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Jul 18 · 955
Bellissima Jul 18
They say that the eyes
are windows to the soul,
crystal clues of truth,

but in yours they're black holes,
pensively deep, sweet
gravitational pulls

and I am core shaken,
captivated and nulled.
May 29 · 243
Looking Glass
Bellissima May 29
You sit in silence.
Orange shafts pour
through the stain glass windows,
melt into your soul.

You have found God,
not in the clouds, the books,
nor the empty wooden pews,

but in you.
May 28 · 251
Yellow Brick Road
Bellissima May 28
I walk from dirt trails
drenched in the echoes
of laughing teenagers,

soaked in the reflections
of drunken hopes,

to a purer path,
flooded in the promise
of a new beginning.
May 28 · 361
Writer's Block
Bellissima May 28
Your beauty exhausts my words,
for they could never fully express
the feeling of your existence.
May 27 · 721
Bellissima May 27
Through creaking doors
walk my ideas of people.
Cracked frames, bent and sullen.
Groaning hinges, bones
bruised and rusted.
May 13 · 564
Nuclear Fallout
Bellissima May 13
I long for intensity of juvenile love.
The captivation, the torment
the way my heart split atoms.
May 13 · 510
An Angelic Experience
Bellissima May 13
In the East
chaos enthrals me.
The man in the park who
sips green listerine.

The bathrooms in bars,
white dust, sprinkled
across porcelain seats.

An angelic experience!
I walk in glory
among souls of the *****,
fascination in impurity

though maybe
they are me...
For public viewers, the word is *d i r t y* (which apparently is an inappropriate word)
May 13 · 204
Bellissima May 13
Youthful passion
sweeps under my feet
in a wave of antiquity,

I wake
through the cracks of dawn
mourning light, the thrills of life
which had once streamed
the seams of my soul.

Now I float
May 13 · 285
Bellissima May 13
My heart is different than others,
it encaptures the souls of strangers
and makes them feel like home.
May 13 · 555
Bellissima May 13

The news came in blows–bashes
to the heart, a butcher
beating a pound of meat.

The doctor said it was your breast,
that sack of fat that hung
so peacefully along your torso.
That soft small pouch which carried a secret,
a coin purse hiding stolen money.

It was that round raisin spout
that oozed liquid love,
what had once nurtured life
only now, to take it away.


The chemo was cold,
naked branches
in the midst of winter.

The doctor said your hair would go,
that those sun brushed locks would fall,
an autumn tree flaking its leaves.

Your nurtured garden,
to be plucked and uprooted,
picking carrots, bare and bald.


The disease crept up– multiplied,
a bomb of ants
ravishing a crumb of bread.

The doctor said that it had spread
to the cauliflowerd bumps between your hips,
to the heart shaped tubes that cradled
the unwanted mass, a *******
born without a father.

It was an attack your womanhood,
the predator, a ghostly outline
that lingered faintly in the scan.


The surgery took hours–heartbeats,
the wife of a soldier
waiting to hear of survival.

The doctor said they cut you open,
scraped it out, a pumpkin
scooped and carved on Halloween night.
Your gooey insides probed and poked,
until the rest of it was gone.

He said they shut you with staples,
a spine–like trailed railroad track,
that the skin around turned yellow,
while you looked sore and dead.


The healing happened slowly,
an infected wound
spewing pus then scabbing over.

The doctor said that you were clear,
like fresh water, clean and pure.
He said your hair would start to grow,
spring up like tulips
from beneath your scalp.

and you smiled so warmly–
the sun had baked your mouth.
Not only had your body healed,
but your soul.
*n a k e d* branches
A *b a s t a r d* born without a father
May 13 · 397
Bellissima May 13
A love so pure I thought I could not know,
empty I was until now I could see
a prince too pure to be compared to snow
for snow is not as pure as he could be.
But now awoke, to what shall I compare?
A love to snow? The sea? The sun? The sky?
Could what of words equate with skin so fair?
Oh, such speechless sight of my loving eye.
A poem I wrote in Iambic Pentameter for a Shakespeare class. Inspired by "A Midsummer Night's Dream" Act 3.2; 137-44.
May 13 · 258
December Subway
Bellissima May 13
I ride through tunnels of death.
The tracks are our veins,
bending and branching
through dark holes
in our corpses.
Bellissima May 13
My time will die
in ***** hands
searching for love in things
that shed no light.
*d i r t y*
May 13 · 193
The Bell
Bellissima May 13
The swing set where we swung
was a pendulum passing time
along with our swelling bones.

The asphalt where we played and skinned
our knees now skins our souls.

It's black earthen colour stains the bottom of our feet
as they rinse ***** and dirtier trying to get them clean.
The school bell rings and our playtime is over.
*d i r t y*
May 13 · 107
Bellissima May 13
I grieve through rose-coloured dreams,
petalled eyelids enclosed,
for a sweet awakening–
the revelation of being.
May 13 · 245
Bellissima May 13
Sometimes I wish
my body could dissolve
into complete nothingness,
a blank slate, a clean canvas

or even split into a thousand pieces,
a dandelion's white tips
blown off by a child's lips,
or even melt into pure liquid substance.

Maybe then it could escape
or become immune
to the ***** torment
of your suffocating eyes.
* d i r t y* torment

— The End —