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Corvus Jul 2016
Spending a month in a hospital teaches you a lot about people.
The doctor that told me to shave my head or she wouldn't treat me,
The nurses that spent forever chatting to me
And giving me supportive advice about how my illness doesn't define me.
The woman who was given a terminal cancer sentence
And chose not to pay attention to it and defied it anyway.
How she sat next to me on my bed,
Told me that all suffering is valid,
And just because I'm not dying, doesn't mean I don't get to complain.
How she complains more about her skin problems
Than she ever complained about her cancer,
And that's OK, because pain rarely follows rules.
I never even learned her name,
But she gave me the words I hold most closely to me
On those days when I want to fall asleep and never wake up.
I'm allowed to scream and shout and rage against the pain
And the unfairness of it happening to me.
I just have to make sure I know where the line is
Between giving my darkness a voice and pitying myself.
10.1k · Apr 2017
Nocturne [NaPoWriMo #17]
Corvus Apr 2017
Stars sprinkle the inky night sky
Like crumbs of diamonds on a still, midnight ocean.
I am not afraid to be here, alone,
In the vastness of twilight.
For these few moments, time is as long
As the space between those stars,
And as empty, too.
The uncertainty that sunrise will follow.
As sure as the sun is destined to rise everyday,
When there's only darkness surrounding you,
Pierced slightly by the silvery glow of moonlight...
You're all alone and helpless.
You only have the vague hope that the sun will return.
And as I sit here now, star-gazer,
Faceless nomad on the damp grass;
I feel immortal, and I am afraid
That I will always be alone with the stars.
8.6k · Feb 2017
Flame and Flesh
Corvus Feb 2017
I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.
3.1k · Nov 2016
Metaphor Dependency
Corvus Nov 2016
It's too easy to be a poet sometimes.
It's too easy to get lost in the words,
To expand your vocabulary until you're in a world
So different to reality that none of the pain reaches you.
And sometimes I think my biggest shame isn't what I carry,
It's what I express onto paper and share with others.
Every metaphor is a piece of armour, metal and shimmering in the sun,
Beautiful but, most of all, protective of me.
The truth is, I wasn't attacked by shadows on walls,
Or poltergeists that wreak havoc on my existence.
The truth is, one day three men attacked me,
And I've been covering up the truth in poetry ever since.
See, if you can turn humans into gargoyles,
Twist them into these evil, mythological beings,
You can pretend it's all just written art,
And whatever the reader says is what is.
That these demons from a level of Hell so dark
That it must be located inside of a black hole,
They're creative entities whose sole purpose in a poem
Is for the reader to interpret them how they see fit.
But whenever I write about those demons, I'm not a poet.
I'm the writer equivalent of the guy getting high in his dark, lonely room,
Blocking out memories in words just fantastical enough
To pretend that nothing ever really happened.
Metaphor-less for once, but still practicing the art of doublespeak.
2.1k · Feb 2017
Voluntary Conscription
Corvus Feb 2017
Dropped off in a desert.
Combat uniform tight against me.
Sweat gripping my skin in a desperate plea
For sanity to return, so I may escape.
Gunfire stutters its loud whispers of death against my eardrums.
Explosions drown out screams. My own?
I blink. The dust engulfs my body as I writhe on the ground;
Fetal position my permanent placement.
Longing for the ground to swallow me whole,
To the comfort of death's womb.
Cries of, "Get the hell up! What are you? This is a man's war!"
I get up.
The gun at my side like an old man's artificial hip;
Comfort and support in an unstable land.
I look at the chaos and depravity around me.
This is supposed to be Heaven to me,
Yet the combat boots feel too heavy.
2.1k · Sep 2016
Corvus Sep 2016
I wrote a poem a while ago
About how all my poetry is the same now.
Because of you. And here's another dose of repetition
To gulp down my dry throat.
I guess this is how I know it's love,
And if I'm in love, my poetry has jumped ship,
Drowned in an ocean filled with tears
That I don't even remember shedding.
I don't know if my poetry is any good,
But I know that I can translate emotion into words,
And that's something to be accomplished,
If I never know how to do anything else.
See, I'm not good at loving you.
I don't know how to be who you want,
But it's too late,
My heart's already relinquished its grip on poetry
And now it constricts around your soul
Like a snake devouring its prey...but in a beautiful way(?)
I can write poetry, but I can't love you,
It'll first be the death of poetry, then the death of loving you.
Please don't do this to me, I grip pens,
I don't know how to safeguard hearts.
Here, take my last poem and leave, it's about you again.
They're all about you now.
2.1k · Jul 2016
Hashtags and Hypocrisy
Corvus Jul 2016
Before identities and allegiances are even confirmed,
The cries of anger rise up like a thick, black smoke,
Heavy and suffocating, it flows through streets,
Over the English Channel, across oceans,
Seeping into social media and blanketing all else.
Cries for vengeance,
And those cries barely manifested into a wisp
When Beirut was attacked the day before Paris.
I didn't see any Facebook pictures of the flag of Lebanon.
Do any of us even know what the flag of Lebanon looks like???
To **** innocent people is a crime except when we do it,
Then it's "There are always casualties of war,"
But if this isn't a war except when we're killing people,
Can it really be called a war?
