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October heart; you fell out of a tree-house.
Unaware and scared of not making it
to the lake before it froze over,
you rolled down the lane and ended up
on my front lawn under the big oleander
where my dad serenaded my mom on their
first date almost twenty years ago today.

Oh was it destiny?
No, I don't think so..
I don't believe in all that
psychic garbage, anyway.
Oh but I'd like to think
we'd had it coming when
we subconsciously made wishes on
falling stars when we were kids.
You wanted a friend, someone
who wouldn't run away when
you told him the sad stuff;
winter trauma, cars sliding
down Alberta highways.
I just wanted a letter from
a prison inmate; my brother,
some recognition that I was
still in his memory,
locked away for something
he did his last year of high school;
behind the sunflowers and the pines,
behind the dried-up lakes and rocky
state lines dividing
our traditional homes.

Oh where do we go when
there's no one around to listen
to our angry murmurings,
journal entries read out loud
amid pillow fights and bad dreams?
What do we do, friend?
Tell me because these East L.A weekends;
shattered windows and police siren-filled,
get lonely sometimes,
unbearable, difficult to sleep through.

But I need you because
you're my best friend, my partner in crime.
Four-leaf clover; you're a tribal fire
in the common coldness of my heart.
With nothing in the way, it's not
embarrassing at all to say I'm a ghost.
Yeah, I'm a ghost without you;
anchoring me down to this
salt and Mayflower earth.

And as last night's snow melts,
I wonder where you ran off to this time?
My pretty stranger, Hollywood star, you
missed your plane and so where did you go with
nothing but a few Mexican coins in your pocket?
Where did you fly off to with that voice of yours,
building up in your throat, sounding so clear like
a mockingbird's treacherous tune?

We're kids and then we're not..
We grow up too fast and I lose a bet I made
with my 6th grade self; that
pre-teen who wore tough-as-nails armor and
liked to mouth off to adults
because he couldn't face the fears that
stared back at him through
his misty blue bathroom mirror.
Yes, that person claimed he would
never fall head-over-heels for anyone
within a ten mile radius.
Oh how wrong he was, friend..

You tumbled out of a Monet landscape,
all violet and surreal.
You shook up my world, boy,
before I even knew what hit me;
a poisonous arrow, flying across
the wild plains of Idaho,
piercing my feather rib-cage.
It's still stuck there;
my own personal death sentence,
First Nation ink,
your name, making me bleed
apple chip blood everywhere.

Oh I wonder how you would
handle a Saturday night out
by those 1950s drive-thrus;
a movie in black and white
playing on a wide-screen frame,
my hand crawling over the arm-rest.
Do you ever imagine my frost-bitten
fingers searching for the comfort of
your skin; warm, as we sit
in a mostly crowded theater?

Oh is it a scary thought
or an unanswered prayer?
Is it a wish you made
when you were twelve,
wanting to marry a boy
someday in a non-traditional
poinsettia-adorned ceremony
in southern California?
I hope so because I feel the same way..
I want you to be my brimstone miracle,
my descent further into
this lovely hailstorm of
ice-on-fire gemstones
falling from a cabaret-painted heaven.
East L.A Indian Paintbrush, friend,
I met you across the invisible angel-
feather line dividing the ghetto and
the white grape villas;
namely, heaven and hell.

You met me there and
we were the same in that
both our hearts were on fire
as we stared each other down.
Our cedar lungs were also filled
with burning sunflower air;
lost desires, two-spirit pride.
cedar lungs
Two-spirit is the term some Native Americans use to describe people of both male and female characteristics. Many LGBT Natives identify as two-spirit people.

I was inspired by these songs:
Bloodline-James and the Wild Spirit
Idaho-Gregory Alan Isakov
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I remember when my tears were diamonds;
impossible to cut into facets of positive thinking,
hopeful drops of fairy dust and St. Gabriel ashes.
I remember when my fears were like vultures;
merciless, picking away at my attic eyes,
leaving nothing but steely guilt behind,
filling the empty brass sockets
with invisible pirate saltwater.

At sixteen years old, I was a maiden who hated parties,
ran away from her reflection glistening
on the silver plates her stepmother used
to adorn the tables in her second summer house.
I used to eat alone in the confined
prism shelter of my balcony room.
I used to nibble on honey cakes and
wonder if anything would change for the better
if I were to sail away from my hometown;
my island of misery, light-houses, blacked-out
windows; find somewhere clean, would
anything change if I found my haven
on a sapphic beach east of Atlantis and south of Greece..

