Ripped Pages

The pages of my notebook ripped out for you. May they take you further than they take me. By the way, all work on this site is strictly copyrighted by The author of the site. I am okay with rebloging and likes and ideas.

[shellysongbird]

Cornflower

Smile wide,

My teeth permeate a new

Idea of white

Picket fences and

Days spent reading books

On a back porch.

I hold your words

Against the shell of my

Ear, and listen to the way

The reeds in your throat

Dance against each other while

Speaking my name.

I can’t help but watch

Your lips move and curve

Around each syllable as you

Bring up constellations on

White-washed maps.

The energy of your fingers

Between mine makes me realize

I was never empty,

Only waiting.

The angle of your arm and the

Weight of this moment expand and

Contract around the seconds

That tick by as I slowly

Lose focus and dream about kissing

You.

Press minutely against the

Sides of your

Mouth where I notice how your skin

Turns from blush to cream and

Back again.

Maybe I will wake up tomorrow

To the sway of your sounds

And the glimmer of your eyes.

Maybe it will have never happened

And today is only a trick.

I’d like to think I felt you with me,

Our soft sighs of longing

True and bold in a room full

Of nervous energy

And breaking guitar strings.

Closed shut eyes,

The more my corners crinkle

Into black crows feet

Where my eyeliner smudged,

The more

Real this becomes.

The push and pull of arms

Against hips as we tango

Slowly back and forth on the couch,

And I lean my head

Gently against your shoulder

Like a butterfly landing on a

Cornflower.

I don’t want to disturb the sweetness of

A silent exhale near you,

But I’m hungry enough to come

Closer.

[shellysongbird]

How to:

How to write a poem without the subjects of Heartbreak or Love: One. Eat your words, Let them stick to the top of your Mouth. Soggy bread from that peanut butter sandwich You put together this morning Because you just didn't have enough time before work. Two. Plant a kiss on your own palm And hope that the Imprint leaves a scorched Mark to remind you that You are all you need If these things don't pan out. Three. This body isn't broken. You aren't broken, And even though these thoughts Are twirling away into the atmosphere Doesn't mean you have to write them Down on anything. Leave that piece of paper empty And stop defiling your own Skin with ink. Four. Have you ever Done any of the things you wrote on Your bucket list? Well, go accomplish, go conquer! Then let your actions Speak like a fifties record On repeat over and over Until the only things That grace the stage in your brain Are soap box speeches about That time you ate twenty Funnel cakes and lived to tell The tale. Five. Find solace wrapped in Clean sheets, Watching comedies while laughing by Yourself, And cooking a dinner for two because Leftovers are much better than A soggy peanut butter sandwich. Six. Okay, everything looks like Men's junk. I get it, Everything. But that's just because marketing Is Sex. Fun right...it isn't you, so let it go. Seven. Join a club, a cult... A biker gang, Because those stories Are much more exciting As long as you aren't sitting there talking About the newest romance novel. Eight. I failed at this. The whole damn poem is about Heartbreak And Love. No one thinks about these things Until they are alone, Or almost alone, Or have never been anything At all.

[shellysongbird]

Wind - For Tiesha

My hair keeps dropping forward onto my forehead and into my eyes. It’s always been a pain in the ass that way. People have never realized that the number one reason I like my hair cut short is to keep it from blocking my vision.

In the moments where I sit at the park, I feel the wind playing softly with my brown locks. It’s like fingers lightly scratching at my scalp. I want to arch into them. The wind has always been a gentle friend, a peaceful reminder of touch in a world where I have always feared being manipulated by over eager hands.

I find myself dreaming of open fields and wild flowers twisting under the sun’s rays. But, as I open my eyes, I see children running and screaming across the playground. The park is full of stressed parents yelling and chasing their little sproglets from slide to seesaw to swing set. I can’t sit here any longer and yearn for a future I don’t see yet. This domestication is making me nostalgic for a time when my life was mapped out and planned.

