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Monique Clavier Jun 2015
sitting cross-legged on her bed,
the early morning sunlight brushes its fingertips over her,
embracing her with the heat of the solstice
and pirouettes of cigarette smoke cast soft blue strokes
across her sunburnt, speckled skin

in the moment, she seems comparable to perfectly sculpted marble -
the statue of a grecian goddess, surely, standing steadfast in her beauty -
and i decide that she was sculpted to be admired, even when she cracks
she was made to exude a sense of grace and delicacy by the hands of a man whose muse was his first unrequited love
and to act as an ****** for every man who ever touches her

she has the eyes of an idealist, eyes that are a shaft of light in a beckoning storm
and her spine is a perfect, fragile curve, every vertebrae crafted with purpose
the tips of her hair pooling like corn silk against the small of her back,
with selfish, hedonistic desire, i long to touch her -
to touch her where all the thoughts that have ever danced through her mind unfurl into perfectly molded swathes of skin,
to touch the body of a goddess whose altar is a dimly lit stage, whose place of worship is down a whiskey bottle

and as she sits statuesque - (oh, yes, statuesque, that's the perfect word) -
i watch her shine brighter than anything ever has
written about 3 years ago when i was around 15, not very good
Michaela May 2015
May
Your lies so killing,
This morning in May.
My screams internal.
I cannot stay away.

I must statue on,
Must parade this good day.
As your lies dismantle
This morning in May.
It was a Sunday.
A Watoot Mar 2015
A statue of beauty
Slowly being unveiled
By the artist so proud of his work.
Only to see that
Its clay arms melted
Along with his dreams.
Too bad people cannot see beauty in imperfection.
WickedHope Dec 2014
I dare you
to meet me
at the foot
of the Statue
watching over cities
from the middle
of nowhere at
quarter to One
the morning of
the winter **Solstice
Please stop.
Ashley Nicole Oct 2014
Pained to the point of marble
   Now a cold statue
      You pray for a chisel
When pain enters the stage of numbness
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
Eyes shine bright like streetlights against
The brisk air of October;
She is the caryatid of the night.
But the veins of the city have long been abandoned,
No more circulation to revive the stillborn pigments of her skin.
And so she cries a brittle tear immediately
Frosted by the breath of the night,
Staining her granite skin,
Can’t seem to lift her beaten anchor
And sink it into the cornucopia of being,
Lavished with daisies prepared to drain her salted rain.
Rebecca Gismondi May 2014
a letter to myself:
(a reminder, rather),
I know it feels as though you are now in the trenches
the mud clinging between your toes,
the walls too inevitably high to scale,
the rain beating and pouring down on your body,
and you see everyone above the surface hovering,
watching you as you try and clasp the sides of this hollow grave, frantically trying to escape
and you want to just lie in the mud and have the rain drown you until you are nothing
but you must remember this:
you will be fine.
And I know it feels as though you have been butchered, gutted and cleaned
ready to be thrown on the grill by he who so carefully flayed you open over time and space
only to have all your guts and bones trailing behind you, and thrown into a stock *** to boil away
and I know you miss his furrowed brow
and his incessant organization
and his frigid room
and you want him to call and say
"go to where we met and I will hold you and not say anything more than I'm sorry and I want you and you're all I see"
but remember this:
you will be fine.
And right now, I know you want to cover yourself in paint
all colours, but especially red; Tabasco to be certain
and slather it on until all the marks and scuffs disappear
until you disappear
and you want to refuse to let it dry; apply layer upon layer of every shade of blue from sky to navy;
from lime to forest green,
from sunshine to mustard yellow
and all variations of pink,
and your brush becomes heavy because this paint is caking your skin,
a cast of plaster holding your true self in
until you are as frigid as a statue; you are clad in stone
immovable and impenetrable;
your shield
but please remember this:
you will be fine.
One day someone will see your statue in a square or a park,
the sunlight beaming off your sheen,
and will see past that paint:
the layers of Tabasco
and emerald
and ocean
and canary
and pink
and see you
because you are a light
you are the last piece of pie that you know you shouldn't have, but take anyway
you are a phosphene that never disappears, even when their eyes are open
and he or she will approach your statue,
in a stance of utter uncertainty and self-doubt
shoulders hunched, spine pulled in and face blank and wanting
and will see you
and will take a chisel to your stone
and break off the layers
reduce them to dust, surrounding your pedestal
brush, blow and wipe it clean
and they will suffer from the heat and labour
but they will see you
and they will chip until finally you emerge
that light
and all will be gathered in that square or park
and as you look around you realize that they are the people you love the most
and the person who has broken your mould, your shell
is the one you love most of all: you.
Because you look in the mirror and you love you
you want you
you need you
and I know it's dark
and I know there are drills and hammers and saws
and I know when you sleep you are erased
but remember this:
you will be fine.
you are alive.
you are here.
you are better.
you will rise.
Casey James Dunn May 2014
There stands an important man,
Made immortal by the bronze and gold that laces his structure.
Firm, aged and full of intellect,
He stands pointing toward the western sun.
Tie worn tight as his suit lays motionless in the wind.
Crass, hopeful, he is not without scandal,
A man who lives with his past open for all interpretation.
Those who stroll past look up,
Thoughts lingering on his works.
Eternal, when all else crumbles to
Dust and scatters the raging sea,
He will stand steady, pointing, outlasting
All he should be remembered for.
Devin May 2014
She greets the dawn with her cold eyes
Eyes chiseled by ancient architects
Ever so slightly cracked
Forever gazing upon the changing seasons
And the wilting of sanguine roses.

Her still hands forever out stretched
Reaching for something long forgotten
Perhaps a lost love
The gentle rain
Or the birds of spring.

Her fading smile
Forever bringing happiness
To photographs
And paintings lost to time.

Her delicate feet
Fixed upon the dark marble
Walking to imaginary lands.

Dusk comes . . .
She laughs in her still serenity
As the mosses
The darkness
And the chills of the northern winds
Envelop her once more.

And in silence
She drifts in a deep slumber
Awaiting a new dawn
A new day . . .
A statue I saw on the way home one day.
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