And yet, I didn't try to discover then
if this simple wish was just a pipe dream or future
reality; sweet and fresh like sea salt and lilacs.
I was too scared then..
But fast forward eight years later
and what do I have left to lose but
denial, painful red eyelids; a curfew,
guilt after fantasizing about mermaids?
The truth is, I wanted to be loved by a girl
someday; become more or less like Aphrodite,
only marginally beautiful in her jade green eyes.

And even though you called me pretty, Daphne;
an elfin princess, I still don't know
if I got my wish when I made it,
an almost decade ago on that wayward circus freak star.
Lying there on your throwaway sofa,
I could have sworn we were on the same page, my lovely mistake.
You held my hand, cradled it to your chest, said, “Feel this”;
the burn on your rib cage, a tiny dot, that was all.
And still, I thought I could make it bigger,
make it blossom into a rhododendron heart.

Oh naive, tragic pencil lead me;
how could you have ruined it so soon,
that moment of stupid, sensual bliss?
Why did you have to push things,
demand fairness, loyalty from
Neptune's gem; a siren's fickle daughter?
Is it over now, wicked darling?
Yes, indeed; smash the sun dial, would you?
It's long past three..
You can start over again, Daphne,
but what about these nights left on my doorstep;
rotting promises of a unique friendship, nothing
to hope for now but a smooth sailing away from
a transitory Athens?

But I'm tired of sipping rancid wine,
twisting my stomach in a tight, painful
knot of repentance; my almost-sins,
a theater heaven, eternally bruised
by Elysian demons.

Girl, you won't be my last,
even though you were the first
nymph-half human who called me
gorgeous and gave me hope.
It's true, I wish you hadn't
given up so soon because I know
I was trying to make you content,
smile broadly under icy Seraphin rain-clouds.
Darling, it's just a question of
how much confidence we have inside of us and
I'm tired of feeling like you've taken it
all away; every last strip and
left me broken, hollow like an acorn,
a tree sprite's home buried
deep in lackluster snow, half-ruined,
ransacked by greedy autumn squirrels.

I'm tired of crying satin tears for you..
A ringing; mosquito-like persistent hammering
in my ears at nightfall when everything should
be gentle and inspiring, Daphne,
that's the sound that I'm refusing to let
sneak back in through the sandpaper
curtains of my coral dreams.
If I have to fight against something,
then I swear, after all these years
of weakness and fear of dying;
stark white and lonely,
I'll pick up this November torch,  
and spill searing orange water
all over your doorstep, Daphne;
your Osiris palace stairs.
Don't run, darling; scared..
Stay frozen here on this spot;
branded sandal footprints where
the former queen; your mother,
lost her head; a crown  of
nightmares, olive twigs.

Miss Negativity; swim back to Greece,
for your ship is sinking.
And I'm tired of standing; alone,
barefoot on bridal sand.
With a candle in hand, Daphne;
the flame growing cold and turning Baltic blue;
the sad truth is that this
warmth that I believed in
so strongly, could never fully reach you.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language)
A crown of thorns, I am not a prince anymore.
Without you, I'm nothing but an ink blot on a page;
a paper-chain secret, lost in the Athens breeze;
cool, sea-stained, grass-clipped, all-around
nursery rhyme-made and scented with flower decay.
You stand there; a ghost in my periphery, just
frozen in place, your feet digging into the after-life sand.
And I don't think it's fair that people walk by me all day,
chatting amicably like you're not dead.
Well, they can have your mother's wedding vase,
smashed against the wall, shattering
in a million Chinese blue and silver dreams.

She was a princess, illegitimate and scorned.
You weren't recognized, boy,
as the courtier that you were.
People said you didn't belong
in my father's palace, in his
corridors of sultan gold and
peasant blood; spilled everywhere,
grotesque paintings on the walls,
tales of war and suffering;
children waking up without
their mothers to comfort them,
wipe their December tears and
sing goddess spring lullabies.

You and I were kids once,
shunned by our parents.
We found comfort in each other,
running around the palace gardens,
a maze of cedars and orange trees;
playing dungeons and dragons
with swords, daggers, bows
and arrows in our tiny hands.
You were swift like a gazelle.
Your eyes reminded me of
that gentle animal, as well;
earth-toned, a potter's gift,
a ceramic bowl in his humble hands,
meant to be filled with all
your secrets; autumn leaves, your
mother's amber and topaz
jewelry, strips of poetry; priceless.

