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Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade                                      
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.
lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you

one. I have a habit of lying, about
the simple things (like, yes I
forgot to remember and I swear by
soul mates and I’m in love
with your susurrus voice
and no, I’m really doing fine).

It was not an act of infidelity because
I believed it, too.

two. I’m infatuated with the concept
that I am more or less fictional, the
delusive beauty a million men will
dedicate novels to: I am fragile,

a dust angel sent to save the world
from commonalities and
myself.

three. Since I’m not allowed
to remember your name

I will commemorate you
in acts of escapism,
killing off the pieces
o
I Am FlawedFrom body to soul and in between,
They blotch the parchment that is me;
I know of worse flaws I have seen,
But surely
I am flawed.

I sometimes lose my temper,
Use my mouth before my mind;
I ponder things I could do better,
And regret them for a time.

I can be harsh, I can be blunt,
I tend to hide my thoughts;
But this is far from what I want:
To be in someone's heart.

Comparisons are hard to make
Since we are all unique.
But half the time my words are fake;
The real me is a freak.

Regardless,
These flaws define me, describe me—
They make me what I am.
In that light, I'm proud to say that
I
am
flawed.
ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su
i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.
String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
 what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.
ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to 
Believe that the ability of 
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades 
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice 
In a life that was once
So happy.
A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she
Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...
this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.
Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor
AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.
Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where  Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie
Browse More Like This

More from ~juniorel

AlwaysYour ghost is at my fingertips.
The Truth About Drama LlamaThe truth about Drama Llama is that she wasn't always called Drama Llama. She used to be called Betsy the Llama. In the beginning, Betsy liked her name, but her great ambition to become the most dramatic llama in the land made her dissatisfied with almost everything.

Betsy's best and only friend was a tree frog named Gerald, who rode on her back and sang ridiculous Irish drinking songs while Betsy did all the work—if walking could be called work. One day, Betsy decided that a truly dramatic llama would never be ridden upon by a tree frog, friend or no friend, without at least making a fuss over it. So she did.

"Gerald, get off my back! I'm

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The Romantic

:iconjuniorel:

Here am I,
Trapped like Sita in a tall green tower
By some evil demon-prince,
Who may, at any time, come to have his way,
While the knight who must rescue me
Sits at its base
Buffing his armor to a high shine,
And periodically dozing when the sun is high.
"I am on my way," he shouts up to me.
"I am just about to climb the tower."
But still he sits.
And still I wait.
And I begin to think
That the evil demon-prince who keeps me here
May just be human, after all,
And that he sits, guarding the base of my prison tower,
Buffing his armor to a high shine,
And periodically dozing when the sun is high.

116

4 10 4
:iconjuniorel:

The Romanticby ~juniorel

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Poetry is a dangerous pastime. I don't often do it, therefore.
©2011-2013 ~juniorel
Category: Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

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March 6, 2011
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:iconsaasantmthee:
~SAASANTMTHEE Apr 22, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
Hey there, long time reader, first time caller.

Just want to say a few things. First, I like this poem. It's a bit clunky in places, and the flow feels a bit heavy, but I think that the way in which the ideas are conveyed are very well done.

I agree with you in that I get a sense that this piece is an excellent anecdote for the state of romance, that it is both a perspective of the one waiting to be loved and rescued by their love from their demon to the one liviing high up in the tower. In fact, on of the best things about this is that the two are at the bottom of the tower, far away from the maiden in the clouds.

And, I'd also just like to say that I agree in part with your comments on the two composers. Back in 2009 I took a class on writing in which it was mentioned that any thoughtful piece of work has states of development. The first comes with the idea, development and crafting of the piece, and finally ends when it is viewed/read by the reader (in this case). I mean, is a poem a poem if no one reads it?

I suppose that's just me rewording your own argument. Ho-hum. In parallel, though, when people ask me the meaning of something that I have created. What I do is show them again and ask them what it means to them. If they're interested, I'll offer to tell them my own thoughts on it and quite often their arguments are more convincing than my own.
Reply
:iconjuniorel:
~juniorel Apr 22, 2011   Writer
Yes, absolutely. I also love it when people find meaning I hadn't seen in something I created. In a novel-length work, it's even cooler, because your first reader can change the shape of the story. Mine did, significantly. And when he told me what he thought, it wasn't like it was just his opinion; it was as though he was telling me how things really were in my imaginary world, and he'd just seen it better than I could. It's strange and loads of fun to compose alongside a reader.
Reply
:iconsaasantmthee:
~SAASANTMTHEE Apr 22, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
A novelist, huh? I've gotta respect that. I only have the patience to write short stories and poems, haha,
Reply
:iconjuniorel:
~juniorel Apr 22, 2011   Writer
Longer form is easier for me. I have great respect for people who can write amazing short pieces. Every. Single. Word in those has to count for so much.
Reply
:iconsaasantmthee:
~SAASANTMTHEE Apr 22, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I have to work very hard at that myself. Besides, I have waaay too short of an attention span for that.
Reply
:iconmonstroooo:
~monstroooo Mar 20, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
As with all dangerous things, there's a great payoff when you get it right.

I love this. The repeating lines is nice, a great play on the two perspectives that the poem presents.

There's a lingering sense that this isn't about princes and towers after all - although I confess, I've not yet divined what the real meaning is...
Reply
:iconjuniorel:
~juniorel Mar 20, 2011   Writer
Thank you! Personally, I think the poem is about romanticism or idealism and how it can turn on you if you're not careful. But I also believe in two composers (the writer and the reader) and that the interpreted meaning is as much a part of the work as the intended one.
Reply
:iconmonstroooo:
~monstroooo Mar 20, 2011  Hobbyist Writer
I think that's absolutely right - two composers. Very eloquent :)

I haven't quite sussed out my own composition yet, though. On the one hand, you have the duality of meaning within the poem - how the prince can mean two things at once. But I also have this nagging sense that the prisoner and the prince are representative of something else altogether.
Reply
:iconravenend:
Mood: Love ~ravenend Mar 8, 2011
I like this piece! The play of words is really nice - a bit sad for the princess, but curiously humorous for the lazy demon-prince. I think you should write more! And welcome to dA!
Reply
:iconjuniorel:
~juniorel Mar 8, 2011   Writer
Thank you so much!
Reply
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