We care so much about the injustice of it,
How the innocent are mowed down without mercy,
That we want those bombs dropped and we want them dropped now.
When those bombs destroy homes and blast children's limbs apart,
Bloodless and pale, until the area looks like it used to be a porcelain doll factory...
Will we all have Syrian flags for our Facebook pictures?
1.9k · Apr 2017
Viking Vibes
Corvus Apr 2017
I want to be one of those cool, modern Vikings,
But I'm too short, beardless and fat.
I guess I'd make a good Hobbit,
But it's not really the same thing.
Anyway, sometimes things are just unreachable.
1.8k · Nov 2016
An Ongoing Apology
Corvus Nov 2016
I'm that record player that keeps going on,
Playing the same old, outdated song.
I'm sorry.
All my poems spout the same cliches now.
Hell, I'm the embodiment of those cliches now.
I don't know why I'm suffering from the disease
Years after my exposure to patient(s) zero,
But here I am, sick, bed-ridden and sleep-deprived,
Scratching sores I thought had long healed up.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I don't see colour anymore,
Just the monochromatic shading of decay.
I don't know how to pull myself back up again,
Can't remember how I did it the first time.
I was a ticking time bomb without even realising it,
And I don't even know if I've exploded yet,
Or if this is just the precursor, the countdown
To ripping apart everyone in my vicinity.
I'm sorry.
They say pain makes for the best artists, the best art,
But I'm too repetitive to make anything good.
Even the violent strokes of red have turned dark grey,
And they get darker the further down the abyss I go,
Where the darkness is so dense that light can't penetrate,
And I don't see the nightmares that have come back.
I'm sorry.
1.8k · Oct 2016
Nocturnal Whisperings
Corvus Oct 2016
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.
1.7k · Sep 2016
Carsick, Homesick
Corvus Sep 2016
When you're in the car, driving home or in the passenger seat,
And it's 3am, pitch-black skies
Tinged with the purple-ish glow of light pollution,
That's who we are in this moment.
The way the car glides over the motorway,
So smooth it's almost motionless,
And the engine sounds are so constant
That they become as soothing as a lullaby.
How the raindrops batter the car before fading,
Leaving their liquid exoskeletons clinging onto the windows,
And it feels like home,
Because this is where we leave our hearts.
I looked out of the window towards the open road,
And the rain makes the view slightly blurry.
It's the way the lights shine and glimmer across the road
In reds, whites and yellows, that's where we reside.
We're the blurred images of each other,
Clumsily reached for on nights that are pitch-black
Save for the pollution in our souls.
1.7k · Dec 2016
Corvus Dec 2016
You're a wolf in sheep's clothing
That I saw break itself apart just so it could join the flock.
You lived with the sheep long enough that your stench faded,
Inhaled their lifestyle until it became yours.
Then the real wolves came, wearing their own skin,
Entered the flock and began to feast upon the sheep.
You sat, injured and deformed, wearing fluffy, white wool
Over your grey fur.
They came for you, and you pounced.
Your self-blunted teeth split their skulls open,
And your claws tore flesh like the sheep tore blades of grass.
They came for you, but now they are yours.
You ate the wolves' flesh and licked clean their blood;
Your sheep's clothing stained red with wolf.
1.7k · Jul 2017
Transgenders Not Welcome
Corvus Jul 2017
You're willing to die for a country
That will exclude you from being able to serve.
You're willing to **** for a country
That still thinks a Bible is a valid argument.
You're willing to contribute to a conflict
That isn't as big a threat to your life
As the people you've vowed to protect the liberty of.
And you do it again and again
With a fraction of the respect patriots demand veterans are entitled to.
Because you've decided to put the needs of the complacent
Above your own human rights.
And you'll get no thanks from them,
Because they can't sleep easily at night
Unless they can rip off your clothing and see what's in your pants.
And if it doesn't add up to their image?
You can sacrifice your life for theirs and they'll still call you a freak.
I don't know why people are still so willing to die for a country that hates them so much, but the idea that the land of the 'free' wants to ban people from doing so and use such moronic excuses to do it has made me angry.
1.6k · Oct 2016
A Homily on Denial
Corvus Oct 2016
I don't know if I'll ever be able to say the word
For what you did, or even spell it out in any language.
Then again, perhaps I've been shouting it through so many
Forms of communication that I let it out every time I breathe.
Maybe it's the way I flinch under my lover's touch;
The way I never let my own body come to her, how it freezes, waits for her first.
How I see your face in every remotely-threatening figure,
And I see their faces, your minions, in the smaller figures that surround you.
Sometimes it's hard to see myself as a survivor,
When sometimes, the only reminders that I'm alive are nightmares.
How their movements shake me awake,
And I can still remember how you taste.
There are times when it tastes like ash, because I burn the memories
With the fuel of self-destruction and I sweat myself to sleep.
Maybe it's that, half the time, I see masculinity only as a devil,
And the other half, it's a quality so far removed from my being
That I'm not really sure if I can call myself a man
Without being at least half a liar.
1.6k · Feb 2017
Corvus Feb 2017
I'm scared of letting myself love you,
Even though we both know I already do.
