[x]

footprints some days you are absent,

and i sit waiting even if i know, that although
your bike is parked at the usual spot,
you'll be nowhere to be seen.

i never ask where you've been.

maybe you found a place where heartbeats sound
like autumn leaves swirling in the wind.

maybe you just couldn't face me.

and you wear silence like a wedding gown,
soft silk sewn together with a brutal honesty.

there is no going back.

(she threw her regrets off a mountain, memories
carving their way through the cold stone, slowly forming

a waterfall

and now she feels no thirst, only
a longing slowly drowning her.)

in the end, you had to

to myself: past/present/future/fourth dimensionto the girl before speech:

you are not a prodigy,
despite talent for taking care of yourself.
understanding politics by grade school isn't worth much
being loved is.

having your hand gripped when stumbling.
playful laugh coaxed from your lungs.

bounce as much as you can.
cherish your days of knowing how to land.

to the girl with my fingers:

they aren't as beautiful as they are lost.

shaking; nerves over taken by demons
screaming in the night.
struggling to tear needle away from skin

too crooked to be melodic
not articulate enough to move masses
hoping to find north; seeking direction.

to the girl after healing:

red cocktail dressesyou remind me of those women,
the ones with curled eyelashes and thick
eyeliner
and
tight red cocktail dresses,
who
look up at boys
with pale moon eyes.

but

my dreams are shrouded in white fumes
of last year's chemical reaction,
and i wish my hands would
stop
trembling.

so

when i listen to the rustling
city,
its hustling clocks
and yellow cabs,
i wonder if you still love me,
the way we should
love one another,
but only sinners shed
tears.

i wonder how long you've lied
for me,
because my seams are opening,
and my pulse is
beating.

and i'm worried
i'll be one of those women,
drowning in their
cocktail dres

cadaver she was born with arctic lips
and overcast skin.
her hair fell like fresh snow
and she was far too thin.
her bones in locked closets,
joints creaked and shrieked
like a rotten floorboard
under gossamer feet.

Urban Evisceration     there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-
the metro awakens
          and stampedes across the pre-cast
                                   terrains of my intestines
welders busy mending on one end
   cutting on the other
          surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life

stiletto deaththe girl with the popping eyes
had shoulders you could dig your
fingers into and drag her down
the runway by her collar bone.
her hair, twisted tight like she
wrapped her car around a tree,
left her pointed ears bare for all to see
i barely saw her clothes because
i was enthralled with the shaking
of her ankles, suspended above
the shiny black floor with several
inches of stiletto death.
she had skinny legs and too many
ribs to count and her shoulder
blades were like two beavers
poking their noses out of the
ground, bony and shivery and
fragile from the harsh cold.
she was a zombie girl, with
thick blue bruises surrounding
wide, haunted eyes.
and oh,
what i would do to see her
smile.

fumesthe talk
of my
heart
unfurls,
  wisps

of smoke

yo howe are on a ship of fools,
bent toward self-destruction
(backs breaking, knees
trembling), carrying the world
on our shoulders like shrieking toddlers
(pudgy little hands
covering our faces,
smiles are all the rage)
we are sailing in a black,
black sea riddled with impossible creatures
things with mouths clamped
shut with age, grotesque eyes wild
with mania, webbed fingers, feet
scarred like a pirate's right hook.
i am the captain and
i am tossed overboard,
the captain is overboard,
all lost souls get left behind.
infinity is a really long time
(especially towards the end)

they can't be takentheir bleach skin caught my eye
albino white against the wild
hair like bright sky electric in the briars

haloed sister gods shot down like fawn

Sand Glass    She breathes in sleep like ocean waves; gentle rocking dreams.
                the thousands slip into the coast recycling moonbeams.

  Pacific winds won't let her rest, coast guards on the full.
                       Sprayed and chastised, tense and churned

pumpkins, pogo-sticks, and lip-to-lip
dear october.

the leaves haven't fallen yet.
maybe this year, they will not.
i am sick of things dying prettier than they live.

i am walking streets full of dead carcasses
and making sure to step on them to feel the bones crack
beneath my feet and it makes me feel powerful
and alive and deadly and beautiful.

i am three months away from january
and my unfulfilled new year's resolution is still
sitting heavily on my collarbone, trickling down my ribs
melting into the soles of my shoes.

last year, i celebrated the new year in my friend's friend's apartment
in india and two minutes after the countdown was over,
people set off fire

a love affair.(blessing: noun
a favor, benefit or mercy;
a gift bestowed).

she was never
meant for man;
nor woman.
she loved another.
a being brought forth
from the tip of her tongue
and stored away in every cell,
awaiting in anticipation
with dragonfly trembles
for the day to be called forth.

she loved language;
bespoke of lexicon and linguistics
with a caliber of wonder that
often caused her diction to run away.
words filled her,
consumed her,
strewn like a wildfire
stirred up by a tempest wind.
and oftentimes they tore her asunder;
bleaching her skin like newspaper print
and coating supple curves with endless discourse,
and carvi

war zone.
there is a war zone
running ruthless
in our veins

(you are the cartridge
and i the bullet).

it's a wasteland out there
but we're reckless
and restless
and anarchy
still has its charisma
though i've forgotten what
we're fighting for.

we are the young guns and
broken guns
and
the acrid scent of ammunition
clings to our skin

