weren't you the one
who I was taught to believe
would show me the beauty of stars
on a black stormy night?
why then would you mar
your own flesh
your own blood
with a galaxy of scars
simply out of delight?
yet, ever still
every now and again
i travel down this misty trail
when the moon does not wax
but wanes so bright
and I sing harmonious tunes
twinkling in respite
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Inky entrails glide
across an awaiting canvas,
like a figure skater
striving to carve their existence in ice.
Never pondering the meaning of destiny,
or the true nature of its own creations;
this pointed tip is forever poised
for battle.
Wielding a weapon of manifestation,
The Master shivers slightly up above.
A desperate hand is wound tightly
around its aching, glossy form.
This body serves as the ultimate tool.
The conveyer of truth.
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
i trot into the garden per usual
where whirling verdant blades
and petals made of velvet
wave to greet me
as the sounds of spring spur me on
i cross through the morning fence
where my nurturing days will commence
welcoming such vibrancy in warmth
i shower these flowers with love
snuggle earthy soil firm at their bases
then place atop each one a honeyed kiss
since roots become restless
without something to miss
yes
i have done this for
each season’s pass
and soon i find myself
standing on tiptoes
at long last
refilling a bruised bucket
handle laced between my grip
i reach up
just a droplet they need
but miss
the sky blushes blue above them
a gentle gust guiding easy gaze
i look towards the smiling sun
tending to changes
realizing
i am the one
who withers away
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
Three days ago
I painted a portrait
Born from your vitriol and presented it to you
In a rusted metal frame
But you didn't see it
Two days ago
I broke into song
Berating your own scarlet red eardrums
The window wide open
But you didn't hear it
Just yesterday
I pounced on your back
My ironclad vice rattling your sullied skull
Chest pressed against spine
But you didn't feel it
How can this be?
You are not blind
Nor are you deaf
I know well that you taste
Mournful ministrations
Of touch
The pain, the pain
O’ dear agony, my brain!
I spread across sheets
Soaked, lapped up, re-soaked,
And stained
Tonight
I turn my bed to coffin
Because of you
Since now I understand
You just never cared
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Craving for light,
The little rose sways.
Within aching petals,
Captured: are the gentle rays.
Shaking the biting winds away.
Pretending a crow's whispers are at bay.
All the while,
Memories replay;
Increasing its thorns day by day.
Upon the nights that draw too close
Amongst stars reluctant to share solemn glow.
The little rose, it heeds their call.
Slowly...
Surely...
Abandoning bloom.
Yes, but certainly the sun will always rise.
Just as it is destined to set.
Acknowleging the subtle difference,
Is something the rose now neglects.
Lacrymose, it laments till' morning dew.
Singing songs of times long forgotten.
Blinded by sorrow,
Imprisoned by gloom.
The rose—oh so sweet,
Yet so faint,
Seeks out such selfish warmth.
Privy, it sways towards the sky.
Clouds above are cautioned by these crimes.
Despite it all, the rose does not care.
Nor will it ever again.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC