Pailei: I like to dabble in a lot of different art forms, including traditional sketching, digital painting, short stories, and--of course!--poetry. I write mostly free verse with the occasional structured form if I'm feeling up for a challenge, and I'm usually inspired by nature and personal experiences. I've always been a storyteller, and I'll use whatever form I can to weave a good tale.
no crow roadit was a benign hope,
this adroit affinity
for love,
a haughty idea
that replaced old regimes
and tattered philosophies
and contradicted,
trippingly,
the hollow brevity
of life.
the shortest distance
between two points
is a straight line, straight
as the crow flies.
there are stars overhead
even on the devil's shore
if you know how to look--
between the catalyst
of indolent calm
and reluctant bliss,
where the aesthetics
of wisdom
will ruin you.
crown him with a tyranny
of mischief,
love him for it until
your heart beats sporadic
and bursts,
drowning you in prurient
scorn.
regret
the moment
you met.
there are no roads
here.
sometimes she makes
her own--
long, winding things
that spiral
sinuous and shifting
like wind chimes twisting
on the breeze.
they never end, but
merge infinitely,
a spiderweb tracery
upon her soul.
every pertinent lesson
repeats
like a cr
ghosts in the gardenand she slung
her slender bones
down
swallowed by fabric
gardens
chintz roses echoed
on the rattling
teacup
in her shiver-quake,
taut-canvas fingers
and folded
her molasses tongue
around the unraveling
storm clouds gathering
gray
—good for the flowers—
and the canny mouse
curled cozy in some
dusky cabinet corner
—bad for the biscuits—
before smoothing
another sip
down her furrowed
throat.
when i was small,
she said into the silence
on a paper-whisper,
eyes cast
on an errant past,
my sister died.
and they laid her
on the kitchen table
in her Sunday best, and
i remember
her small fingers curled
and i fancied
she was holding hands
with Death.
then she shook
her dandelion fluff hair,
gave a flutter laugh,
a butterfly sigh
and said
i've got gardenfuls
of ghosts.
she pressed a painted smile
to her fading lips
and, crowned
with the breath of
gardenias,
asked about the weather
once more.
coyotei should have
known
when you told me you shoot coyotes
for fun
following the roll of their lupine gait
with the barrel of your .22
in the backwoods where the blood
burns bright as wildflowers against the tall grass.
when the sun hung low and heavy
as the eyes you slung across my damp skin
i followed the fields down into your
familiar embrace.
that was the summer you taught me how to shoot.
(do you remember that target we made up
like some macabre crime scene outline? a body
in black sharpie on some salvaged cardboard
and i made every head shot
but the heart was yours.
always, always.
but tell me, didn't yours beat a little faster
for those precious seconds
when i turned the weapon on you?
you were a coyote frozen in my sights
but unlike you
i couldn't pull the trigger.)
walking home
alone
through the woods as the last light faded
the sun like a ripe peach falling
through the sieve of trees,
i heard a coyote's call nearby
and after a brief moment when fear laid its
reformationthis is no true night, she thought,
darkness descending like a raven,
sharp and black, long lines of
feather-shadows scraping at the light.
witch-blood, the wispy moon whispered
as she scraped the rust-colored dust
from beneath her nails—the detritus
from decades of grinding
hardened hearts to powder.
she swallowed an old song, knowing that
such things will not stay locked tight
behind her teeth, and turned away
from temptation—the caustic caress
that called her closer to the endless dark.
my way is little wing, solid earth,
long roots and the edge of light,
she lamented quietly.
tonight is not the time to trail shadows
into nothingness.
she long ago parted with such paths.
pressing the pale petals of her fingers
to starch-scented pages
she waited for the sun to spill
across the sky—a daily resurrection
for both the world and her own
battered soul.