The wind now skitters across my arms and lifts my shirt hem just enough to brush against the skin of my stomach. I am making my way to the creek bed on the other side of the park. I’ve always felt an affinity with the wind, and the way the water babbles across rocks and down into the crystal clear pool at the base of a small outcrop I found as a teenager. I want to feel the way I felt seven years ago.

I find the muddy wall that leads to the creek bed and make my way down the slope. I let the mud cake my shoes and settle beneath my fingernails. I notice the way it feels electric as it coats my skin. The earth is a living thing, and I am a part of it again as my feet hit river rock. I stare in wonder as I feel the wind whip once around my shoulders like an old friend welcoming me home.

I take in the new bushes, the dappled sunlight, the old treehouse that lay in rubble further down the edge. I notice more ivy covers it’s splintered walls. If I was a few years younger I would venture down to investigate the inside, but now I know the danger that could entail, and so I stay still and lower myself to sit on the flat rock. I take my shoes and socks off, balling the fabric to fit into my sneakers.

The cool water laps at my ankles as I settle my feet into its caress. I am whole again for the first time in almost a decade. I am back where I belong. I close my eyes and picture the future as the water continues to rush past my skin.

I see skyscrapers reaching for the blue of the New York sky. I see crowds of people rushing from place to place with such purpose. My feet carry me from building to street to taxi as I make my way between glass-plated walls. I am in love with this city, with this energy, with this life. The wind jumps between buildings and lifts my hair like it always has, and always will. I never feel more alive than in this place with its endless opportunity. I starve for its existence like my body craves the earth beneath me right now.

I dream while I let my mind take in the feeling of the warm rock beneath my back. I hear cloth and sinew and flesh settle next to me.

“What are you doing?” He asks. I hear the tender in his voice.

“Just wondering where I will be,” I pause and search for the right words, “when I am not here.”

He seems to understand. His hand finds mine and his thumb cradles against the dip next to my index finger. I am falling in love again. The wind knows as she laughs next to my ear and creates a small chill which I use as an excuse to huddle into his side.

The wind always knows.

[shellysongbird]

Sometimes things pop up from years ago, and you can’t sleep, and you wonder.

[shellysongbird]

I panic in closed off spaces

One day soon Someone will look at me Like the sun rises When I smile And sets when I close my eyes To sleep. I want to think that there will Be a set of fingers Attached to a hand and an Arm and a body That wraps around me at Night to Remind me that the world Is tilting and twirling, But I am not. I am holding onto Dreams that slip Between my fingers And deep into Floorboards as I Wipe broken Promises from sliding down My cheeks and Collecting at the edge of my chin. I panic in closed off spaces, And right now My own head is a Fenced in Yard with a sky Crashing down around my ears. It's sound like the quick heartbeat Of an MRI. Breathe in. 1,2,3,4,5,6. Breathe out. 1,2,3,4,5,6. Now hold your breathe. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15... I gasp, and splutter. I try not to let it Settle in my bones Or between my ribs. But, I'm scared... Scared of the storm that Takes shape in my head When the medicine reminds me That I'm dying. When the repeat of his voice Makes me realize I may already be dead... But still breathing Like a half human Thing With no real will to live. And the closed in Machine And the dreams And the wish for someone To be searching for me Just isn't enough anymore To bring me back to myself. To set nerves on fire in my hands And make my fingers shake. I can't feel anything but blue in my stomach. The taste of salt And deep dark Challenges that I shouldn't face Alone Hiding beneath my tongue... But that I stand up to it all Even with a broken back. These are too much, And not enough Just like me... Just like everything I've always been.

[beckawang]

MBTI Types: Summary

[shellysongbird]

Molten

Love is a broken bridge Between two hands that short Change each other And hearts that Don't move. Stutter- Stutter- Stop Falling. The shrapnel is gilded gold Along its edges But the carnage is no Prettier. It is just more expensive to Clean up. Disposing of hazardous Lights and sounds Is disposing of Words that never made it to their Destination. The words we wanted to Hear are still locked Behind gated fences at the Backs of our throats. Silly isn't it? Silly that I almost said Everything, and I'm lucky That I didn't. Because gold is gorgeous Until it's clamping your Lips shut. Until it's being poured over Your head in molten Revolts. Until it's the reason you Can't see what's right in front Of your Tired eyes... Because all that glimmers Is not worth the Damage.

