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About Literature / Student Member Natalie Irey17/Female/United States Group :icononce-in-a-world: Once-in-a-world
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Maybe this wasn't right.
         Her blood is on my hands
Maybe everything is wrong.
         Fuck, they won't stop shaking
Maybe we shouldn't have done this.
         I was wrong I was wrong I was wrong
Maybe we should've never started any of this.
         I couldn't stop Her voice spoke into me
           It had to be her

Maybe we should end this.
         Maybe I should
Maybe it's time to say goodbye.
         I could hear her sing in Hell
Maybe
update: november 14, 2014

I'm tired of writing poems about love when I barely knew how to write.
I needed change. 

The regular font is the entire original poem. I had to change it.
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gripping at my jacket sleeves,
wishing they were her neck

her lips like heroin,
mine salty from the tears

the heat of her hands
singed brands into my skin

my ungraceful movements,
they danced in her eyes

her steps were fluid
manipulated by a mind so capricious
and I'm still asking how

the air in my lungs,
the blood in my veins,
but she seeped like toxins into my bones
depleting the calcium allowing me to stand

then I hear her whisper my name
and her fingertips flit through fabric
to kiss my skin with hiemal hands
only for I to realize
it was just the wind.
Distance Killed The Sprinter
update: november 13, 2014
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eyes were barren, dusty like the southwest in a drought
    even when they passed over me.
saying they were chocolate would sound so sweet,
    but they were dirt, trampled.
pits dug deep into the center could hold all the sunlight
    yet remained empty except for a flash of burning butane
every blink deleted a snapshot, a scene
    until all was left were callous intentions.
when the eyelids met they resembled theater curtains,
    showing me the performance was over.
January Eyes
It could have been three years.
I made mistakes.
Too many of them actually.
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       Must keep digging, have to keep digging. The voices tell me to. They tell me to keep going. I have to see the diamonds. They were underneath, you see, underneath the porcelain. And that’s underneath the dirt, you see?
       The pearls within the marble bust would glisten ‘til the shadows turned them cold. I didn't wanna listen. I didn't wanna listen! They were clattering against my ear all the promises that ashes, ashes should have turned to dust.
       I was greedy. I took too much, because I was not taught to attach, but to prosper. Oh, but it was fun. The way the porcelain cracked and pearls were all but shattered. I remember the sound they made against the wall even when they descended, like the heartbeats, to the floor.
       The chest that held the heartbeat belonged to the woman who was luxury. Hair soft like the silk draping off her shoulders, clinging to her bones. She was grace, she was heaven, then she was sin. And sin for sin we find our fate. Take her grace. So I stole it. Show her Hell. I forced her eyes to see. Save her. And I did. I saved her from her nightmares; I saved her from her fate. I am the angel who granted her a life of pure, of radiance. But she screamed when she fell.
       And now with the shovel hitting oblong pine, I paw away the rest of the filth and clear a wide enough space. My hands shake as the voices are repeating, repeating, the diamonds, the porcelain. Fingers reaching for the edge, I can hear the breath go through my lungs like a windstorm through a cavern. I grip two sides. For the diamonds. I pull the wooden cover upwards, gently, so gently. For the porcelain.
       Peering inside, I see her porcelain pale skin turned to decay and the diamonds that were her bones now resembled dead branches on her family tree. Her teeth no longer pearls, they were fractured from the wall, from the impact of my fist. Staring at me, the bust of her head was lined with cracks, and her soft hair now brittle lying beside where her ears should be.
       Decomposing, that’s a mystery to me. I expected grace, forgiveness to be painted on her face. All I see is hollow. There’s no soul left to see. How could it be? I climb out of the grave, backing up one, two, three, and I tumble from my feet. This can’t be. There was no soul. There was no grace. There was no life to spur the bones or pull her lips and smile for the sun. I am not an angel nor a savior will I ever be.
       Now you see, I put her there below the dirt, below the light, and now it’s only darkness that I see.
Diamonds and Porcelain
there was a writing contest at school.
the prompt was a person digging for a compulsive, uncontrollable reason in their backyard until they uncovered a door.
I twisted it a slight bit. 
Hopefully it turned out well.
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    I am sick with a sea sickness from top to bottom of a bottle. The waves rush against the boat, but I don't know if that's tilting me or if it's the high making my head feel weighted. I'm a wreck, but damn I'm not shipwrecked as I'm looking at the shore becoming closer.
    On the island in front of me is a large hill constructed of stone and sand. It's peak is flat, covered in trees that only take on the shade of brown, dead. My eyes are swirling between focus and haze, and I don't notice the shore.
    Hitting the sand harder than my bottle hit the dock as I left, my body is thrust from the boat and face pushed into to the ground. Gagging on wet sand while resisting the urge to puke, I swallow the lump and think 'this can kill me too'. My hand reaches, yet feels nothing besides air between fingers and thumb.
    How long have my eyes been open because I have no sight, but I see? What I see, still don't comprehend, are the steps of stone carved and placed into the side of this summit of lives. I lift my feet one after another until the stone cools the soles of my feet through leather and thread. One step, three steps, another, and another until I stumble, catching myself against the cracked hillside. There's no railing to support me. Those priests wanted me to fall.
    That's why the steps are carved here. People would walk all the way up and away and wouldn't fall back down alive. Parents warned their children that men and women were tempted by the Devil telling them to take their own life and they would be rewarded in death. People don't realize the Devil doesn't work that way. He doesn't promise salvation.
    Eventually the priests who kept order and controlled this area in the name of God heard the tale through their spider web of people. They used it to their advantage. Any person they deemed a sinner would be forced to perform a "Walk of Grace". When the Walk became too dangerous when the frost slicked the ground, it was decided that a walkway be made. Unwilling to let the masses know their intentions, they used members of their own coven. Construction steadily progressed until priests began to go missing near the plateau at the very top. People started to notice the absences, but the priests  professed to the people that their own brothers had merely fallen into the Devil's words, raising the fear towards the fallen angel.
    Only seven priests remained after the steps were done: six of which never stepped foot on the plateau, and the other never spoke of what he had seen. He went mad, but don't we all after so long? The deaths continued and the population was dwindling down to few until soon the people found God or some sense. They realized who the "sinners" were. Forcing the priests to walk the steps on their "Walk of Grace", the people waited at the bottom until one, two, three, and all six had left them.
    Corruption killed the priests. It's tainting me now. The steps are passing quickly beneath me or maybe it's just my vision blurred.
    "Why are you doing this?" asks a woman's voice. I turn, eyes lazily searching between the gaps in the empty air for the woman. She was nowhere. She sounded raw and strained like her throat was cut and exposed to the sun for too long.
    "I can't hear her voice anymore," and I couldn't. Her voice disappeared when I was sober. I heard her again when the high brought her voice back to me. I keep doing more and more, but her voice went too far away where I couldn't follow. "I need to hear her voice."
    "You need to go back."
    "No! She isn't back there. She's up here!" I point to my head. "And in here!" I grasp onto my heart, clenching at it's beating, wishing she was still here, but she's gone from me; only left in memories.
    "Who is she?" the voice asks.
    "She was sunshine. She was rain. She was a hurricane I wish had drowned me." My pace increases. I won't falter in front of a disembodied voice.
    "Why do this for her?"
    I stayed silent.
    "Tell me why," the voice said softly. It almost sounded like - "Tell me."
    "You can't do anything for the dead. They don't listen. They don't speak." Almost there. The voice doesn't reply. The air is still. Not even the waves are crashing, they're tip-toeing.
    The last step is just above my line of sight. I can see the top of the trees to the back of the landing. All my focus is on the trees when my left foot catches against stone and my right lurches onto the last step, and gravity starts pulling me towards the center of the landing. Under my feet is grass greener than the emerald was in her ring, but it grows on top of stone. Unlike the life on the ground, the tree's are covered in cracked, peeling bark splintering the air.
    Is this sin showing me that we began so alive then as we grew we died? Or am I as deranged as the priests? Sinner and a holy man inside of me. Heaven and Hell, I, suspended between the two. They call it purgatory, but frankly I don't give a damn what they call it. She would've called it the best part of death: life. She would've danced in her rain and smiled in her shine.
    "I would've slept in your shade and sang among your stars."
    I forced my eyes shut. If I had a lock I would prison my sight behind my own skin. "No. No, not you. You wouldn't," I spew, distressed.
    "Open your eyes."
    "No! You're not there!"
    "I am. Look at me."
    Her voice. Her voice is soft. It's light. It's the breath I felt inside my lungs on nights I couldn't sleep. It made me open my eyes. Slowly, I lift my head. I start at her feet, bare and pale, resting on top of the grass, then up her calves to her steel knees that wouldn't let her fall. Her skin was soft where thighs touched below her hips. Her stomach had hipbones and ribs pressing gently from beneath her skin. Chest completely bare, but I remember most what her neck did to me. Above her pointed chin, those lips. God be damned I can still feel them against me. Cheekbones, high and freckled, lie just below her eyes. "I'm looking."
    "No. Look at me, into me," she commanded.
    My body trembled underneath its own skin. I tear my eyes from her cheeks making my way to her lashes. They're so dark. Her hair was the only part on her body or mind that leaked darkness aside from her eyes that I now refuse to see.
    "Please," she pleaded.
    Her plea shatters me, making my own knees nearly fall out from under me. Raising my eyes to hers I can see what I remember them to be. they are dark. They are life. They are the bark of the trees before the water runs dry and suffocates the leaves.
    "Why did you let them go dull?" she asked,  towards me.
    "I didn't let them. They turned into the dirt that covers your coffin." She was staring at me, waiting for me to say more, but I can't.
    "You let them leave with the liquor down your throat. They were there when the dirt covered me. I saw them." She is only a few feet away. "I did."
    "No, they were fading right there! I felt them go. I couldn't stop it!"
    "Bring them back." She is in front of me leaning her face close to mine. "Bring them back," she repeats.
    "I can't." She smells like lace and spilled vanilla.
    "You can," her face is inches from mine. She's waiting for me.
    "I tried!" I murmur, crying. She starts walking backwards. "Don't do that." She keeps going. "Come back!" She's nearing the edge, and I force my legs to step towards her.
    "Goodbye," she is fading as she takes her final step back.
    "Don't leave me again!" I plead.
    She whispers as she's falling backward, "Follow me."
    And I do.
Harbinger
original writing dates May 5th 2014, June 14th 2014, October 15th 2014
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My life is a wreck, but you know what they say, a captain goes down with their ship.

May 5, 2014, 5:37 PM

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natirey7
Natalie Irey
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
I lost my way and the only map is the syllables in my sentences.
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:iconairplanez900andnine:
AirplaneZ900andNine Featured By Owner Oct 30, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Guten tag! thanks a lot for the fave :D
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red1699 Featured By Owner Dec 13, 2013
Happy Birthday
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:iconnatirey7:
natirey7 Featured By Owner Dec 14, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you!!
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:iconred1699:
red1699 Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2013
you are welcomes 
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ScatteredPapers Featured By Owner Aug 20, 2013  Student Writer
Thanks for the fave! :D
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demonsimpulse Featured By Owner Jul 14, 2013
hey girl, how's it going?
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:iconreprogrammed:
Reprogrammed Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2013  Student Writer
I love your writing. They're simple poems but have so much depth to them.
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:iconnatirey7:
natirey7 Featured By Owner Jan 8, 2013  Student Writer
Thank you. That means a lot to me.
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TheUnknownAssassin Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
Wonderful writings <3
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xxDreamDealerxx Featured By Owner Dec 25, 2012  Student General Artist
Thanks for the :+fav:~! :meow:
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