*She was an abandoned city
Deserted homes, burnt bridges, empty roads—
A jar of ashes, of stories, of memories
A sanctuary for the forgotten ones*
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
we are not butterflies
wings splayed flat across tables
like specimens. we are
not fluttering in the wind
like figurines. we are
life
and love, and hope and
faith floating eternally
in the distance, just
and beneath our grasp. past
the skies we fly still,
splayed across blue
like specimens. poised
to spring to life
like figurines. we
are beautiful. we
are strong. we
are feeble, and plastered,
and nailed half-folded
to surfaces that scrape against
our cheeks but still
we fly. still
we are not butterflies.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
*A soulless body she was
Pale skin, chapped lips, dreary eyes
Her ribcage filled with soil
Flowers sprouting from her mouth
Her veins like vines,
Wrapped around her legs
Her skin, ripped
Corrupting was her flesh
Worms coming out—
Out of her senseless ears
As unfathomable as nadir—
She buried herself,
The insignia and rosettes,
The books she read,
The verses she chanted,
Her dreams, her fears—
A forgotten temple she was
Hidden in the middle
Of a busy city filled with people
She never knew
And at night, she would write
About nothingness,
Her cats, the mustiness of her youth
Tasting the divinity from the salt
Flowing from her eyes
She wanted god, she wanted sin
Pondering on the elusive thought
Of life and of death—
She just craved for sleep
Lay her body on a casket,
Be one with dirt—
So she drank the ink,
Poisoned her senses
And with her pen, a dagger
She stabbed her core
Rejoicing as she bled magenta—
She decided to die,
She decided to die
Before the monsters inside
Would have feasted on her meat*
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
I am Dante
I am a poet, a writer, and a fool
My love for her burns worse than hell
I will go through the circles
Of the nine hells below
Just to have her rest in my arms
My soul will suffer
As those below do,
But my love for her will guide me
The fires may touch my skin
And the hopelessness will hit me,
But I will keep fighting for her
I care not for the souls of the souls of the ******
I only care for the soul of my love
For she is my Beatrice
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
*Sensibly we talk and nonsense we go
Orthodox are the words uttered
Profane are the verses sang
Deceptive are the eyes buried
They appear pious and they are saints,
I speak sacrilegious and I am vindictive
How the flowers bloom is fate,
How the flowers bloom I hate
When kindled is the vigor
Ignited are these roses,
Of Vehemence we had a feel
Of Abhorrence we had to ****
My own path I have,
My own dreams I latch
A soul wandering at the prairies,
Gored yet numb with your poetries
Amorous is the depth inside making me drown,
Covetous is the realm outside wearing a crown
To which force will my heart listen,
Lost in labyrinth I am and fallen into warren
When left as memories are the stories,
And burnt into ashes are the memories
The sun had consumed the earth I know,
But not the world of artifice we had grow*
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
*A machine I am
And the salt from your dreary—
Eyes — is my fuel.*
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
1. We are critical.
We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.
2. We are never satisfied.
We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.
3. We never forget.
We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.
4. We are fickle.
Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.
5. We are exposed.
We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.
6. We are vulnerable.
We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.
7. We will never stop.
We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.
We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
*I drank a bottle of blissful yellow paint
Lured myself with the calmness of blue
Drowned myself into a pool of thick red blood
And I found myself, staring at your eyes
Because, love, I realized, it is where my palette lies.*
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC