[x]

Lullaby"I've been waiting my entire life to tell you that I'm dying and I figured I'd finally get it over with.
So here I am, carving forgive me
into my teeth, so every time that I speak
I can still say that I'm sorry.
More years have passed in the last than I care to remember
but I could never forget:
In eighth grade my chorus teacher always told me,
'Michael, you'll never be good enough.'
and it always excited me. It reminded me of my mother.
On the last day of school she smiled,
her teeth jagged like a train wreck,
she didn't say a word,
but I knew exactly what she meant.
In high school I fell in love with a roadside bomb waiting to be deton

WordsmithsHow long did you think
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?

On being a haterDear Mr. and/or Mrs. Hated On,

I am writing this to apologize for my less than cordial remarks in regard to your artistic merit. I mistook your art as subjective; I believed that all people may have a wide range of aesthetics based on instrumentation or the assertions that come out of your mouth. It is my fault for assuming the nature of our ambitions is susceptible to improvement or that the messages you perpetuate are somewhat debatable.

Love,
Hater

Dear Mr. and/or Mrs. Hated On,

I would also like to apologize for giving what I deemed an honest assessment of your behavior. You are absolutely right when you say that it is none of my bu

On PsychologyI

I am writing this in a filthy apartment. There are empty beer bottles lined on my desk next to two bottles of sleeping pills and fast food wrappers. My head hurts. Something always hurts. Sometimes I write poetry. Mom seems to be proud of me, she says I'll make something of myself and I believe her. I cannot help but think you wouldn't feel the same. And to think that I have the chance to abandon her.

II

She burned the letters
all of them.
I read them aloud and wept
even though someone else wrote them.
You passed the task to someone
whose hands didn't tremble,
whose vision didn't blur,
whose breath didn't smell of stolen wine o

NightmareI woke from a terrible sleep – I dreamed
I was born from
wisps of nature's indifference and
knowledge found freely
from

SubmissionThere are words I don't recognize
written on the walls of my contentment.
I'm not sure what language they're in
or who wrote them, but I do know
that it says something about surrender.
I've given up more times
than I've given anything else.

windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.

[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck

i lick at what is manifest
beneath your

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.

amaryllis.Naked ladies stand
with their pink petals up and
their tall, green stems down.

leavingleaving is a can that you
kick around in the street
because it's been a long day
& it makes you feel better.

some days you kick it
harder, longer than others,
& some days there just
aren't enough cans or streets.

but the thing about leaving
is that when the
street lights come on,
you always end up going home.

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

The Homeless Shelter     The morgue was colder than Douglas expected. He jammed his good hand into his pocket, but the fingers trapped in his cast were exposed. The cold bit into them, and he prayed they would go numb soon.

     “Detective,” the coroner said as he came out of his office. “How nice to see you again. But to be honest, you weren’t the detective I was expecting. Where is McKenzie?”

     “Probably hiding under his desk. I got roped into coming down here to talk to you.”

     “Hmm. I wonder what I could have done to make him avoid me. Well, no matter. I’ll be with you as soon as I finish signing these release forms. It’s always bittersweet, letting the corpses go to their loved ones. I feel like a bond has formed during our time together.”

     &

Wildflowers, Imperfect BirdsI breathed your name like wildflowers under vast broken skies, in wide-open spaces. The wind blowing through them spoke of dew and dirt and petrichor, and there was sunlight on the ground like a mosaic patterned by god's own hands.

I said it like a monarch claiming new land: a declaration, a butterfly breath over old earth; like it was coffee on a warm morning with the sun in my eyes, interlacing with my lashes; like it was a dream; like it was a prayer like it was a miracle wrought of air and bone and body: you, in, out, in, out, in and in and in.

I cried it out like an earthquake between lip and lip, continents that don't quite fit: your

and I still keep running into parked carsMama,
your baby girl's swimming
in dead of the night
hair, scarred knees,
overgrown weeds, and
countless pairs
of shoes-
with those
orange and yellow wheels
that hug my toes
and heels

I'm running into
parked cars
trying to get
my kite to fly
and hiding under
dashboards
listening to you
fight

I'm rummaging through
boxes of secrets
that Daddy tried
to hide-
solving puzzles with pieces
I'll never uncover
in these thoughts
of you

ropehang me from the moon,
i want to be beautiful

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The Waitress Faked Itby *MattVoscinar

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

Mature Content

So, in my Poetry Two class at USF I decided that I was going to take things said in the middle of our nonsensical conversations and attempt to turn them into fictional poems of equal silliness. This was one such attempt. NyQuil Brain Fart, which you can find in my gallery, was another.

The Topic was, as the title suggests: The Waitress Faked it

As always I do ask for as much feedback as possible. Your reviews, comments, feedback, and critiques are not only immensely helpful, but ridiculously appreciated.

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~ocean-whispers Apr 4, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Featured here: [link]

~ocean-whispers Apr 3, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

If I shattered the salt shakers at work... oof. Hehe.

I really do love the mysterious quality of this piece. It says a lot without being too explicit -- something I think a lot of writer's fail at nowadays. They tend to focus on the sexual part of a story more than the plot and it seems just a bit too racy. To me at least.

Great job.

*MattVoscinar Apr 4, 2013 Student Writer

Thank you!

*bloodawni Feb 8, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

Very clever formatting, as already mentioned a dozen times.

~GeekGirl97 Dec 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Clever. Liked the blank space...

*MattVoscinar Dec 9, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you

~GeekGirl97 Dec 9, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

You're welcome ^^

=DailyLitDeviations Dec 8, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

=schongslipper Dec 5, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Absolutely love the blank. To be honest, the scenario's not all that much of an original idea, though your formatting certainly is. Singular critique: You use "smoking" twice in the first stanza and it doesn't sounds good. Other than that, perfection.

=LadyofGaerdon Dec 5, 2012 Professional Writer

Very clever.

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