[readyfornothing]

“Do you love yourself,” he asked And the answer twitched on my lips. “Some days. Some days I feel like I can take on the world. Where I’m so full of light and self love that nothing can stop me from being happy. Where I feel like I can reach the sky and paint it whatever color I imagine. Where love is synonymous with you, me, us, them, everyone. But other days I feel so weak. So small. I wonder how I ever felt so great about myself or life and I find all these things that shouldn’t mean anything to me and I pick at them until I fall apart. I wrap myself up in tattered pieces of cloth and tell myself I am warm even though I’m shivering.”

- But at least I can love myself some days.

( @readyfornothing )

[astrolocherry]

Gemini - Twins and Trickery 

All ancient teachings remark on the sign of Gemini and its functions of duality. In physical form, she is of course split, for you must experience many realities to perceive the vast oppositions. In spiritual form, she is astral body, floating through bodies and experimenting with personalities. Gemini is double, and the multiplications of double. It is through the gates of Gemini displayed by the two stand symbol that the body loses physical form, floating between a unified state of existence. Alice Bailey describes Gemini as the “etheric energy that lies behind every sign”, and the brothers who died in sacrifice out of love represent the relationships that Gemini finds with everything, she can associate and relate in ways that other people can’t, everything has a sister. And the Gemini cannot abandon her own sister, they must come together as one and resolve the inherent dualities, they must evoke love through oneness. Castor and Pollux symbolise the alchemy of spirit into matter. Remember that in the zodiac, Gemini is the first of humans to enter, signifying cultivated self awareness, but an intellectual adult does not enter, oh no, it’s two giggling twins. What does that say about human nature? Trickery is the inherent nature of all things. And as Gemini crosses the line of reality and unreality, truth and lie become clear and blurred. Just has Hermes transported souls to the underworld guarding life and death with Hades and flew by the mountain top with the higher mind wings of Zeus, Gemini can transform seamlessly into any energy. This is why many Geminis are probably so light and nimble - it’s like they don’t really use their bodies anyway. The Gemini mind represents the synthesis of masculine and feminine or left and right brain qualities. Traditional astrology has often illustrated the Gemini pair as male and female, and Gemini as being androgynous or genderless. Esoteric writing revered this synthesis as divine, so intersex people were often worshiped. While the mischievous Gemini children have no specific duty on earth but to learn, this intrinsic mischief reveals a deeper, more spiritual responsibility bestowed on this sign. The Gemini gates are rigid, but the Pisces gates are soft. Pisces conceive oneness, while Gemini observes a puzzling pattern of loosely associating volumes of information and energies. Behind the trickery is a cloak of sacred mystery, the light of consciousness opens in Gemini and reveals the darkness, it is the Gemini’s noble labour to make these one, or appear like its so. 

-C.

(art: Kurtis Rykovich)

[shellysongbird]

Are you?

I’m going to say it. Quick… Because I know you’ll never Read this. I know you’ll never crack This book to any particular Page and remotely Wonder if this Poem is About you. But it is.

It’s been about you now, For a long time.

Here it is, Quick… I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you. And I want to send you this Wrapped kiss With a sprinkle of my perfume In hopes that When you feel these broken Lips reach yours That you’ll know it was Me that stole a moment From you.

I’m in love with you. And every time I Let those words Pass into the air I will feel myself shudder. My shoulders will shake. It will be like you are walking On my already dug grave… Because you are. Because when I fell in love with you It became my life.

Yes, I’m in love with you And the way you maddeningly Twitch your mouth on the left Side right before you Smile at me. I’m in love with the shredded glass You’ve left bare at my Feet and asked me to glue back Together with you. I’m in love with these Moments where I want to Wrap myself around you. I’m in love with the way your Hand finds my skin and Draws lazy patterns with No particular reason but to Make contact.

