There is a mark on your cheek.
A token of something that used to be.
A shadowed corner of a smile,
Of a giddy mood and conspiracy.
A memory of lick and press and yet to be
And bunch of butterflies. But yet a memory.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
With all the thoughts
That you have thought of
And all the dreams
You've ever dreamt
With all your worshipping
Upon everlasting strength
And all your waste of hopes
And poetical lament
With every inner struggle
And every night's torment
You exist to be
Another's denouement.
So don't despair, love,
And end your discontent
For you have a purpose,
As you will have an end.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
profane is the word you seek
when it comes to
looking up
this vicious word
called
love...
for how can one live
in deeper lies
than the imaginary
of permanent belonging?
for what is eternity
but a mortal's illusion,
and what is love,
but the sum of all of mankind's fears
and insecurities?
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
let us talk about that moment
where two strangers wake up together,
where reason is no longer dormant
and all the lust evaporated like ether.
and when the sun would rise
and shine on their lost bodies,
they would find theirselves dive
into the light's luscious *****
because night is their secret keeper,
their key to a lock of dreams and lust,
while day is a cruel truth seeker
which none of them could ever trust.
you'd expect this to be the start
of a fairy tale, a long lasting love story,
starting with breakfast in a tiny mart,
ending with a ring in all its glory.
but then again, let's not be deceived
by the bare skin they shared
and the tension they relieved
during their alcoholic glare...
Because *** is just ***
Plain and simple, like a treadmill run,
Having nothing to do with love
And everything to do with fun.
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
The shadowy wall potently pays
Tribute to an open door.
Because the door will know
How to shut itself,
While the wall is just
A bean stalk with the gift
Of making a bit
Of shadow.
The low witch would walk
Distinctly away
from the Concrete bean stalk
As the wall would burn
And the shadow would turn
The witch's own shadow
Into a mice meadow.
And the witch hates mice
When throwing the dice
On the shadowy floor
Of the room with no door,
With no lock
To the dock
Where the concrete bean stalk
Has popped.
So the witch stays away
From the mice and the hay
Of her meadow-growing
Steps of annoying
Rhymes yours truly
Has made to undress
A reader's curiosity.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
I have sketched you in so many ways,
with dots and lines
and shadows and lights
and covered in colours
or in black and white.
I've sketched you as a prince,
I've sketched you as a beggar,
I've sketched you as a lover,
I've sketched you as a hater.
I've adjusted myself
to several graphite scales
so I can shade your flaws
into fairy tales...
you have been my muse,
both master and apprentice,
you have been obsession
for my sleepless senses...
But even if your image
has haunted me for long,
you have never been
just mine to belong...
so I'll just keep on drawing
and sketching you, my all
so I can have you near
when nights are getting cold...
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
One could be a moth
Or midday butterfly,
A deceitful demon
Or a cherub on Eden's sky.
An enclosed cellar
Or an open book,
Bittersweet venom
Or a milk and honey scoop.
One shall have a choice
of to be or not be,
Facing one's own path.
Call it destiny.
There is a daily choice
Opened to be selected
Between what's right or wrong
To stand straight, or to be deflected.
But then again life's more than
A black and white selection,
where 'pro's and 'no's run
to create one's subjective reflection.
So we are the sums of our choices
no matter if they're right or wrong,
and doomed to be constantly living
with both beauty and chaos along.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
I am dust.
Blown by the wind
And rained down
By evaporated seas,
And flowing
And glowing
And starting
A sneeze.
I am dust.
Just a tiny piece
Of earth,
Just a flying piece
Of rock,
not steady,
But ready
for permanent
Change.
I am dust.
Not now,
But always,
And important
Through all days
Like Saturn
Or Plato
Or Gods
On walls.
I am dust.
And as dust flows
And as wind blows
And as my
Soul beats
With ashes,
I will
Forever be
Dust.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
A pair of once clear blue eyes
And a small mouth in silent desolation,
both shut, but warm and so brave and wise
to fight against painful memory ablation.
A mixture of perfume and dust
Added to this peculiar presence
Or a puzzled piece of the sun at dusk
Mixed in a strong, bottled essence.
Some bare foot steps on an oaken floor,
wrinkled hands and silk curtains get drawn,
A gentle touch of both old and cold ****
And maybe the armchair contemplating yesterday's dawn.
who was that, passing on the main road?
who knows, but that ponytail looked so familiar!
now and here, when time seems to have slowed,
when no visit is ever auxiliary ...
there are no steps coming through the old door,
and waiting is the only thing left to do,
until all of these hopes will no longer be sore
or maybe memories will fade away too...
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 6:38 AM UTC