It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away
As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start
But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save
Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out
Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone
Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane
Mike opened this piece and we went from there.
Hope you enjoy this Hello Poetry collaboration too :)
It goes without saying, just how honoured we are to have this as Daily <3
Y'all are the greatest <3
Thank you so much <3
In my mind
hollow stars litter life on Mars;
is that who we are?
Rage seeps soft skin
skin burnt red cheeks
burnt eyes to
It’s so dark
I want more,
do you know what lies
beyod the door?
to imprisoned hues
but no one moves
blood stains taint rain
another thought in our brains
-do you really think
Greens turn black, blues turn grey
-behold the greatness of today.
In my mind
tears mold to truer forms
metaphor for metamorphosis
-there is no time there is no space
but there is an end
that we’ve misplaced.
Face the truth:
it’s easier to lie,
lets resuscitate the creativity
Lose your fear for transformation,
without it there is no hope for creation;
embrace change, rearrange,
find a living reincarnation.
Where it is dark, there will be beauty.
Where it is light, there will be beauty.
The answer is there for us to take;
so wake up, realise,
find growth in your mistakes.
some thoughts on human kind
the excellence is evident in the credulous eminence
blessedness in the discipline of relevant emphasis
intelligence, if directionless, can lead to arrogance
purposeless over-confidence of pendulous relevance
defiantly, yet reliably, calliope waiting quietly
a variety of society that finds height in irony
i solemnly and politely will happily sit silently
finally facing the gravity patiently and privately
in Greek mythology, a calliope is a muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry;
And there we were drinking in the stars,
syllables, rhyme & reason, sweet nothings
our tongues and throats;
a wisp of an inferno.
The sun rise was our full-stop.
Chin up. Come on, you've got this.
(Everything else in my book is all way too blue right now. Sometimes one has to write a little yellow sunshine.)
The Embrace of my veins and my heart
Arteries wrap around the red flesh
as would the vines of a ****
-around the trunk of a tree.
I feel I have become rooted
in the rotting Earth
while my branches grasp
for the impossibility
of fragmented clouds.
My empty blood travels
-in hues of violet and indigo-
through the imprisoned tree
that is my Body.
I reach both extremes
but I am never satisfied.
Feeling a little inspiration from some truly incredible Japanese authors like Yukio Mishima and the artist Yayoi Kusama.
They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.
They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.
They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.
With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.
It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.
It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.
It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.
Whether a tear
or a ghost hidden
behind night’s pall;
of our flesh.
Cold iris of
just a quick little something!