I'm so afraid that my arms are knives
Ready to cut you into slices of meat,
Willing and eager to devour you
Like you are nothing but my latest prey.
At the same time, I'm afraid that my body is an old book,
So ripped and used, so damaged by fingertip oils,
That my entire being will crumble into dust
Under the weight of your embrace.
Your love is so beautifully heavy,
Clumsy in its eagerness to express itself.
Whereas mine is so half-eaten that it trembles,
Cowers in the corner fearfully awaiting your advance.
I don't want to be this afraid of vulnerability,
But every step in the right direction
Is a step out of my fortress and into the night
Where bad things have followed me.
And I'm scared that instead of hurting me again,
They'll possess me and make me become them.

And then you would become me.
1.5k · Jul 2016
Qui Tacet Consentire Videtur
Corvus Jul 2016
'No' is a brave word.
Its success hinges on the respect its recipient attaches to it,
Which can range from immense to nonexistent.
The wisest will tell you to never be afraid of declining something,
Or refusing to do something you don't want to do,
But the truth is...
Saying 'no' can get you killed.
It can leave you bleeding from a dozen stab wounds
Because entitled people don't like hearing 'no' for the first time.
There are people who use the question as a formality,
Knowing even before the words leave their fabricated lips
That they have no intention of honouring your answer
Unless it's an identical match to their decision.
And those people will make it seem like your only options
Are confirmation or silence,
Whereby silence is taken as consent,
Because who's ever going to doubt that a phrase in Latin
Is anything but a sound logical argument?
It's the language used in the same **** courtroom
That requires proof that your 'no' was a valid one.
'Qui tacet consentire videtur' means 'He who is silent is taken to consent'.
1.5k · Feb 2016
Asymmetrical Codependency
Corvus Feb 2016
The loneliness attacked me again, left me broken and bleeding,
And the first thing I do is run back to you.
Collapse, stain your clothes red, take out our favourite game,
Ask you if we can play it all over again.
Thing is, the stakes always increase for every time we play,
And I'm close to being bankrupt, but I know you're getting rich.
You take it all from me, I give everything I have
But I can still barely afford the newest buy-in price.
I've started giving you pieces of who I am instead,
And I'm getting there, I've nearly given enough to play another round,
And I know there are other players. I used to walk away,
But now I'm not whole enough to leave the table despite it.
I'm translucent, hardly here, I can barely even touch you
Without feeling the disconnect; we're stuck in different places.
Maybe you're just better at winning than me,
You know just when to walk away and when to come back.
I exist only to pay off the debts I have with you.
"I" am less than "you"seless.
Corvus Jul 2016
It's OK not to be inspired.
You can look at a sunset
Without seeing the colours as smudges of chalk
On the divine, stretched-out canvas of sky.
And you don't have to write everything down,
Because not everything has to be permanent.
Some things only last for as long as you remember them,
And it doesn't make them any less special
Just because they weren't written down or spoken life into.
Existing is art, and creating something
That no-one ever gets to hear is still art.
You're a poet even when you're not rushing to your notebook
Before the words fall through your fingers, slippery with desperation,
Motivation, inspiration for the next poem.
So slow down, because if you forget your masterpiece
Because you were enjoying a careless moment of misplaced inspiration,
Who cares? Even if no-one saw it, you know you created an awesome poem.
Yes, I did write a poem about how people don't have to always write poems.
1.5k · Dec 2016
Good Mo(u)rning
Corvus Dec 2016
I'm locked in a cage.
Half my body spilling out through the bars;
Arms bent, snapped bones piercing through skin,
Stretched out, reaching for the key that gets further away.
Other half still held captive, hidden in the darkness
Of the secret that never wants to be paroled.
I want to escape, but the jagged limbs have formed a knot
And I can neither be pulled out through the gaps of the bars,
Nor back into the depths of repression.
I'm half free and half trapped,
And those two states of being cancel each other out.
I am nothing.
1.5k · Jun 2016
Dear Trespasser
Corvus Jun 2016
You do not get to banish people to a corner
Because you think their presence might darken the sun,
And then get mad at them
For choosing not to live in pitch black misery.
When they turn their corner into a place of vibrancy and colour,
Music, dancing, laughter and freedom,
You don't get to burst in and take it away from them.
You sit there and you watch them smile away their fears,
And you can't stand it.
That they are so happy but you, man on the outside looking in,
Are sitting in the sun yet are still consumed by darkness.
Man on the outside looking in, you see happiness and you are enraged,
Jealous of people confined to such a small place of acceptance yet so free.
You break down the door and you spread darkness.
Indiscriminately and in bursts of loud gunfire.
You make all the other colours of the rainbow fade
Until there's only red, red, red.
But neither you, nor anyone like you, will get to banish us into a corner.
In the garden, we're given a small patch of dying grass,
And look at it now, blooming full of beauty.
We are the lilies, geraniums, bluebells, trilliums,
And the countless other flowers
That were once so few, yet now we creep out of our confined patch of land,
And we're breaking down your door whether or not you hear us knocking.
1.4k · Jul 2016
Isolation Births Fear
Corvus Jul 2016
The thing about spending almost a decade
In social isolation is you forget what's normal.