(i pluck at my shrapnel fingernails
though you tell me to stop
"everything's jagged now,"
and i swallow down
the taste of iron
lingering heavy like empty shells
on my tongue).

sometimes i imagine
we never shot the sun out of the sky
in a burst of misguided ambition

because when it's dark outsid

just wave goodbye                               dearest,
    today        i was
         the ocean.
                 i tried to
   reach the
          forest but
       could only get
    as far as sand before the
cratered moon pulled me back again.

           ankles
       the     of

Clichei. true love

& you were that one famous line
of a love poem – 1863 sonnet
scripted down your spine, verses
of sternum & shuddering heartbeat.

i remember the sheets twisted blue
as the eventide, your eyes like thelassia,
that species of ocean grass. we swayed
to the music of galaxies colliding.
our song was the day the tides
finally curled round the moon's face.

ii. cancer

eventides, thelassia eyes, moon
great and heavy as that one lucky coin
that refused to land, to grant a wish
or let luck decide for us. there were
star crabs scuttling under your
oragami skin. & i never realized
all the ways that you folded
until t

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More from ~kidahGEEK

sparkIt doesn't matter when we met.
There's no point in starting there,
It wasn't our remarkable day.
There was so much else to distract me
From noticing such bright blue eyes.

We exchanged words on stairs,
Words I've since forgotten.
The ground didn't shake,
Time didn't stop,
There was no spark yet.

The spark came the moment your hand
Rested on my knee,
Caught in a laugh,
That moment you found me looking at the sky
And draped an arm round my shoulder,

Or even before when we shared a bench
Under a blanket of shooting stars,
That's when the air started humming.

fault lines and tidal wavesyou're an arms length
away from me
only my arm
is lying across
a map of the world
not the folds
of my duvet
and I can't
just wrap the sea
around myself
and curl into you

some poem or otherI wish you'd been in my childhood
You'd have liked it
We'd have lost afternoons following desire lines
And hidden paths
Watching the river
Instead of going home
Just like that night we watched the stars
Only we'd have no stories to tell
With our shared memories
So we'd talk about the future instead.

Skin HungerI used to be so good
At dreaming
But now they just turn into
Memories of you
Now my dreams are shorter
Smaller
So much warmer
And I can't remember
How to imagine
Something so bittersweet

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Submitted: November 11, 2011
Image Size: 146 KB
Resolution: 1168×545

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[x]

night writingby ~kidahGEEK

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Visual & Found Poetry

_{Text reads: this doesn't compare to the feel of your skin

Following this piece being featured as a Daily Deviation (massive honour, thank you) and it's subsequent popularity, I feel the need to tell the story behind it. This time last year I undertook a project entitled 'Being an Island' in which I denied myself physical human contact for the duration of 2 months, to better understand and appreciate touch and tactile communication, and to see the effect this had on me as an artist and person. This piece was one of the first pieces I made during that time, sadly I can't remember exactly when, maybe about a month in. It's a pretty accurate account of where my head was at that time, and basically sums up the whole project pretty concisely.
More in-depth documentation of the project can be found here: [link]

Now available to buy on etsy: [link]}

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-10-11

Suggester says: In a great visual poem, the medium is inseparable from the message. This piece engages the reader on a tactile level as well as a visual one, and is made even stronger thereby. night writing by ~kidahGEEK ( Suggested by `HaveTales-WillTell and Featured by ^NicSwaner )

love 4 4

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~NICOLAMAZZILLI Mar 15, 2013 Artist

“ PROGETTO”

non tutti sapranno capire l'importanza d'una strada
nemmeno dopo averla attraversata.

NICOLA MAZZILLI (libero pensatore) 15.03.2013 ore 09.49

una mia riflessione in risposta a NIGHT WRITING by *kidahGEEK

il tuo “night writing” in italiano mi piace tradurlo “comunicare al buio”

- PROJECT: not everyone will understand the importance of a road even after the crossing.
- your "night writing" in Italian, I like to translate "talk in the dark"

~kidahGEEK Mar 16, 2013 Professional Writer

_{Talk in the dark, I like that. It has the exact same feeling and connotations I feel this piece should have. Thank you <sub>}

~smilewithlove Jan 23, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I have featured your wonderful piece of work in my journal, which can be found here [link]

*bohemianpoets Jan 16, 2013 Student Traditional Artist

_{Featured here [link]}

~kidahGEEK Jan 18, 2013 Professional Writer

_{Thank you so much, and for the fave. I am honestly so grateful to everyone who feautres my work and helps me to get it out there, it means the world.}

~Laeneris Jan 7, 2013 Student Writer

That is a brilliant idea! The little description of what it actually says is perfect.

~digitalstencil Oct 24, 2012 Student Digital Artist

you have inspired me to do my own version

[link]
i have credited you as the one who inspired me, keep up the good work, it really opened my eyes, so to speak

~kidahGEEK Oct 28, 2012 Professional Writer

_{Oh wow, that's great, it's amazing to have inspired art, lovely indeed
I love the paper you've used, the texture of it looks amazing.}

~digitalstencil Oct 28, 2012 Student Digital Artist

thanks. on reflection the editing is bit shoddy, but i might go back and fix that

thanks again

~vivapo Oct 14, 2012

As a Braille teacher, I must say this definitely struck a nerve. I've learned the importance of human contact from my students. A simple touch on the shoulder or a hug makes all the difference

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