Poetry is the Word

you are

earthykindred — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 02:19:24 +0000

why am I thinking of you?

not noticing, but then there you are

in my mind, in a deep hole that is hidden,

not crowded but close.

how are you so young?

you are so young but so real and innovative.

my mind’s grasping to contain it.

come with us,

live as we know you will.

you are going to fly uncontained.

you are finding the center of my heart.

quick poetry 12.3.11

earthykindred — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 05:11:19 +0000

Can’t breath, can’t sleep, can’t sit, can’t eat.

Wrapped in sheets, bound and beat.

Across the sky, aware and dry

the message sails and wonders high.

All I am missing, is sitting in the clouds

apart from the lack of connection that constantly surrounds.

November Notes On The Heart

earthykindred — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 01:10:34 +0000

November 16. 2011

I am evolving in the concepts of my heart.
I don’t want any repeats of the shit storms of before. I should learn and grow- be able to throw out the old.
I need to look on the inside. I’ve been given perfect cards- two red hearts with princes in their own rights. I’ve been thrown perfect keys. But which one could fit? On the inside I go.
Where do I stand? Where is my hand to deliberate the messages from them?
Wrong switch. I’m gonna turn the lights off if I am not careful. I’m going to make somebody mad. My head will fall off, and my eyes will roll back, and the Earth will swallow my decomposing body. I will see his eyes- aware of some drifting, silent lies. This is impacting. My heart is falling apart. [It's soft and crumbly, and its strings aren't holding anything together.]
It’s raining, and I am going to have time to think. Thank my-imaginary-God.
Music is the fuel. Could that be the answer? Maybe. There are extra possibilities in this, seeing that the circumstances are so unusual. The music we listen to is maybe what we do. But, the music we make- that is certainly who we are.

November 18. 2011

I love it when you’re mad.

November 21. 2011

What I did to you- even if it is silent- feels very wrong. We are not a body yet, but the process is still in motion. The potion is still settling. I messed with it- I didn’t stir anything in, but I mixed something toxic nearby. It was a mixture of good and bad. It bred fearlessness and experience, but also pushed a limit of sickness and injustice. I want to hug you. I want to hold onto you for an hour, or until we fall asleep. I want to listen to your heartbeat until it is mine.
My eyes are wide, like they are bleeding, as my head fills with thoughts of your face, voice, and feel.

Connection I

earthykindred — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 19:27:56 +0000

I’m saddened and lamenting
over insignificant frustrations
seeking concentration
… growing tired
all expired
by our world
and these perceptions they lied for.

I now need music
like its brain food
constant lowering of the heart
if connection is to part.

5/16/11

earthykindred — Thu, 27 Oct 2011 18:44:02 +0000

*wrote this to send to Amanda, who was in England at the time*

written:

*5/16/11

1:54am- 2:34am *

- This one is a mix of total fiction and past experiences.

I sit here on this wooden bench with wind softly sitting lift to my hair, which hangs like my spirit.

I look to the left, and I see him. His subtle red hair shines in the sun. His smile stops my heart.

I breath, as I ruffle these rose petals with my fingers. I don’t know how the petals got on this bench, but they were a nice addition to the day. Something soft and beautiful to carefully rip apart.

I think his eyes are green.

I love his eyes.

I remember how they looked at me as I sang in my own comfortable range. I didn’t think about how good I sounded- or even how I sounded at all. I just sang because my soul desired me to do so. Maybe I did sounded good, maybe not- but those eyes. They peered politely, yet they stared. The notes streamed into the air- straight from a giant need to let go. He enjoyed the projection, he explained, as he grabbed at his throats in description.

The rock-hard bench is biting at my patience. Or maybe its just my appetite for the security of my heart that is doing that. These red stains on my fingers from the rose petals- I don’t even care. I can’t concentrate long enough to notice, anyway, and who is looking? It is just me here.

Me, the bench, and some birds. I can see the moon from this angle.

Its shining between the tree branches on this especially warm evening. May is unpredictable like that. Every time I peer to the left, I see your smile. I see you laughing. But I don’t move.

My mind is racing: you know me. We know each other. Remember when you grilled me secretly? When you threw out your emotions bluntly, asking “What do you see in him?” Do you remember laughing? We laughed once.

Of course you remember, but you’re too smart. You’re got the world in your hand. And your other hand is writing down this continual list of where-to-go’s. But this could just be my fear- I mean, its the reflection of me.

I suck in air, and puffs of dandelion float in the vicinity of my drowning aura. My eyes are shifting now, all glossy in their sockets. I could get happy- move on, and do my own future. If you love me, you’ll be there.

But when I see you, my heart flutters aimlessly about my chest… the world looks brighter… My nose gets a pink tint. How weak is my ambition to succeed either way?

I drop the petals, I get up from this bench, and I let this sun guide me.

We Ask For More

earthykindred — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 02:29:16 +0000

its a company
of formality
design and reconstruction
of ultimate destruction
our wings need room to cast
set forth a learning mast
its sacrifise of nothing
that we’d consider something
ourselves angelic we won’t call
but if we can stand tall
put on a vest of virtue
climb up the tower to convert you
It isn’t disrespect
in gaining intellect
but high minds show us how
we kill each other and allow
still in this force
that we haven’t coerced
It’s shameful here
and forever near
unless a brain expansion
happens to burn the mansion
of your guilt and lies
moral-ground ties
to chill you to your core
we are asking you for more

my body is ready

earthykindred — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 01:48:11 +0000

This is going to become a dumping ground for all of my poetry quite soon, because I really need some centralization… some organization. I have a tendency to spread my poetry all over the place… this may be the result of having so many blogs… it’s a mess. Hope you are ready… I’m excited.

-Deanna

The Book Darling No. 2

earthykindred — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 18:14:15 +0000

Naked-eyed I stare,

while twirling in my chair,

at shoulders dear and broad,

that do still make me nod.

His tapered waist is kind.

Close to my heart I find.

I want to grab his hair,

but not to love and share-

to ruffle, and to play,

and mend each piece I lay.

The sound you quiet make,

disgusting to partake,

It moves your shoulders round-

I drop my clear mind down.

Leaning close here to me.

Your face, I need to see.

The Book Darling No. 1

earthykindred — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 21:32:43 +0000

He prob’ly writes a lot,

His fingers tied in knots,

His head cloudy plus glare,

His heart heavy to bear.

He wears thick coats in creams,

Professor styled dreams.

Above his shoulder great,

In it I watch and take.

Silent and cur’ous stares,

Still his cloudy mind glares.

To wonder is all right,

But better not tonight.

His eyes speak to me words,

That must not yet be spurred.

Time holds great change in ways,

That meets on the right days.

CRITIC WANTED

earthykindred — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 22:34:09 +0000

for The Earth is Rolling.

Jsyk

<3 Deanna