I’m in love. I’m in love with you. And it scares me. It scares me that I don’t know If you’re in love with me too.

[shellysongbird]

Oldy, but goody. I kind of want to rework it...

[shellysongbird]

Little Black Box

I wonder what it Would feel like To let somebody in After two years of trying And watching every Person walk away. My nerves are Sightless eyes With cataracts so thick I can't comprehend the Depth of what I am Missing anymore. Every line I've written for An ex lover has become A new tombstone along The graveyard of my shoulders. I've tried to open up The skin along my arms To let people in, But I hear this scratching sound Like a fork on aluminum And I realize that I've been a piece of machinery For months now, And my heart is Just the little black box That people search for in the Crashed airplane wreckage. When they finally pull it From a dark abyss Will they understand my Swan song? I keep waiting For the sound of a bird call Where my name Falls sweet and sticky Like pollen From a mouth meant to swallow my Breathe. But I'm also kind of Sick of waiting. Sick of hoping for a sword to Push through my brain and make Me feel again. Sick of reaching out and Having my hand retract with One less finger attached. Sick of being caught in the trap That is the midnight Text message And the half asked for booty call. Realize that these words are love's eulogy, That although I'm still waiting, Still searching under every molecule of Air, for Your halo smile, That I'm also done grasping at straws With hands that are bruised And with a heart that has become It's own panic siren. Because every time you touch me I fear that you will leave. And this time the tissues won't get all The tears, And screaming with my body Halfway out of the moon roof Won't pull the ache from my throat. That rubbing myself raw With your name Won't be good enough Since you'll never tell me the answers And my courage won't let me Ask for them. This wail of surrender Was never loud enough, Never harsh enough, Never broken enough Between glass teeth covered In the debris of tornado shelters. Tell me, What would it feel like To let you come in to me? Tell me, Would you clean me or Condemn me?

[aikaleegrave]

//hidden sun

[shellysongbird]

On, off, on... Off

Drowsy The lights flicker Off On Off On.. Off. This door is not locked You’re arms are not open. I am cold And lost and wandering towards flickering lights. Off On Off On… Off. Every time I sit down On this muddy earth and Look to the stars I see your eyes When I blink. Remind me when this Started, When it ended. When it broke into constellations Like the freckles on My cheeks. And I keep searching for Off On Off On… Off. These laugh lines Aren’t from you, They’re built on Friendships and happy moments. Moments built like candle wax Dropping and drying in new mounds. This flame is Off On Off On… Off.

I put my finger in this fire And the pain is there But I can’t Understand it as it Jumps through circuits in my Brain, Because the void that Is my thoughts Is On Off Off On Off On, On On, on, on, on…

I am all on. Every window is full of light. Every candle wick has lit an inferno Along the expanse of my Flesh. I will be crisp And gone, But at least I am Turned on.

[shellysongbird]

Running

Never. I've never thought I'd feel anything Past the barest Form of ache in my Limbs after he left. I shut down My brain to let weeds Choke the life from My chest, Wrap their transparent Vines Between my ribs and Around the bone My heart became. Never. I never thought I'd let another person Near the black void Of my stomach. Let someone sniff The disease Threatening my life Behind flesh And chanted spells. A glamour I broke And shattered then Put back together again. Now there's a light Flickering behind those Windows and I want to feel It's warmth Against my skin. Never. I never thought You'd make me tremble. Just remembering you Beside me, Wrapped around my Short-circuiting shoulders, Makes my thoughts drop out My ears quicker Than I can push them Back in... To place. I have no time to file this away. No time to put this New piece of transfer paper On top of The last. No time to remind myself to Breathe Deep lungfuls Of these precious moments I'm Starting to collect Like my rocks And sea shells. Never did I ever Think I'd feel like I was running out of Time.

[shellysongbird]

Tag, I guess I'm it.

