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Like the coming of the seasons
Expected yet revered
the tide whispers in
bringing with it
the cries of the oyster catchers
to soothe my weary brow.
Foam twists and wanes
rushing to my form
only to turn tail
and reappear within a ripple of time.
This water holds my soul
She heard my raging birth
as I heard her raging heart
We are connected
My turmoil hers
her turmoil heavily mine
as the moon sits uneasily
upon her horizon.
Whispers surround me
my name murmured
in a thousand dialects
though I am alone.
Blue sky thinking
black sky despair,
unpleasant bedfellows
for a corpse.
Hope lies steadily,
her icy depths temptation,
her followers below
glad eyed and grinning.
I am loss eternal
I do not beckon to the light,
I only live within the black
of my heathen creation.
Raw
Tears fall like rain
scarring skin
as my heart breaks in two.

Who am I?

Swirling in a maelstrom, deepest black
as bruises form unseen.
Hands tremble like leaves
reaching for purchase
grasping for the last vestige of light.

All are beyond me now
Touch, a distant memory.
Sympathy tilts in time
with broken clocks
as impatience looms large
on my souls horizon.

Blood drips its crimson path
tainting all and maiming none
as temptation laughs her last
at my broken shell.

This night, too long to sing of
will not be my last.
Hold me tight against the chill
Bag my bones and bind my eyes
then lead me down to where you sleep
to lay amongst your pretty lies.

Whisper to me hymns of pain
Bind my hands with silver twine
then do your bidding, as you will
for there is none as sweet as mine.
Words like knives
issue violence
beneath dreams foretold,
a thousand sorrows
etched by slumbers hand.

"all is not lost"

a bitter platitude now
as I merge with the stillness.
My shoulders heavy with silence
I wait.
Did you hear me whisper
through the rustling of the leaves?
Did you feel my kiss up on your brow
as I swirled among the trees?
Did notice how my love for you
shone with the midday sun?
Although for now, we are apart
we'll always be as one

Did you hear my happy laughter
in the babbling of the brook?
see my eyes among the bluebells?
won't you take another look?
Did you hear my song sung gently
with the stirring of the pines?
a song of longing for the day
when your heart lives with mine.

I will search for you on rooftops
when the moonlight lights the tiles
I  will search in each reflection
for the light once in your eyes
I will dance with every passing breeze
and howl into the rain
until you come back home to me
to live in peace again.
I was reading Wuthering Heights a while back and became obsessed with Cathys obsession with Heathcliff. So this poem is dedicated to her inspiration.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of ****
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't
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