Imagine my shock when my friend casually pulls me close to her,
A half-hug, friendly embrace.
No context needed, because touches don't always hold
Some deep, meaningful intention.
Yet for the past almost a decade, that's been my reality.
How rare the hugs, how they only ever follow extreme sadness
Or loneliness, the desire for comfort and support.
How I can never reach out to touch someone
Unless I've done it a thousand times before,
And even then, it's an intentional act of love.
Every movement of every muscle is planned in advance,
To minimise the fearful, pounding beats of my heart.
For someone like me, where anxiety floods through all my veins,
I don't know the meaning of the word 'casual'.
And I don't know if I'll ever learn it.
1.3k · Dec 2016
The Mutilated Flower
Corvus Dec 2016
You've got the biggest smile on your face but no light in your eyes.
Your ******* are over-exposed, and you're slightly less than flesh but much more than bone.
Nobody remembers you now except in black and white,
In headlines and articles; your existence summed up in a single sobriquet.
You're the Mona Lisa of tragedy, a painting created with camera flashes,
And your nakedness is clothed in speculation and mystery.
The scandal of an era; defamation and declarations of promiscuity,
Ripping away your personality, tearing off your integrity.
Left even less than the mess your artist carved you into
After the insatiable appetites of the vultures picked your image dry.
A mere carcass where once there was a body of hopes and dreams,
Posed to perfection; you're the model everyone imagines you to be.
Beauty personified, everyone is an admirer,
Everyone wants to take credit for creating a masterpiece,
Yet there is only one person that can take credit.
Only one person responsible for transforming you
From the ordinary beauty to the extraordinary artwork.
You were transcended into eternity.
Only your artist and his methods remain secret;
A sculptor, a painter with an eye for an eye-catcher.
You're the flower that was destined for fame,
Even if your petals had to be cut up first.
Black Dahlia. Old poem, but one of the very few poems that isn't about me, therefore I'm quite happy with it.
1.3k · Nov 2016
Dysphoric Metamorphosis
Corvus Nov 2016
There's a girl that follows me everywhere.
Sometimes she trails behind me like a shadow,
And sometimes she stands in front of me like a distorted reflection
From a mirror that doesn't speak the present tense.
Words don't exist between us,
She just looks at me with blue eyes bordered by long lashes.
Sometimes I drag her through the looking glass
And tell her she's just like me.
But not as smart.
She looks at the mirror and sees wounds, scars, flaws, ugliness,
Where I see learning, growing, beauty.
Life itself is dancing across her skin
To a beat so fast and erratic that it leaves scorches.
I try to tell her that,
But my words are silenced by her attempts to grow wings.
I applaud this display of determination,
But I sit so far back that she fails before the claps reach her ears.
I sit there and watch her, and it's funny, because I have her wings,
But I can't give them to her, she can only grow them.
So I ask life to snap her DNA in a few places, replace them,
Whisper a few words of wisdom into her brain and hope that those seeds take,
Mutate. Grow into the wings she wants,
The wings that'll let her fly to places
She doesn't even know yet that she wants to go.
Child, girl, adolescent, you'll never be a woman.
You won't live long enough, you'll die bleeding,
Ripping out your ****** while shedding skin.
And you know what? You'll love it.
1.3k · Jan 2017
Corvus Jan 2017
I label you a demon far too often,
I write about you like you're a succubus
Or some sort of sexually-manipulative, destructive force
Desperate to destroy my happiness or sanity.
And I'm sorry for making it seem that way,
When the truth is I'm equally to blame.
Magnets are drawn to each other equally,
And for as much as you pull me, I pull back just as much.
But sometimes it feels like you have an upper hand,
Some sort of winning deck that I can't see,
And you watch me like you know it,
You play with the nervousness like it's a game.
It gives off the illusion that it's one-sided,
And sometimes illusions become truths in our mind.
I resent you for it.
Truthfully, I resent you for a lot of things.
How easily you make desire your element;
The way you take an uncontrollable flame and tame it to your will,
Let it do your bidding like a puppet does for its master.
How hard it is for me to even look at the flame that you wield.
1.3k · Jan 2017
Accumulating Dust
Corvus Jan 2017
I'm afraid of dying alone.
I'm afraid of how I'm always the one
Who reaches out to loved ones first.
Like they're more comfortable apart from me
Than I am from them.
And it becomes a chore, a conscious decision
To not obsess over how long it's been since we've spoken,
And if it means they don't like me or they're just busy.
I'm terrified of everything shortening my life span
Or the quality of the time I have left.
How severely I'm impacted by my own wilting body
And how many goals it means will be left unticked.
Sometimes when it's night, and the world is covered in silence,
I wish to myself that I'd never existed.
Such a waste to be given life and to spend it all
On illness, misery and loneliness.
I'm scared of dying alone,
But I'm more scared of living alone.
And I am living alone.
1.3k · Jun 2016
Ghosts and Resurrections
Corvus Jun 2016
Sunlight cuts out under the hills.
Ghostly-green lanterns flood the streets
Like haunted water birthing light
Without its heart-lifting warmth.
No blood leaking into the skies, they're dry
Like my peace-starved brain.
One drop to replenish lost youth.
That one drop. Always just a stretch too far.
Bickering with both sides of my mind
As the sky's smoke is listening,
Then the glistening of a memory.
Of a flash. Of cold burning.
A memory in the back of my skull
Projecting an entity into reality.
Reaching to touch...yes, I can feel it
Within my grasp, unlike the comfort of peace.
If it cannot come to me, I'll force
Destruction on myself until nothing but peace exists.
Solitude is a beautiful downfall.
Solitude is an addictive drug.
Darkness fills the space around me
And in me. The lover of a lonely *******.
A poppy-petal embrace of serrated limbs;
***** wounds sting nerves and veins.
Biting flesh and feasting on sense
With the narrowing of light-eaters.
Simultaneous effects on thought and feeling,
Dissolving into what will one day be the present.
1.3k · Oct 2016
Corvus Oct 2016
Some species of banana slugs have to chew off their own *****
When it gets stuck inside of their partner.
And I just think it's the perfect comparison of us;
How I'm drawn to you like it's a primal instinct,
But I get so trapped that I can't escape
Without mutilating myself in the process.
I wrote the first sentence with every intention of this being a ridiculous, silly poem. I'm not sure where I went wrong, but it's safe to say it went wrong.
1.2k · Apr 2016
The Endless Night
Corvus Apr 2016
Depression isn't a black cloud.
That cliche implies that eventually there'll be a torrential downpour,
And then the cloud will fade away and allow
The sun to shine through, ending that terrible storm.
Depression is a starless night.
An expanse of black where even the stars have abandoned you,
Long since dead, and you try to make sense of the loneliness
In a world where people have turned into zombies.
Thoughtless, repetitive phrases become their instincts.
"Think positively," is the mantra of the dead to the dying.
As though statements turn into directions when the sun goes down,
Like signposts leading us to a brightly-lit land.
But the sky doesn't respond to artificial lights,
And nothing but time can force the sun to return.
Their second statement, under the facade of help,
Is to remind us that day will always follow night,
And no matter how starless and eternal the darkness feels,
The sun will eventually break through the horizon, waving pinks and oranges.
Sadly, not all lifespans are created equal,
And for the many colourful transitions people have seen in the sky,
There are plenty who never see more than black.
Some souls are born at dusk and are dead by pre-dawn,
Never having lived through anything but darkness.
And to the zombies, accepting that fact is the hardest.
I'm not a fan of 'think positively' statements pretending to be advice.
1.2k · Nov 2016
We'll Be Okay
Corvus Nov 2016
I didn't go to your funeral today.
Wasn't well enough.
Part of me feels guilty, but not because of you,
Just because there's an expectation to go to funerals.
Really, I don't mind though.
I don't mind not thinking 'goodbye' in the direction of a coffin
While a man talks about things I don't believe in.
You and I said goodbye not long ago,
And it's a memory I'll forever cherish.
How fragile you were, yet how strong you became
Under the weight of your mother's death.
How you took my own grieving mother under your arm,
Outstretched in love, and asked her if she'll be OK.
And then you turned and looked at me, called me by name,
Walked over to me and asked how I was.
Said goodbye and gave me a hug.
How much your old personality shone through in that moment,
After years of mental health problems but you were still my auntie Jackie.
I didn't go to your funeral today,
But I've got the best memory of us parting ways.
1.2k · Dec 2016
Like Water
Corvus Dec 2016
Love is like water.
It has no colour, no smell, no taste.
It is neutral in everything.
There is no joy in love, nor any sorrow.
The only thing we gain from love itself
Is the relief, like drinking a cool glass of water
On a hot, relentless day, or for some,
A desperate need for quenching the thirst
Of one who was dying of dehydration.
Besides that, all else is down to the person you love;
What you love about them is what turns the water blue, red,
Or the colour of galaxies.
Corvus Apr 2017
Recipe for codependency.

- Cripplingly low self-esteem.
- A mind that over-analyses everything.
- Clinginess.
- Empty, hollow feelings in the chest.

Optional for decoration and added tastiness:
- Chronic illness.
- Love.

Take all ingredients and pour them into a bowl unceremoniously;
The more carelessly, the better the batter.
Measurements aren't required, feel free to experiment
And tweak the quantities to suit your own preferences.
Take your fists and punch down, hard, repeatedly,
Until the emptiness in the chest feels full.
If you have a bigger appetite,
You might prefer to throw in some more punches.
Stop when extensive bruising appears on the chest
And you feel an immense swelling in the heart area.
The throbbing feels like a heartbeat,
And that's when you know you're on the right track.
Bake in an oven fueled with the fiery arguments
Or the passionate distractions from reality; whichever is hottest.
Day two of NaPoWriMo, which is to write poem inspired by or in the form of a recipe.
1.2k · Oct 2016
Chest Compressions
Corvus Oct 2016
You're the cause and cure of my existential crises,
The only living thing stopping me from identifying as a solipsist.
I burn through you like a fake-anarchist burns money;
Facile and hollow, the actions hold no meaning.
Yet we've become slaves of ritual, so we both stay armed
To the teeth with matchsticks, ready to strike at first light,
First sign of a Code Red, both dead, both dead.
And our blood is already made of petrol.