When... How long does The idea have to creep Around the corners Of your brain Like a hungry snake Slithering between Drafty rafters? These notions aren't Hard to come by, They don't break me Down, or you. There's honesty, Promises left unsaid, But completely out in the open Like fruit ripening On the counter top. We aren't hiding, But we're running Circles around this tree Like two-year-olds Playing tag. You're it. Make the next move. I feel this push at My back, The smell of damp Peach between Each exhale of Your breath on My neck. Is that what I taste like? There's tender Release along my spine. My muscles don't relax, I am wound tight, Knotted gimp springing Across the room Like a damn Rubber band Snap. Your hands along my arms, Skin rubbing Valleys and dips, Fingers wedged into my sides. I laugh. I laugh louder than thunder And your eyes are lightening. Thank you for The night light. Tag, I guess I'm it.

[shellysongbird]

Blood Art and Dark Rooms

I wish he could see this.

I stare at my phone screen and agonize over sending this next text. He hasn’t responded in three days and I don’t know if it’s because he feels the same way and doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions, or if he really is blowing me off.

I wish he could see that I care about him. That I am writing poems and pieces about him because I’m trying to figure out these feelings rolling around in my gut.

He doesn’t get it. He takes pictures to explain his interests. I write. I slit my own wrists and dip my quill in my blood. With my heart still beating softly through each line, I try to tell him that I want him.

I hide my feelings in the crevices of dented paper, on the blue ink that runs under my real words. I joke with him through messages I never meant to send, but sent anyway. I treat his sarcasm with equal parts grace and wit. I drink in the memory of his smile as I imagine his lip curling on the left side as he laughs at me. He never did laugh with me, only at me, like I was the most entertaining person he’d ever witnessed existing. And now it’s three weeks of silence. I moved forward and then crashed the car again. I let another man touch me. Let his lips run down every inch of my body. I allowed my broken pieces to heal, only to become a lacerated mess of broken bits again. I send another message and I wait. I imagine he reads it and his eyes light up. I imagine he will reply with a jab about how I should be working, how I’m ridiculous. How I’m such a smart ass. Well, I like to think I’m his smart ass.

I like to think the game isn’t over, but I’m pretty sure it is.

[shellysongbird]

Blood Art and Dark Rooms

I wish he could see this.

I stare at my phone screen and agonize over sending this next text. He hasn’t responded in three days and I don’t know if it’s because he feels the same way and doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions, or if he really is blowing me off.

I wish he could see that I care about him. That I am writing poems and pieces about him because I’m trying to figure out these feelings rolling around in my gut.

He doesn’t get it. He takes pictures to explain his interests. I write. I slit my own wrists and dip my quill in my blood. With my heart still beating softly through each line, I try to tell him that I want him.

I hide my feelings in the crevices of dented paper, on the blue ink that runs under my real words. I joke with him through messages I never meant to send, but sent anyway. I treat his sarcasm with equal parts grace and wit. I drink in the memory of his smile as I imagine his lip curling on the left side as he laughs at me. He never did laugh with me, only at me, like I was the most entertaining person he’d ever witnessed existing. And now it’s three weeks of silence. I moved forward and then crashed the car again. I let another man touch me. Let his lips run down every inch of my body. I allowed my broken pieces to heal, only to become a lacerated mess of broken bits again. I send another message and I wait. I imagine he reads it and his eyes light up. I imagine he will reply with a jab about how I should be working, how I’m ridiculous. How I’m such a smart ass. Well, I like to think I’m his smart ass.

I like to think the game isn’t over, but I’m pretty sure it is.

[shellysongbird]

Our Future

It sucks. It really does suck, to wake up every morning and wonder what you did to deserve to be unlovable. You toss and turn for hours, brain working on overdrive, thoughts broken and shattered and scrambling. There’s doubt flickering behind every corner of your mind as you search every nook, every crevice, every broken case and looted treasure chest. You keep coming up empty. And then you feel empty to. It’s that blood curdling depression that pushes you to either feel like every ounce of water in your body will escape from your eyes, or you’re so hollow that when you rattle your limbs they don’t make a sound. Like even your bones lay dormant or vacated the hollows of your skin.“

-An excerpt from the book I can never seem to write