Friend, you penetrated me with
that gaze a number of times.
And I can't say I minded all that much;
you beautiful, sick, fucked-up darling.
You'll always be a prince in my eyes;
an eternal candle flame, blessed by
Apollo; Hades never touched your fire.
Boy, you were your own magician with
a star-shaped hat and long red cape.
You liked to play pretend every morning
before the grown-ups woke up.
You wouldn't let them take your freedom away;
those tiny moments of fun, held precious in
your cupped hands like Seneca water, a home
for lily pads to blossom and
fairies to gather around, tell you secrets
from the dazzling underworld
below our canopy beds.

But I've tried to bring you back
with shamanism and it's just not the same.
No matter how loud I screamed;
your name ricocheting around
this now lonely house, citadel,
temple for lost fairies;
no matter how many golden chalices I filled
with my ice-glazed tears,
it never would be enough
to resurrect your memory.

Still, darling, I'd follow you
all the way to Hades if I could.
If we're wrong and everyone else is
more than right in their prejudice,
then you and I aren't going to paradise, friend.
We're on our way to hell, but still,
the truth is; I don't regret anything
we did by candlelight, by the grace
of Achilles and Patroclus; a two spirit deity.
One silver soul dwelling in two brass bodies;
one broken king, crowns hanging
from decapitated trees, dried-out
winter branches; bare, lacking blossoms for
hummingbirds to play with, devour slowly
yet sweetly, an April murder scene.

Oh you little fucked-up darling,
there's incense everywhere and
I can't stand it, in your bedchamber,
it wipes out the last real traces of your scent;
March pear skins, leather bracelets.
Dark teak hair draped down your shoulders,
I wish I could see your shadow more clearly.
But here I stand, feeling nothing
as clouds fill with rain overhead
and people warn me against catching a cold..
What do I care, you tell me?
Truth or dare; youth wasted,
your lips on my cheek, a feathery touch,
almost nonexistent, but still there..
I want the whole experience again;
not just a tiny taste of spring,
your cinnamon scent in the air.
It's horrible, friend; and that's why
I break things here inside our sandcastle,
crumbling slowly as the tide rolls in and
the merciless Neptune sea claws
at this fearless Doom's Day beach.

Friend, my makeshift shelter,
angel sanctuary, cursed safe haven;
there's no after-life I can
imagine without you and I wish
I could say, “Dear gazelle-eyes,
come back and haunt me now, till the end.."
Gazelle-eyes
Alexander/Hephaistion..some Bagoas, loosely inspired by The Persian Boy by Mary Renault
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Dear friend,
I saw your sparrow today;
the one with the broken wing  that you saved
as we stood on the sidewalk, remember?
Twelve years ago, I know..
Well, at least this one looked like him and
I'd like to think that it was his ghost-twin.
I don't know what you'd say..
Maybe that I'm insane, still
missing someone who passed away
to another dimension many winters ago
and who's never coming back to grace
the sunbaked streets of Hollywood again.

Well, I don't blame you for staying away..
Wherever you are, friend,
I bet it's a lot safer than L.A.
We were living the dream back then.
Behind the camera, nobody
knew the fears in our fragile teenage
hearts; the insecurities that
never showed on our faces,
underneath all that makeup.

Saturday night matinee,
it was all for the sake of an audience
that we did this; pretended
to be innocent, embracing
fake happiness on a wide television screen.

You had your marbles, I had my darts.
We both had a plan and coping skills
but it all got burned away at the end of the night.

Oh friend, I can't ask you to forgive me now.
Remember how I rubbed your back
as you threw up in a dumpster
behind the recording studio?
“Don't touch me!” you snapped and I held up my hands.
“Okay,” I said. “I'll never do it again.”
And maybe I would have kept my promise
if you hadn't  taken so many pills.

But I couldn't just let you die,
leave me here alone to fend for myself.
Yeah, I was the selfish one..
You were broken, drugged.
And I let it happen, couldn't call the cops, say a word.
I had to be a “tough little boy”
because I was older, because I was like your big brother;
someone you looked up to, trusted to protect you,
fend off the monsters hiding in both of our closets
back home in sunny listless California.

