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Zeleyha Mata Feb 7
Running along the precipice of joy
Clouds of seagull feathers
Stuck between my toes
Her salty blush
Flushed across my lips
Living breathing divinity
Right at my fingertips
Heart of gold crashing on the reef
Seaweed leaves swaying in her eyes
Waves lapping at her curls
Watching as her wild unfurls
Lighthouse in my storm
Stay with me
Oh untamed beauty
Stay with me
Deep sea of pearls
Zeleyha Mata Feb 7
It lingers on the tongue
Green banana with morning mouth
Picked too early
Turning brown under the sun
Bitter bite
Leaving sticky sap on your lips
Never quite what I wanted
Even as much as he flaunted his
Sickeningly sweet eyes
It just wasn't right.
I hate commitment, but that's probably just because I'm afraid of it
Zeleyha Mata Jan 29
Pretty boy,
You remind me of snowdrops in summer,
Skin as soft as their petals
Smile warm enough to melt my February snow
Giving way for your little flowers to grow.
Pretty boy,
You taste sweet
Like milk dancing in morning coffee,
Which lingers on my tongue when I think of you.
And a little spicy
Like dark chocolate
With a pinch of salt and cayenne
Pretty boy,
In your eyes I see a blue moon's craters
A silky sky with cotton candy clouds,
And maybe little white sailboats lost at sea,
Trying to find the edge of the world...
If only they knew that there was no such thing as an end to you.
Pretty boy,
Did I ever tell you
Your body is my favorite work of art,
A masterpiece really,
Of undying renaissance beauty
With curves and edges that I could trace for eternity.
That the sound of your voice is like waking up in misty sunshine
Wearing nothing but warm sheets
Or that your laugh rivals a warm breeze rustling through the trees in late July.
Pretty boy,
It would be foolish to pluck you simply for your beauty,
And watch as your petals begin to shrivel,
And even more absurd to think that
Snowdrops don't belong in the wild.
Pretty boy, will you be mine for awhile?
Zeleyha Mata Dec 2018
A boy with dimples had the same dream.
To live wild amongst rivers and forests and gentle beasts,
With sunlight as our clothes and berry juice on our toes,
Pretty moss growing in the hills and valleys of our ****** landscapes.
We dreamed of a place where time did not exist,
Traveling in painted buses,
Humming to the song of a soft kiss.
We dreamed of making love in canoes covered in a blanket of mist,
Arms pinned against dewy forest beds,
Giggling under orchards of peaches and cherries.
The blood between our legs would not be sin,
Watering the ground under our feet where all the gentle beasts had been.
I wished to trace the mountains on his skin as we lay in a meadow of wild flowers.
Sleeping by the fire, watching sparks turn into stars,
Spellbound by full moon dances,
Living in a world of musical silence
Stripped of our flesh, our beautiful human disguise.
A boy with dimples had the same dream.
About you, pretty boy.
Zeleyha Mata Dec 2018
In a little room tucked away in her fantasy garden
She painted her heart
The sound of rasping across a canvas
Almost coaxed her lips into a curve
Dip and swish and flick against her broken cup
Her eyes traced the colors with fragile trust
They painted what had not yet been painted
Getting lost in the landscape of her emotions
Forming at the jagged cliff of heartbreak
Pretty little eyelashes fell off as easy as dandelion seeds
Getting mixed in with horse hair bristles and dusty aprons
Her smile could do the work itself
Lighting up in a thousand shades
But she only liked the colors
Red and blue
Because they were his favorite
"Cherries and bluebells" she would say
“That's what his heart looked like”
When he pinned it to hers
But he didn’t like the way they mixed
“An **** shade of purple”
He would say
Bluebells dried pressed against her lips
Cherries shriveled on her tongue
And he left from the world
Leaving little footprints in the snow for miles and miles
Now she knows that only red and blue can make her smile.
Inspired by red and blue paint splattered on a trash can
Zeleyha Mata Nov 2018
He was pale as death,
running down like an over-wound clock
Beneath his eyes,
dark signs of sleeplessness tumbled short of his dreams.
The pale gold odor of his lips,
Parted with a series of beginnings.
He was confounded with wonder at her presence
That voice held him most
Swathed in rose and lavender silk
The darker, well-kept expanse of his suppressed eagerness blazed with light.
His eyes,
a deep tropical burn,
on fire like the World’s Fair
remotely possessed by intense life
like a trembling match
stained with creative passion

He searched for her night and day
The exhilarating ripple of her voice was a wild tonic rain
a deathless song
a faint flow of thunder
he followed the sound of it into the thick folds of the sky.
her well-loved eyes,
smeared with tears,
glistening drops smashed into pieces on the floor
Standing in a puddle of mid-summer flowers
Bright ecstatic smile on the edge of pouring rain
Its fluctuating, feverish warmth,
full of aching grieving beauty,
told of unexpected joy
Are you in love with me?
Found poem from The Great Gatsby
Zeleyha Mata Nov 2018
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks

You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you

You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.

Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Inspired by a photograph of a burnt field that I saw in an art gallery. For my mom.
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