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 la
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,”
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
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 c
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
e
iustitia was an amorous fool by thepoetboy, literature
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
you are beautiful in your surrender by thepoetboy, literature
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.
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 fingertip
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
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 la
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,”
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
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 c
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
e
iustitia was an amorous fool by thepoetboy, literature
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
you are beautiful in your surrender by thepoetboy, literature
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.
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 fingertip
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
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 whe
so i logged on to deviantart because i saw a lovely daily deviation that i wanted to favourite and oh my god, i can't even believe this. i've been jealously wondering after those lucky enough to get daily deviations for so long, i can't believe i've finally been graced with this honour. thank you so much to Slug22 (https://www.deviantart.com/slug22) for suggesting me and to BeccaJS (https://www.deviantart.com/beccajs) for featuring. it has been an honour.
and thanks so much for all of the watches and favourites on all my poetry, not just roman 0.
again, thank you so much ♥♥♥
with love,
boy
god i've been having so much trouble with poetry lately i just totally stopped logging into this account. but i think i'm going to try again. i'll try uploading more again and going through my messages.
this week i'm going to feature one of the most darling people i have ever met in my entire life, intricately-ordinary (https://www.deviantart.com/intricately-ordinary)♥
this girl...she is the whole package. she has beautiful writing and a beautiful heart. she's talented and sweet and she's just...god.
here are some of my most favourites of her writings:
:thumb340579069::thumb341138442::thumb340277292::thumb339949718::thumb341748957:
if you have the chance, you should read her works and tell her that she's beautiful.
she's an angel and i'm so honoured to know her♥