cool
or because we want to pretend
for just a little while
that it’s okay we don’t matter
and possibly neither does anything else

and i guess that’s all the same thing

i just want to know what she does
when she doesn’t matter
and i want to do whatever it is with her

and we can pretend together

"Man is a mistake, to be corrected only by his abolition, which he gives promise of seeing to himself. Oh, let him pass, and leave the earth to the flowers that carpet the earth wherever he explodes his triumphs. Man is inconsolable, thanks to that eternal “Why?” when there is no Why, that question mark twisted like a fishhook in the human heart. “Let there be light,” we cry, and only the dawn breaks."

Peter De Vries, The Blood of the Lamb

"

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Someone was holding water to his mouth.
He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped
Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot
The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.
Water-calm, sliding green above the weir.
Water-a sky-lit alley for his boat,
Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers
And shaken hues of summer; drifting down,
He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.

Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward,
Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.
Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars
Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud;
Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green,
Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.

Rain-he could hear it rustling through the dark;
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
Gently and slowly washing life away.

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
But someone was beside him; soon he lay
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
And death, who’d stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He’s young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But death replied: ‘I choose him.’ So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

"

Siegfried Sassoon, The Death-Bed

picture that girl
or that boy
the one with the perfect laugh
the one you love endlessly

picture that every time you touch them
you make them bleed

and they beg you not to stop
and they hate you when you do
and blame you when you don’t

and now know 
this is life