It all starts with a worm.
Not a worm but a caterpillar,
though much like a worm;
the first burst of cries
after a long night
yelling ‘push!’,
a round face and soft pink lips
honey-brown skin
and wisps of hair curling at the crown.
Papillon her mother said,
cradling the fruit of her labor.
Like all good things,
the worm must be passed through fire for strength.
Papillon lived in a
world with no papa
where mama was never home
but worked to the bone
where one day she was suddenly all alone.
Mama had overworked.
They dressed baby in black
and told her not to cry
where was mama going?
and why?
it wasn’t until years later that Papillon understood death.
Death. That state a caterpillar must face to emerge a butterfly.
Death…that gleam in the eyes of every man she kept company.
Death that song forcing her to dance to another tragic melody.
Death, that black dress she wore to capture lust in many.
Death: her decision to break free from her cocoon’s captivity,
the thick red rolling down her arms,
the lifeless body of her tormentor laying on the ground.
a bloodied knife in hand.
She had never felt so beautiful.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
No amount of love
Could form an ointment to heal
These scars on my chest
Not even your words
Can unravel the stitches
That I had to sew.
Even voodoo dolls
Had never seen such torture
Inflicted at once.
For I must heal wounds
Because I know I'm afraid,
They may re-open.
And these fragile bones
Will crumble into mere dust
Lost in winds of love.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
"Hush,"
He said,
As he slid his finger to my lips;
"Why,"
I asked,
"Why not me?"
As I swiped my tears from my cheeks;
"Because you're not her,"
He said,
As he slowly let go of my hands.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 1:36 AM UTC
Amidst melting snow
A lonely little red rose
Dreams of blossoming
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
... a lamentable natural disaster ―
no one really ever understood
the uncomfortable loneliness they read,
left unsaid, in the silence between the lines
Gathered words often revealed
an awkward vulnerability
a life tethering by a frayed thread
unable to shed the skin that enfolds
the dauntingly misunderstood laments
Suspended at friendless crossroads
melancholy days of malignant indifference
stifle the whispered thoughts,
"accepting an unfinished life"
evanescent as the faltering light,
musing many a sleepless night
It’s as if there was always some wordless reason
to never feel "good enough" to just be,
unworthy to discover elusive love,
cleave a labyrinth out of the darkness,
okay to just let go
It’s not a weakness to be human
"Tears are the heart’s traces" … he once wrote
"only eyes cleansed by teardrops see clearly"
heaven's rain unconditionally enlightened
by love and light.
Someone said a poet died
trying to make sense
out of all he thought he'd given
a word at a time was left behind
only abandoned words remain
orphaned in the drowning silence
harlon rivers ©
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC
There go those voices again,
Like being an operator in a
Telephone exchange for the
Mentally insane. The nurses
Take no notice of your pose
Or how you stand with hands
Over your ears telling the soft
Voices to go away. Mother said
It was demons come to take you
Off for being a naughty girl and
That you’d end up in purgatory
If you were lucky or burn in Hell.
She was a swell dame, always out
To spread the blame. Father said
It was a form of dementia, he still
Does, his voice shriller than all the
Rest, telling you what to do and
What is best. The quacks try all
Kinds of things to sort you out,
Even try frying your brains, one
Even tried shafting you, knowing
No one would believe you if you
Sprouted it all out. There is a kind
Of calm once the voices are gone,
A kind of honeymoon without the
Sweaty nights. Kafka speaks to
You often, his dark piercing eyes
Breaking through the gloom, his
Voice soft, gentle, but persistent
Like a leaky tap, but at least he
Speaks sense, not like the others
With their useless crap. There
Is a scent of ***** in the air.
The high windows letting in
Light; better the sadness of
Day, than the madness of night.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
I feel like you think of me
As a child.
Pat my head,
Kiss my cheek,
I'm cute sometimes
I'm funny sometimes
But I won't get what you think
I won't get what you feel.
You're proud of me occasionally,
But you won't ever lean on me,
Or let me help you.
I'm too broken myself
To help any part of you.
And I'd like to say,
That after each wall I break through
There's another and then another,
But there's only one or two I've gotten through.
Maybe I am just a little girl,
A child who's been too used
And too injured
To really get it,
But that doesn't mean I can't get it.
Though I understand the fear
Of opening up to anyone.
There was a lot of fear
When I opened up to you.
I just kind of thought,
At first,
"What do I have to lose?"
Apparently a lot.
I have a lot to lose.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 5:40 AM UTC
*Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise
They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole
But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell
Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared
Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again*
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 1:41 PM UTC
We can both become
Predator and prey to make
Beautiful nature.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC