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  Nov 2018 Arke
Talking Back
Sometimes I wonder
Just what is the point
Of cultivating a dead garden?
A dying friendship?

The flowers only wilt
The conversation scarce
No matter how much you check on them
Defend them from the elements
Encourage and will them to exist
There exist only the hard truth

You can only grow
What wishes to grow
Save
What wishes to be saved.
  Nov 2018 Arke
michaela
I cannot compose brilliant poems, sonnets, or verses,

and I cannot speak to you in Latin or Greek;

I cannot move you with any language made up by man.

Love is the only only language I could touch you with

If you only knew how much I could love you.

If you knew I love you;

If I were brave enough to tell you at all.
  Nov 2018 Arke
Bus Poet Stop
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Arke Nov 2018
is it my soul you see
can you break me

bone by bone
crush my skull
yours to disown
or even cull

I can fake it
long enough
in two I've split
you call me tough

but bruises form
and I am torn

hear my plea
my body swells
please, break me
I won't tell
Arke Nov 2018
you photograph me
the parts I hate
my stomach and legs
the shutter clicks
zoom on my stretch marks
my jiggly bits and thighs
draped with see-through fabric
my skin for your eyes
to capture me
through your lens
raw and rose-coloured
we'll see what develops tonight
hot lights flash stars
my eyes are fixed on
your lips as they smirk
when you catch me
off-guard and too real
you're too close to my face
you're too close to my body
you're too close to my heart
and for a moment I'm scared
that your camera really does
capture all of me
all the parts I hate
my darkness and anger
the sad memories
the things I've done
the people I've hurt
I'm nervous you see me
but you whisper I'm beautiful
there's another click and flash
for a moment I believe you
and hope the camera captures
the me that you see
through your lens
Ran out of my own fantasies so decided to write about someone else's
Arke Nov 2018
I'm a jack-of-all-trades
good at nothing
good for nothing
I've never learned how to swim
or play an instrument
I can't drive a car
or write anything well
or carve your name in the stars
where it deserves to be

and I've never created
a single thing I've felt proud of
but I can cheer you on
watch you swim laps
from the shallowest end of the pool
and get excited when you publish
your capital "L" Literature
I'll cover you in glitter
so you'll shine to the ends of the galaxy
then we'll watch how every star in the night sky
blinks your name in morse code
  Nov 2018 Arke
Nuna
Forgive me if my pain has touched you in ways my hands never have
You’ve got wounds I should have kissed gently and fire beneath your skin

Instead I bought you flowers you’re allergic to and wrote poems about your tears

Some days I tend to over-romanticise your bleeding lips that you never stop biting
Other days I can’t stand the way your lips curve when you laugh and the freckles on your hands

I’m a mess but believe me when I say my hands are clean
I’m just trying to love you
Even if it’s the wrong way
I hope you get the message
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