Sometimes *** is just a fire in the frozen wasteland
That love once kept green and thriving.
Sometimes you get so close to the fire
That you think it feels like it's thriving again.
1.2k · Mar 2017
Freshly Forged Imprints
Corvus Mar 2017
"Time heals all wounds."
How often do people say that?
Sometimes they believe it,
Other times it's the only thing they can offer you.
If time heals wounds, why are there still marks on me,
Like the crime scene dusted for fingerprints?
Perhaps they healed over long ago,
And I'm just looking at scar tissue
That runs so deep that it interferes with pain receptors,
Making me believe I'm not done healing.
I just know that I'm still hurting,
And I've tried so hard to pretend those marks aren't there.
When I could no longer pretend, I forced denial upon myself,
Bathing in paint to make them disappear.
I've flayed myself to the bone, just to make sure
That the old, wounded skin is no longer attached to me.
So when I look at those new marks,
I know that's new, freshly-made scar tissue.
But it never lasts, and sooner or later I can feel it;
That same poison coursing through my veins,
Reminding me that old wounds never heal.
They seep into your cells and regrow at will.
1.2k · Oct 2016
This (is) Functional
Corvus Oct 2016
I'm not sure when I fell in love with you,
When I let my foot hover over a cliff and then put my weight on it.
I just know that the first time I heard you speak
Was when I realised I'd never heard anything so beautiful.
The way your Spanish did the tango with your accent
And enchanted my ears to follow every word, mesmerised.
I never expected you to look at me the way you did,
And I don't think I've ever looked at eyes as closely as I have yours.
And I never wanted to let go of you,
Even when I started getting too sick to feel.
Maybe I'm too scarred for the nerves to fully heal now,
Or maybe they're too sensitive to pain for me to ever touch you again.
And maybe my heart is the same, it's too sensitive to love you again,
But it's doing it anyway, and it doesn't hurt so much
When I'm lying next to you.
That's when time stops, and pain can't exist in a timeless vacuum.
All I know is that it's complicated,
That we're angels casting monsters for shadows.
Simplicity isn't our best quality, but I wouldn't accept it anyway;
I don't want to experience loving you only as fairy-tale fragments.
If there's a love that is as wholesome as it is hedonistic,
As purifying as it is corruptive,
Then I know it's where we exist.
1.1k · Sep 2016
Annihilation, Revelation
Corvus Sep 2016
It's hard to be a coward and suicidal,
Afraid of pain and overly-sensitive to guilt simultaneously.
Never wanted to jump from a building,
Because regretting your decision halfway down must be a nightmare.
Must only take a few seconds.
Must feel like longer than you've ever lived.
Didn't want to jump in front of a bus,
Because that seems wildly ineffective.
Didn't want to lie on train tracks;
I know those videos of dismembered people end up
On the darkest places of the Internet,
And I'm nothing if I'm not embarrassed by attention.
Didn't want to hang myself, had enough hospital trips
From asthma attacks rendering me breathless to want to relive it.
Tried to hang myself.
Wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be.
Didn't want to overdose on pills
Because I have an aversion to swallowing them.
Realised the only reason you aren't supposed to chew them
Is so you don't overdose.
Tried to overdose.
Woke up confused and frightened with an apparently not-killer headache.
But that was back then, and this is now.
I don't look at things and see invitations of death anymore.
There's no temptation to analyse them
And see if they're up for the job.
I'm less on the aggressive side of the spectrum,
Swaying, instead, a lot more to being passive.
I don't want to dive in front of traffic,
But I don't always look before I cross the road either.
And I could still end up in the same coffin as if I'd jumped,
But for me, there's a lifetime of difference.
I don't really consider this to be a sad/hopeless poem, but it is a blunt poem. Sometimes you need to set your darkness free.
1.1k · Jan 2017
Corvus Jan 2017
There's a sea I sometimes find myself treading in,
Sometimes steady, sometimes drowning.
It's hard to stay afloat at times,
And I hallucinate people on ships sailing past me,
Not a care in the world, and I hate them;
Every imagined smile hurts like inhaling the saltwater.
But the worst thing is the monstrous shadow beneath the waves,
Huge and treacherous with eyes like emeralds,
It wants to swallow me whole and drag me down,
Into waters so deep that all becomes black.
And worst of all, when I hear that leviathan's rumbling roar,
I sometimes think it's coming from inside me.
Corvus Feb 2017
I don't look like me, I don't sound like me,
I don't feel like me.
Sometimes it feels not like I'm in the present,
But like I'm from the future sent back too far into the past,
And I'm impatiently waiting, playing catch up
Until my body grows into its brain.
Please, god, let me grow into myself.
My skin feels stretched too tightly over brittle bones,
And my muscles are so itchy,
I want to rip away my flesh just to reach inside.
My heart clamours incessantly, hurling itself at my rib cage
With such ferocity that my entire chest shakes with its beating.
Please, god, let something quieten it,
And if it can't appease it, please, god, let something silence it for good.
1.1k · Jan 2017
Corvus Jan 2017
There are phases when I sleep less than I usually do.
Bouts of insomnia that stretch too thin,
Making me feel like I'm half-mad, paranoid to the fullest,
And even more unwilling to fall asleep.
