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Literature
devolution
i was a dog.
i came when you called,
sat at your feet by the fireplace even when the coals
were too close, too hot
for comfort.
things like that don’t matter when you’re sitting in the lap of your
master.
the collar was too tight around my throat,
and i’d veer off the sidewalk when you took me out
in the hopes that i’d choke.
there’s a spot at the edge of the bed for me.
i’m supposed to be honoured by this scrap.
your wife lies in the cold spot next to you,
and i’m obliged to take what’s offered, because
your scraps are better than meagre me.
right?
wrong, says the wolf.
she peels back my layers and slips out of my skin.
her teeth are sharper and when master calls,
when he pulls the leash taut and i can feel the spit dribble down over my maw,
i feel his fingertips at the back of my throat
and bite.
your wife lies in the cold spot next to you,
a cold and perfect two.
the foot of the bed feels like ice.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 6 0
Literature
dear mrs sand
i.
“il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie,”
she says, and i scoff.
ii.
there’s blue welts peppering my cheek
and a thick cut on my upper lip,
bandages over my fists.
“your nose is bleeding,”
he says.
“thanks,”
i say,
“you did that.”
he laughs.
iii.
my nose is still broken,
when his bumps it.
iv.
“i don’t know how,”
i say,
“we got here.”
he laughs.
v.
“of course,”
he says,
“of course i will.”
i laugh.
vi.
my nose is still bent out of shape,
but when my fingers skate over the pages,
“il n'y a qu'un bonheur dans la vie,”
like they skate over twin bands,
i don’t disagree.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 1 0
Literature
landfill
and i will always say i’m sorry
and i will always say i’m fine
when the apples of your cheeks
and my knuckles, they collide
and i will always say i’m sorry
about the bruises on your neck
and i will always say i’m sorry
that i’m not what you expect
and i will always say i miss you
when we’re in between the sheets
but when you miss me most
is when i’m missing you the least
and i will always say i’m sorry
when you always say you’re fine
but the thing is these apologies
are all inside my mind
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 5 3
Literature
of ants and boots
one time someone told me:
a tiger does not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.
and i stood below the summer thunder
with my umbrella unfolding before me
in vast planes over my head,
my wild heart thrumming
like the jungles i was bred for.
tigers do not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.
there are stripes painted in asymmetry over my body,
over the flowing capillaries in my wrists
and the chambers of my heart.
i wear my stripes like i wear my ribs:
with pride and shame.
and all my life i’ve been lauded like a lion,
taught like a tiger,
brought up like a boot—
but i am an ant in a world of sheep,
and i’ve got no courage to spare when i traverse beneath hooves.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 10 2
Literature
emblems and entities
i swore i saw the symbolism.
there was so much rain,
that it could have sufficiently diffused
the sun.
she hadn’t yet been chilly,
but in the coming weeks
she grew weak,
recounted the motto:
bone thin is beauty, baby.
stuck by the mantra, and
she swore she saw the symbolism.
but metaphors were always out of her
grasp,
and idealisation idealised.
the steps had turned into waterfalls
and the gutters faucets,
and the sun, no matter, carried on behind curtains.
she spoke in synecdoche,
ribs representing the entirety
of her entity.
she spoke in parables,
ice, bare: epitomized the venom
clinging like an emblem.
she laid out her
emblems and entities
on her wrists,
running her fingers like flags
up the lengths
of the flagpole shaped scars lining her wrists.
she wished that out of the blue,
she’d become skilled at alchemy,
so that maybe she could trade rubbish like
gold bars
for
true love.
and she wished that golden gods
would pepper her
banners and being
for a silver bar;
painted.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 3 0
Literature
ignis fatuus
in my dreams,
he’s not as pretty as he seems.
maybe it’s my heart telling my brain
“it’s not what it’s cracked up to be”
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 5 0
Literature
iustitia was an amorous fool
i.
an asphyxiating fixation affliction
roils in the coils of my trachea,
bubbles at the bottom of my spine,
snakes a line up the vine of my vertebrae
and as it winds, bides time bewildering the blind.
makes furrows in each eye socket, stoops a handkerchief
over mischievous hollows, dark caverns: dredged.
ii.
i cannot see.
like lady justice, but nowhere near
as sensible. twice as dense, i rely on the mind;
but as it files grievances, defers to the heart.
and with a start,
iii.
i can hear.
roils in the coils of my trachea untangle,
bubbles at the bottom of my spine boil down,
snake lines down the ridges of my rachis
and as it winds, hides lines of curious contentment.
makes trenches in each tympanum, holds a handkerchief tighter
over mischievous hollows, dark caverns, dredged.
no matter, the foolish mind, acquiescent, complacent,
entertains the asinine heart.
falls in love at the drop of a hat.
iv.
there is a bonnet on the ground.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 10 1
Literature
you are beautiful in your surrender
he takes you in his hands
and surrounds you like a snowstorm.
impedes your vision, blurs clear sight.
wander too close, you might
impale yourself
on the icicles that hang off him.
and while it may be true that,
he is cold cold cold to the
core,
your body is a fever, and even winter ends.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 3 4
Literature
third century usurper
sickly pale, deathly pale,
his skin the colour of a new moon,
a false god in the dim light.
they always said,
"we look down on idolatry"
and i never knew why,
i always thought the symmetry
of sacrifice spoke brutal truths
about the nature of
Man and God
the romans did it
why can't i?
enamoured by the fallacy of honesty,
i break the lambs neck with my left hand.
and with the other, i carve patterns.
old enochian and languages
spoken by those buried in history and time.
(or maybe those are the same thing?)
he's like a roman dream
hair in glorious disarray; triumphant
i paint myself a picture, burn the lamb
burn the ashes, burn my fingertips
(injury indicates dedication, and i, for one,
feel luxuriously accustomed to attest to the fact
roman soldiers wanted suffering
scattered messianic festivals, darling flee)
the smoke sails forward and scalds my eyes,
but he was never much to look at.
prospects, my dear.
a god could be amongst your lovers,
with hair like a crow's nest at midnight
and c
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 9 10
Literature
he is
he enters a rooom.
steals the breath from my lungs;
makes me airtight.
he crooks a finger at me,
beckons,
(and god, i come);
i get up.
he's my waking nightmare,
the poison i suck from my veins,
the antidote i crave;
he's my sleeping dream.
he enters a room.
steals the breath from my lungs;
makes me airtight.
i have no room for anything but love.
he's
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 8 14
Literature
i fell in love with judas
there was a time, once.
you were the fucking seas, boy,
i was one step above,
i, the roaring ocean that all the rivers
delegated you to, and god,
you flowed into me.
a wise man once prophesised
All Roads Lead to Munich
and what the fuck did that ever mean?
you said yes sir in time to the drums i beat
and you said yes sir to the opposition
when our front lines had retreated.
we were fucking wolves
with devil grins that crucified
Innocents and Evils
and then stopped for tea
with no heavy hearts.
you'd had bruised knuckles.
and so i thought for one
brief milliminute,
that if i let you
peel back my skin like
a satsuma,  
you’d find everything you needed.
but the seas en masse were always
spoiled rotten fucks,
that smoked like chimneys and
swayed with the wind, unlike
the omnipresence of the ocean.  
is there a strong enough word for betrayal
that means "i wont forgive you
in any incarnation" ?
funny, your eyes were my colour,
ocean blue, skeletally so,
and by
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 17 23
Literature
roman 0
crashed my car driving drunk for the iiird time this week
held your faded photograph in one hand and fell asleep at the wheel
pretended It was vintage, that the warm sepia
coating your smile and the frame wasn’t
spilled coffee and cigarette ash.
reality isn’t always as bright
as my camera flash on your face.
put the high in highway at ii hundred miles per millisecond
eyes wide and red and hollow and hopeful
that a cop would come running after me.
ive been needing someone
to hold me down and tell me
“you’ve been a very bad boy”
like you used to.
Swallowed i too many pills this time
(i didn’t lie when i said i’d only take
as many as i needed to feel better).
you made me see stars
or maybe that was just the medicine?
how strange i think who could ever like someone
so discernibly sour?
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 150 90
Literature
absentee
i always tried to draw the dark.
to sketch the shadows that lingered too long in
the corners of my room like
the corners of my mind.
but then again,
i never did like self-portraits
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 26 22
Literature
sinning was the devil's metronome
sound some sort of siren
sound some sort of bell
because i swear that when we wake up
we’ll all be trapped in hell and
i can tell
there wont be any screaming or yelling
just admission to the fact that yes.
you deserved to be there one hundred and
fifty percent and yes,
you did sin hard and sin fast,
sin bigger and badder than the best of us
with the rest of us.
sinning was the devils song
a music note he dragged along with
every word he wrote
his crafted pen of fabled hope
that he threw down wells like rope
and watched bodies swing instead of cling
from crags and cliff walls
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 5 8
Literature
damage
i. the filling heat felt like
a curse back then,
but as the bickering wind
whipped up into
the open window and
drained the warmth
right out of his hands
he mourned the loss
of the beating
sun on his sweat-slicked scabs.
ii. carelessly, it spit
in his direction, a
delicious burst licking
out of the fireplace like
a tongue and he reached
right for the flame and
caught it in his hands,
the heat stinging his
palms
but he hummed and laughed at all of the
rawness. it wasn't the first time
iii. he sunk into the chair
and watched the sun set,
waiting for the chorus of
crackles and whipping drapes
to envelope his brain. and
he fell asleep to the sound
of music,
frayed skin and all.
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 12 15
Literature
sleepwalking
come on darling boy,
take my hand it isn’t far now
we’ll be safe if we’re in tandem
a days walk to the north into the land of
love, you’ll find us twined up
precious hand in precious hand-em
come on love follow me into the caves
your love a molten atmosphere
emanating off in waves
like torchlight as it silhouettes
glovéd fingers on pale skin
a kiss within the heart
that’s condemning me to sin
come on dearest there is reason in your eyes,
honeyed tongue to thickened lead
slips between your ruffled guise
i feel it in your trembling
you’re breaking slowly underneath
being bared for me to see
like a sword drawn from its sheath
your soul drawn from its scabbard
your blade has pierced my heart
i kiss your eyes while you are sleeping
and like a dream i part
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:iconthepoetboy:thepoetboy 10 14

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thepoetboy
boy daniel lewis
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
boy|17|♂

♥: hot tea, rainy days, poetry, roses, winter, thunderstorms, biscuits, bowties, reading

♥: the thick of it, doctor who, sherlock, merlin, vicious, brideshead revisited, the hours
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:iconhecticharmony:
HecticHarmony Featured By Owner Feb 9, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the +fav on my Poem Your Life Is Not A British Television Show Giggle La la la la
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(1 Reply)
:iconoaklungs:
oaklungs Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014
thank you so much
:happybounce:
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:iconempty-lungs:
empty-lungs Featured By Owner Nov 21, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
yo, thanks for the favourite :)
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(1 Reply)
:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Nov 16, 2013   Writer
:heart: Thank you.
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