at times she felt like a sparrow singing
against a wall of wind, but morality
means frequent
Mature Content
brokengod--veins: In all honesty, you could call me...nomadic as an artist. With regards to poetry, or literature in general, I keep changing. One moment, I write like an obsessed teenager, be it a boy I like or a fandom-then the next I spend as an adult. For instance, my style is somewhat indefinite and is often inspired either by experience or a bunch of talented poets, mostly those from the Beats generation and the contemporary kind. But more often than not it's the random stuff in my head. I guess it goes with being 16- young, inexperienced, confused, curious, happy and a bad mix of hormones. It's either I experiment or vent. It's the same with painting and drawing but 1) inspiration is either tumblr or fandom and 2) I never share those in dA, mostly because the job's already been taken by my friends (i.e. NoriNeko-Noriaki and procrastinationqueen).
Remember, don't ever kill our darlingsIf I were to write to you
in a series of mistakes
and past contemplations,
my letter would go as far
as your spirits would lead you.
And if the truth
on whether or not
Love conquers all borders
and builds the foundations
for our bony, crannied bridges
changes the way we see ourselves
then darling--
consider yourself lucky.
Fortunate of the long growing madness
that was never yours to bare
nor witness.
Neither torn or crumpled
by the inner peace
void in the barren yet thirsty deserts
we call our hearts.
life hangs on the edge
of your own mouth
but the decision to fall
is tempting
Trust me, I know-
it's how fear works.
do more than peer through a cave,
look where you would think
to hide
the way none of us ever could
in the darkness.
Leave me behind, darling.
I am too weary and you are far too young.
The world is too fast and you are too wonderful.
To GrandfatherI lost him
in the ruins of his lungs.
Everyday
I go out of myself
looking for him
in the mirror
& autumn eyes
filled with dirt water
is the only resemblance
I struggled
to paint his face
with
Dear grandfather,
I go out looking
for you everyday in the cemetery
hoping your soul
could knock at my eyelids.
I lost everything
in the ruins of your lungs
but your hands
are the only things
I yearn for.
the city of AtlantisIt's 3:45 in the morning
and I find the world
half-asleep
underneath the ocean.
Black WidowThe first time we met,
I kept our distance
at minimal,
hoping the inches
would form a small bridge
between us
and that one day
we could sew each others'
limbs when our
bones have learned
to give up.
But I mistook you
so severely:
your kisses
were flesh wounds
and your embrace
a coffin too tight
around my ribs-
your hands were never
meant for holding.
The sheets of skin
and whitewash were
a cocoon at night
as your teeth
sink into me;
my body of craters
and fissure-deep dents
close to
falling
apart
inside
you
forbidden phoenix feathersI could swear that Destiny's a secretary.
I can imagine her now; black magic and a typewriter underneath her weary fingertips. She could be eight years old, or a billion years young. What difference does it make? She sorts the world out like some drunk god who can't tell the difference between a hard life and an easy death-and she has no boundaries with astrology:
Capricorn Moon: Saturn's rings. Lunar New Year. Ten moons. Ten years before the apocalypse;
That child will be born ten minutes before Hanukkah. He'll be in a Jewish family, but he'll be dismal with a coin and fall in-love with a Catholic instead.
They'll marry when the world ends.
Lucky numbers: 7, 13, 66, 21, 2012
Lucky Color: Blue.
Or maybe she's the crazy cat lady who whispers broken poetry in her sleep. A young opera singer whose heart was trapped in some kerosene addict's palm forty-five years ago, causing her lungs to search for the fire that burned her limbs before she realized that the sparks in her eyes turned as se
Icarusbottled up at the bottom of
the ocean
is the wing-beaten
downtrodden boy
looking for a place to sleep,
far from the desolate
quiet of sky
and summer sun.
but he grew restless, this boy
lungs filled with saltwater
& quaking bones carved with feathers
and seaweed.
detached of the pressure
between his fingers
and the slow but thunderous anger
of water.
waves roaring against the sky's belly,
his body rising to the storm
roiling and tumbling
until at last
the current tosses him upright,
palms against the heaven
and his back against
white sand.