Sometimes I can't sleep facing my room
Because I think I can see the shadow in the darkness.
And sometimes I can't sleep facing the wall
In case I feel it sneaking up behind me.
Lying on my back is never helpful,
And lying on my stomach makes me nauseous.
So I sit up and I read until my eyes feel like anchors,
But I still don't fall asleep.
No-one ever told me how painful and exhausting it is to be alive.
Not to live, just to be alive, to be breathing and functioning.
How after the wounds have healed and I feel relatively human,
I'll still find myself terrified of the dark, of touch, of sleeping.
How randomly it all comes, how I can fall asleep happily,
But wake up choking on my own panic.
Sometimes I think healing isn't a process, it's a virus;
It takes over you, and your body fights against it valiantly,
But eventually it takes over you, and you're not you anymore.
You're forever symptomatic of healing.
1.1k · Feb 2017
Muse of Concupiscence
Corvus Feb 2017
Sometimes it's in your voice, the words you whisper;
They drive me crazy with lust, with desire.
With anything you want to call it.
A catalyst for ***, a gateway drug to a world of
Never-ending thirst begging to be slaked,
Masquerading as Heaven.
But I hear the devil in the soft corners of your accent,
And I see fires blazing behind your eyes,
Lighting up the dark brown into a molten gold
That beckons me to drown in them.
Gold is the colour of halos, you tell me,
Of deity-like regalia, divine and beautiful.
Gold isn't the colour of demon attire,
So I swim in the depths of those flame-filled eyes.
1.1k · Dec 2016
Cadaveric Spasm
Corvus Dec 2016
I cling onto you too tightly.
I leave lines of blood on your hips
Whenever you pry me away from you
Long enough that we're separated.
You're my only lifeline these days;
The grass and the mud that I grab hold of,
Something to help pull myself up
From the river I've fallen into.
You're the pen I can never put down;
Even when inspiration doesn't hit
Or forcing out uncomfortable truths hurts,
It brings me a comfort I can't relinquish.
You're the shotgun in my hands.
From the muzzle that I put in my mouth
To the trigger that I hold onto
Tighter than anything else you ever gave me.
And I hold onto it so tightly
That your trigger is pulled further away from me,
The rest of you coming closer to messing up my mind,
And it's OK,
Because you're the only thing I have left to hold onto.
1.1k · Feb 2017
February Feelings
Corvus Feb 2017
It hits out of nowhere, with no warning.
A year since my last mental breakdown,
Thinking I was done with suicidal ideation,
And it hits me with the force of a torpedo.
I never know where it was lying dormant
Or what triggered the volcanic eruption
That burns away all progress made.
I just know that it hurts, and the ash lays heavy on me.
I lie down and I don't let myself get up.
Must be something about February, right?
Corvus May 2016
Before I met you, I wrote beautiful poetry.
I'd write about anything, from love to writer's block,
And they were always wrapped up in such decorative metaphors
That even I, with my low self-esteem, couldn't help but admire.
I'd write about the tangled dance of the marionettes,
Or the pianist playing his sonatas in the silvery moonlight.
The paper was my playground, mine to design and perfect,
And the pen was a wand through which creativity could flow.
Yet now the paper is a desert; dry and repetitive,
And the pen is the bland, ***** water that I can't help but need.
I drink from a well that's run so dry
That I'm gulping down sand, but still continue to do so.
Now there are no clever allegories to make me proud,
Nor any creative concepts to dance around the playground with.
Only the same poem with the word order changed.
Maybe some religious comparisons thrown in for good measure.
But the words are the same and the message still remains:
Ex-poet is stuck in the quicksand of an unrelenting codependency.
And the sad thing about it, the worst thing of all?
This honest little poem isn't any different.
Reading some of my more creative writes and...noticing the difference.
1.1k · Jul 2016
Paroxysms of Hunger
Corvus Jul 2016
I'm the monster clawing at the walls.
You gave me the taste for your blood and then locked me in here.
Your scent stains every surface in the room;
Tantalising but with no flesh to sink my fangs into.
Rabid dog-type wildness becomes me,
Transforms me into a thing driven by madness and instinct.
You are the prey with footprints but no body.
I am the predator never knowing satiety.
Pacing replaces hunting, I'm starving,
And your constant, elusive presence has me frenzied.
Viscera begin to litter the room.
Yours or mine? I don't know. I'm starving.
1.1k · Jun 2016
I Could Love You, But...
Corvus Jun 2016
I could love you, but it'd mean getting no air until you left,
Because seeing you takes my breath and the oxygen around me away.
I could love you, but it'd mean you peeling off the scars
You imprinted on me, and letting them bleed on you again.
I writhe in agony and you writhe in pleasure,
And I'm not sure I have enough unbitten skin left to give you.
I could love you, but I'd be loving a ghost
That haunts my heart like it's the place you were buried.
And if I keep your memories buried there,
How long until the putrefaction spreads out?
I could love you, but it'd mean seeing the monster
Crawl out of your skin as soon as dawn breaks.
1.1k · Jul 2016
Triggering Catalepsy
Corvus Jul 2016
I've been thinking about you more than I have for a long time.