But I let you down, I know..
And friend, look at me now;
kneeling in the mulchy earth,
digging my nails into the South Carolina dirt
and whispering your name in vain as thunder s
plits open the sky like china breaking;
one of my mother's abusive tantrums,
a memory repressed, come back to life.
And it rains in bucketfuls of boyhood tears;
stuff we could never deal with on our own,
and I'm reminded that your blue eyes were
screaming silently for help, all along.

Oh “I'm sorry” is never enough..
I can never get you back,
get back those moments of fun
before the curtain call
when we were sipping Pepsi and
joking around about stupid stuff;
baseball games in the park and
the idea of a white Christmas in July.

Oh I miss the moments before
everything spiraled out of control..
Before I was locked out of my house
while my mother slung back
glass after broken glass of sour whisky
and cussed at my dad, before you were
left alone in that darkened room with
no way out, and those men held me back,
kept me from saving you.
I want you to know that I was screaming,
“No! Help!” right along with you,
whispering your name like a chant, a prayer.
But no god anywhere had heard me or cared
and I guess now it doesn't matter, anyway.

You're gone and I couldn't break in,
tear the door from off its hinges and
pull you out from the shadows, boy.
I want you to know I was never an accomplice.
What they did to you in there was
a horrible nightmare and it was honestly torture;
standing outside, feeling useless.
I wish I could forgive myself and move on, as well.

Listening outside the door;
broken lock, invisible key,
boy; will I ever be free of this guilt,
eating away at my conscience,
sticking its knobby old man's
fingers in my chest and
digging out my heart,
swallowing it whole; raw and pink?
“You deserve it..”
I can imagine you saying that
and honestly, I don't disagree.
We can never get back
what was taken from us in 1983;
Hot Wheels, toy cars, it all went
down the drain, innocence lost.

The wild parties, the last minute
“I'm sorrys” in the closet,
what does it matter now?
I can't get you back..
I only have photographs
to sift through on nights
when alcohol is the only remedy
for a restless sleep, disturbed by
childhood dreams; cartoon
characters missing their heads.

But this afternoon when I saw your sparrow
for the first time in eight years, I thought
that maybe he's like you;
surviving somewhere else..
No cameras, no lights, no audience
laughter or drunken fights; maybe he's free.

This afternoon I visited your grave again
but this time I had your football jersey
in my arms and I left it on the stone,
shielding your name from the wind.
Sleep well, sweet prince.
Corey
okay, so I've delayed posting this because it's darker and more personal than my usual poems. But I feel that it needs to be acknowledged because the subject is often swept under the rug and it shouldn't be. I've read some of Corey Feldman's memoir Coreyography where he talks about his and fellow co-star at the time Corey Haim's rise to fame and the sexual and mental abuse they both suffered by the pedophiles in Hollywood. We don't hear much about boy sexual abuse victims but this is my tribute to them because I've experienced the same trauma. It doesn't matter what your gender is, if you were a victim of child sexual abuse, you deserve to have your story told. It wasn't your fault and I hope this poem reaches you in some way. Take care..and I'd also like to take a moment to thank all the people who have supported me on this site, pryate.deviantart.com/ and scarlettletters.deviantart.com… especially. thank you, guys. I hope you'll continue reading my work. I'm greatly inspired by your talents :)
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The Northern Lights; your gift on a beaded chain,
makes me feel alive on nights when
the sea looks lonely, when I watch it;
rocking back and forth on my aunt's swing,
wondering why I didn't receive a letter from
my older brother in Afghanistan this month.
He said he would fight for us and so
I thought I'd stay strong on the homefront..
But now all I feel is stupid and young;
so young, just a star-gazing sixteen-year old
with a stomach full of butterflies and
a mind filled with John Green quotes.

But when I see you, Luka, every
sun-streaked Monday morning
and you smile at me from across
the yellowing grass of our schoolyard;
friend, you remind me that I'm in some way special.
For a moment, I even forget about
this recurring nightmare where
I'm hanging off the edge of a make-believe globe.
In it, Luka, I'm just a spot; a dot
on an aging totem map, blurred.

When we're together, the empty spaces
left behind by my father and brother
fill up with new golden moments of
pointless fun; snowball fights,
helping your little brother build a sled,
watching our school hockey team lose at every away game.
We're Gemini best friends, and yet, this
one moment still gets stuck in my brain
whenever I look back at those whimsical church bell days.

