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Cinderella
Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
IcarusSun girl,

the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.

Do not let anyone
clip your wings;

you were made for the skies.
Definition of a Writerwrit•er

noun     /rītər/

A writer is a person
Who sees the world differently
From a high perspective of understanding
To an easily balanced imagery

They stand at the edge of the cliff
And run that extra mile
To gain what a normal person cannot see
And to obtain the hope that they wish to cherish

A writer is a person
Who buries their ego and places boulders upon it
They learn the rules, follow the rules, and will break the rules
And make writing their own

They lay upon the dusty old ground of a graveyard
And do an annual ritual to free the inspiration that has been pinned down
They want to show their abnormality to everyone
Red DressDon’t put on your red dress
for he doesn’t know the meaning
he doesn’t want the commitment
he doesn’t care for the color.

The red dress you love to wear
that’s stained from wine and beer
but still carries so much meaning
for who could find a second red dress

Don’t go out on your red dress
for the man who wants nothing more
to screw around and doesn’t understand
the meaning behind a simple red dress.

A red dress for when you dance.
A red dress for when you cry.
A red dress for when you need it.
A red dress for when you care too much.

Don’t put on your red dress for him darling
he doesn&rsqu
i got flowers oncei am lonely.
i received flowers once
and i placed them
in a vase til
the petals all browned
desiccated
and turned to dust
on the glass of my bureau.

i have never gotten flowers since.

i spend my days
with a boy
a man
whom i love far beyond reason
and he holds me in his arms
and holds me together.

i bite my nails
and pull my hair
over the moment when he
inevitably
feels the disenchantment
fall over his body,
all clean lines
and smooth shapes,
and realises that leaving
the worst thing
would be
the best thing.

i am lonely
and even with a hand to hold,
and even with a cloak of security
bunching around my shoulders
and hiding my thighs,
i feel
moonshines in georgiaman on the moon:

giddy with lumps of north georgia seas
greased on the crease of my lips
gravity drips from couch-cavities
when tides belch from below --

burst on the water's edge,
earth's bourbon sailors retch in moonshined ripples
trickled blue murder on their crinkled crimes;
raking water wrinkles like a wayward drunk
stuck on sunken bootleggin' dreams.

it's been a long, long time
since I've drowned your hemisphere
for fishing like a moonraker,
swishing my bait-lines like tobacco's
squished in your shallow gums
before you dare to down my air
breathing in this sincere georgia night.
L.E.S.B.I.A.N.Living on the
Edge of life
Saving myself
Being who
I truly am
As it is all i can be
Never forget that
Blame The ParentsI won't be able to keep a relationship in the future because I'm scared
I'm scared it'll turn out like theirs

I'm a pacifist because I hate watching it
I hate watching them fight

I have PTSD because of their fights
Their fights almost broke up this family

I self harm because they are pushing me over the edge
I was already close to jumping, but they gave me an extra push

I'm always in my room because that's how I run away
I guess that's called "Like father, like daughter"

I only eat one meal a day because he constantly puts me down
Even though he's joking, I can tell he means every bit of what he says

I can't trust anyone because they do
Missing piecesMissing pieces

There are wounds
that never heal; silences
so loud they  thunder - I stopped
breathing years ago, that night
the ice took my chest. Since then
I walk  in pieces, howling
around my heart.

-SophieCT, 2012, 2013
field notesi read some poetry
just for the sound--for the words lilting up and down
and the thick, honeysepia
polaroids unmisting in my head.
those are the poems i never understand
and the only conclusion i can draw is:
there is apparently
some supernova poetic awakening that comes
with the loss of virginity
and basically i need to get laid.
MorningA black cat sleeps in a ray of sun
My coffee is lousy
Another cardboard morning
The day isn't a blank canvas
Waiting to be painted
Its already scrawled with
Yesterday's mad crayon drawings

Smoke drifts up and out of the window
I drink the coffee
van houten must be godi. you know how in embroidered cloth,
from the bottom under the design,
all you see are knots? her honey-like,
crying
voice lulls me to sleep,
that's what we see of God's plan.
just the knots. when in reality,
it's the design on top;
beautiful and flawless that He
has in store for us.
bullshit.
i learnt that word
when i was three
but every time i said it,
my face hurt and mom's hand fell.
God will put you
in hell.
do you want that?
i knew better than to say it again.
ii. you're an estimated
fallacy, the perfect
misconception.
you don't need to exist
for people to believe.
they make you real with
dancing tongues behind
a crowd
of murmuring lips of
god's will.
iii. of the rain,
i sang songs, whispering
prayers only you
could hear.
if you truly are
what they say for you to be,
then there are no secrets
between you and me.
mother still sings
the same songs
in the rain, hoping
you'll hear her the way
i thought you would.
but she doesn't know you died long ago
with chiv
blood-red wine and skeleton jazz i.
the day you left,
your cobweb dress clung to you in ways
that i would dream about for years,
in hot, fevered nights
when the moon thought it might burst
in the sky,
and even the wind wailed your name.

ii.
i remember how you called make-up war paint,
and you drew it across your face like a message
i could never decipher;
i remember how i got goosebumps when i heard
your heels clicking across the floor at 3am
when you finally got home and slipped into bed;
i remember longing for you with every fiber of my being,
feeling separate from you even when our clothes lay on the floor
and your fingernails dug into my shoulders
and your toes curled
Broken Birds and Stark PhrasesWe slip and slide and fall
down curves and carrow places.
We cursive at the wall
in our undefinéd spaces.

Disjointed limbs extend
to strumpet our arrival,
to warn who are not friends
we will kill to survive all.

Hung upside-down haunters
hug branches in the Forrest.
Merry nightmare monsters,
Cheery snarling chorus,

Arachnic children know;
you can run but you can't hide
from this disparic truth,
darkness waits for you inside.

Although you seek the sun,
as all creaky spinsters might,
the night can't be out done
and it has you in its sight.
thieves of nocturne skiesPaper lanterns                                                                                            are midnight requiems
            That tell me                                                                            to look beyond the
                   light and have    &
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More from ~SedahLiah

With Malice Toward NoneAlways the "tired spot,"
always the question: who will atone?
Despite war, widow, orphan, despite
Original Crime, flesh needs respite.

While smoke lingers, while more
than smoke troubles the carpet,
from the hand slips a playbill:

OUR AMERICAN COUSIN.
The rust-brown stain reddest
where it looms over SIN.
RapidsViolence brightening the whitecaps,
static-cling snap of microdiamonds;
emphatic day-fireflies who'll sigh as we do
for their slow night's demise.
New-Universe BlackImmortality, belovéd, must cross
A tilted wheel through suspended
Fingerpoint & cross-stitched gloss,
Proud face of a meshlike dawn overhead -
Younglings shove for milk, being led
By comet hairs, the planet's lactic
Efforts growing thin, ensnared by dread
And upturned element - new eye's tactic
To sink roots; god's mad fabric
Of half-laughter grows a thread, segmented -
And dirt visits the sick
Soon after Death is invented.

New stars bled
Schoolyard red, moss
Grew instead
Of hungry jaws.
NarcissismAt the mercy of inventions;
Those that grace landscapes,
Run through homes,
Reflect death in gray drapes -
At the foot of sea foams,
At times, awed by the dimensions.

A quality all for you,
Such that proper honesty
May stir a fire;
Reusing nature, yet expressly
Adding a tire upon a tire -
All for nearly something new.

No mirror
Made
Is unique,
It shows what's displayed;
Weak
But clearer.

So no serenity can be firm
If within a boundary,
There's nothing gentle
There to see;
Visual stimulus within a mental
Prison, the bird digests the worm.
OverBodies simulate bodiless joys,
Haughty, half-step waltzes -
In time to an alternative force
That knows little of poise,
He tends to know which vault's his -
Toes spell out goodbye in morse
Code, reminded of soil and noise,
Circling spirits in a different solstice;
Borne back to the dust source.

Death's over before interpretation.
Fine TodayWhat does unadorned beauty look like?
-floor tiles cracked waxy
over partly-buried mud,
moss begins like unconditional love -
Just a shape to hold us in place;
Lock the door,
Do not disturb.

You look fine today.

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What Bismuth Taught Me

:iconsedahliah:

invalid, delete, radius of raven's feet leave inchmarks,
the street is pallid swale yellow, tooth and nail blues
that bismuth taught me, return path for the devil feed
from blind dwelling and family, this means of filial coding,
ineffectual fragment distinct enough to recall by rote,
cellophane cello plays its first notes,
my favorite part of the movie

invasive, entreat, making incense a choreogaphy,
dead to detestable meat, belief is an infirmary,
no calculable approach to revise the unknown,
where mortal imagination frames every statement,
maudlin misappropriation, head over senses,
picket fences jail the scenery's simplicity,
my favorite part of the movie
:iconsedahliah:
Last stream-of-consciousness for a little while.
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