Maybe it's the time of the year, maybe it's because my veins hurt.
But my fingers have been drawn to the magnetic nature of your souvenirs,
Tracing, circling, the bumps and rough, white patches of skin.
It becomes a meditative ritual, it calms my breath
Until I realise I'm touching you, touching me,
And I freeze.
And I hate myself.
And I forget that I have skin, because suddenly all I can feel
Are your fingerprints on me like stamps on a book, library property.
Or branding cattle, but farmers don't eat their own livestock.
For as close as we got, I still don't know how much you learned about me.
I'm not sure why you didn't rip a hole in my chest
And ****** into my heart to get more closely acquainted with me.
Maybe that would've just been too much of my DNA to deal with.
Perhaps you had a busy schedule and couldn't take long showers.
I had no life, though, so I could spend hours washing away the blood.
It didn't take more than a few seconds, but I tried to be thorough.
The water poured down on me for so long
That it opened up the scabs on my hands,
And that's why I've got keloid scars, from sores that ran so deep
That the nerves are permanently damaged.
Maybe that one isn't your fault,
I'm probably being too harsh on you there.
But it hurts me, and you hurt me, and your comrades hurt me
Just so you could pretend you never heard me.
And now, like my nerves, I am permanently damaged, bound by harmful ritual,
Doomed to be the serpent trying to swallow his tail.
1.1k · Oct 2016
Sodomite Dirt
Corvus Oct 2016
Please don't touch me, I have memory foam skin,
And I can't withstand your fingerprints resting on top of theirs.
I'll crumble under the weight,
No matter how much softer your touches are.
Don't touch me, because like second-hand smoke dusting the bottom of lungs,
My contaminants will turn your flesh to no more than dirt.
I can't shake the feeling that all my appendages are swords waiting to hurt you,
Because nothing good can grow inside the corpse they made of me.
I can't let you touch me, because I am the glass,
Passed around to everyone at a party,
Marked in my entirety,
And you are like gold, gleaming and newly polished.
Don't touch me, you deserve a better lover than a sodomite,
And if that's all I am then that would make you Gomorrah,
And I don't want to be the thing that causes you to burn
In retribution for my...
1.0k · Mar 2017
Prepare the Catafalque
Corvus Mar 2017
I love the idea of healing,
But I'm not just suffering from symptoms,
I am the sickness,
Punching myself black and blue,
Refusing to stop until I'm soaking red.
I'm better off suffering from the thing that kills me,
Than cutting away parts of me until useless fragments remain.
Like the captain that goes down with his ship,
I will never see salvation from this point onward.
This disease has seeped into my cells
And now I'm more sickness than human.
If I took away the biggest part of me,
What would I be left with, but emptiness?
1.0k · Nov 2016
Track-Mark Confessional
Corvus Nov 2016
Rainbow-tinted vision, stained glass syringes,
Euphoria in a bottle, floating on the sea.
Making love to happiness and warmth, simultaneously,
Getting consistently and roughly violated
With the reality of sharp needles, ******* drug (ab)use.
Looking for a vein; any takers, any takers?
Take it anyway, I've no time for pleasantries,
Just let me stick the **** thing inside you.
That bliss back again, shout, "Honey, I'm home,"
And never think about returning to the land of the moving.
Nod my way through conversations of sleep-deprivation,
Sliding down an abyss and I've never felt so good.
Flash a smile to the darkness for shooting my rainbows
Into the stars that are burning out in my hands.
Advice falling on half-deaf ears because, let's face it,
I just want to get high.
Inspired by a few family members, I guess.
Corvus Sep 2016
She doesn't have to be your mother
For you to not call her a ***** for not doing what you want.
She doesn't have to be your sister
For you to not call her a ***** for having *** even once.
She doesn't have to be your daughter
For you to expect boys to respect her as a person.
"What if she was your mother/daughter/sister?"
Shouldn't be a valid question.
It shouldn't be a question that makes you stop and think,
"That's true, I need to treat women like I'd treat my female family members."
As though it's given you the epiphany
That even women you don't know are entitled to decency.
And if that question is what made you change your ways,
Get rid of the notion that women can only be treated to
The same amount of basic respect as men
If you can imagine your mother's/sister's/daughter's face staring back.
1.0k · Nov 2016
Corvus Nov 2016
Sometimes I don't know how you love me.
How you can put up with this sick mind of mine
That never gives us a reprieve.
I can never even be alone with you,
Because I see shadows of ghosts on the walls,
Shadows of trauma left behind to haunt me.
The truth is simply that I'm never me when we're alone.
I'm either too scared of becoming the animal
That rips you apart from the inside;
Or I'm too scared of being so fragile that I crumble to dust.
I can't feel vulnerable around you, I get too exposed,
Like my entire body is a nerve, and any connection to you will hurt.
And when that happens, what do I do?
I can't run to your arms for comfort if touch is agony.
Honestly, half the time, I pretend you're just a stranger,
Because it's so much easier to feel like I don't love you.
Like I'm not making the woman I love the victim of my animosity
Or the recipient of my degradation.
Half the time, I'm not even listening
When you tell me it's OK, we don't have to do this, it's OK.
Half the time, I'm already drowning.
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