You were sleeping over at my house.
My aunt was brewing spruce twigs
to make tea in our tiny corner kitchen.
We were watching sports on T.V
in the living room, sprawled across
the traditional bearskin rug on the cedar floor.
I wanted to reach over; touch your cheek,
my fingers lightly scraping against
your cafe mocha skin, bones glistening
like sugary granules.
Luka, that was the first time I realized
I wanted to be more than just a friend
in your nutmeg winter eyes.

It was a fluttery feeling in my gut
like a shaman blackbird
beating its wings against an attic window,
desperate to break free and make itself
known to the forget-me-not heavens.
But the truth is, I was reluctant
to let it show because around here,
people think I'm weird enough; a loner,
an awkwrd speaking timid spirit.
Luka, they wouldn't take too kindly
to the idea that I might be even more
different; an anomaly with these mint
leaf irises, stage pale translucent skin
with a couple of freckles here and there,
frostbitten lips and a thunderstorm
in his checkered Red Queen heart.

Oh Luka, how embarrassing would it be
if I let you see the way I really am
in the mirror; a crumbling reflection
like maple cookies left too long on the kitchen table,
so sad like a magnifier, ouija board
tool with a crack right down the middle,
letting in a stream of happy-go-lucky
ghosts, high off after-life Bloom?
Wouldn't it be tragic if you thought
I wasn't worth giving up your buddies for;
the ones who laugh, calling us fruits
behind our backs during gym class?
Oh Luka, I know the truth..
My cheeks burned like logs
allight in a forest; March wildfires,
when your hand crawled
towards mine as we sat on the sofa,
watching T.V at your Ancorage home.
Friend, you played with my fingers
for awhile, never meeting my gaze.
But I was grateful for that..
I wouldn't know how to express
the feelings clogging up my throat,
give life to these secrets;
triangle shapes, multi-colored
feathers like totem pole shadows.
And the desire I have for my best
friend; my other half, sticks to
the roof of my mouth, tasting of
a made-up sunflower toned summerland.

It's tedious; life in this
dreamcatcher-trimmed hamlet,
walking around the same neighborhoods for years.
But it's not so bad when
you've got a partner in crime
to plan a junior escape with.
Oh and for awhile I thought you could be mine
because, Luka, do you recall
the first time we really talked?
I took my Sentra to your dad's tire shop,
the only one in town, and
you were there; helping out,
your shirt sleeves rolled up your elbows,
despite the chilly weather.

And we traded glances; innocent, yet real
as you printed out my payment,
your fingers moving quickly
along a computer keyboard.
Handsome; you smiled shyly,
and I was just infatuated then with your
Inuit moonbeam flesh;
lean muscles along your forearms,
dark teak hair falling
over your forehead, dipping into
your hazel bewitching forest eyes.

But now I believe we could be
something more than pretty strangers,
crossing paths,learning to maneuver
through this confusing
teenage highway, friend.
Slippery with nightmare ice,
this road is just terrifying.
But when I hear your voice on the phone
or at school; calling my name,
making me want to be free enough
to hold you close; arms
around your shoulders,
keeping you safe just like
you've been doing for me
all these foxglove months,
boy, I think that maybe
we could have something
worth remembering, Luka.

deviantID

autumn-spirit
sharon
United States
Current Residence: Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock
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:icontirasunil:
tirasunil Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Wanted to say I just made it through all 64 of your works sitting in my inbox, and they were lovely. :) Thank you for sharing your talent.
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 2 days ago
lol the really old ones are embarrassing now :P but thank you :D I really appreciate your support and you're really talented too :D you should definitely write more.
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:icontirasunil:
tirasunil Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Writer
Ohh well thank you. :)
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 1 day ago
I'm serious, dude..post!
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(1 Reply)
:iconbark:
Bark Featured By Owner 3 days ago  Professional Writer
Thank you!
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:iconseaboundstars:
seaboundstars Featured By Owner 5 days ago
:rose: Thanks.
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:iconemaciatedandepitaphs:
EmaciatedandEpitaphs Featured By Owner 6 days ago
hello,
thank you kindly for the fave :)
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 6 days ago
you're welcome
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:iconlady-of-the-quill:
lady-of-the-quill Featured By Owner Nov 13, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Many many thanks for the fave! 
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:iconscarlettletters:
Scarlettletters Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thanks for the fave on my work - it is appreciated.
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