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Mar 2016 · 429
20 lines for lost ties
PH Mar 2016
interlocked eyes
our spirits
once interwoven
intertwined

minds collide
coalesce
divide
no longer remaining at my side

a trace of light
amidst my darkest skies
dimmed
to a forlorn hue

the warm touch
of the artifice
subdued
no longer blind to the truth

thank you
once revered companion
purity of your heart mere illusion
mere farce
Apr 2015 · 519
Ode to the Lost Lover
PH Apr 2015
Now you lay beneath my feet,
Wilted petals covering the ground
I write this ode to you,
Intangible lover,
We remain kindred spirits
Separated by the boundless sky

I remember the day,
The overcasted sky,
That phone call.
Trembling knees giving way to uncontrollable tears.
No more conversations to be had,
No more laughs to be shared.
That day you left me,
I couldn’t even say goodbye.

Those wild, untamed curls,
Oh how they’d always tickle my face
Tickling my heart.
When I was with you,
Time froze to a standstill.
Gleaming effervescence,
Scintillating demeanor,
I thank you for being you.
For helping me to smile again.

Memories of you I cherish.
The first time we met,
The first time we kissed,
The first time I cried over you,
For I miss the firsts, the seconds, the thirds,
Longing to relive those moments.
They’re all I have left,
Photographs never to suffice.
In memory of an amazing person
PH Apr 2015
perpetual expeditions amidst this hazy twilight,
periwinkled vistas ensnaring me in

buzzzzzzzzzzzz
the sound penetrates my ear drum

black and yellow rabble-rouser
this rambunctious little menace

a pomegranate
eternally ripe, giving me life

gilled, scaled, underwater creature
emerging from the deep, boundless rift

two tantalizing tigers
troublesome, treacherous

and she laid there—
undisturbed, unaware

jabbed in her side by a M1903 Springfield
soothed state rattled, shattered

wincing from the poke of the blunt end of the gun
the sleeping lady slept no more

poor fellows,
how were they supposed to hold on to it without opposable thumbs?
  
the distressed damsel appeared grotesque,
flailing and fidgeting at the sight of her surroundings

surface rocking beneath my feat,
my trusty elephant’s weak ankles shattering my already shattered stability

i had no more time for such nonsenses
buzzing sounds burned deep into my psyche

the soft-spoken horizon called out to me
calling for me to continue on into the enigmatic expanse
Feb 2015 · 444
Alone
PH Feb 2015
She stepped outside for some fresh air,
the sky above fading into dusty twilight

The tender breeze caressed her skin,
heady aromas of springtime filling her lungs with every inhale.  

The winter was long, the winter was treacherous,
It had betrayed her.

But with the return of those cherry blossom trees
she was almost able to smile again. Almost.

Pink tinged petals falling from the trees,
Their company reminds her of him.

For it was her first time seeing them without him,
The allure of the new spring was not as it used to be.

Forever young, forever engrained in her existence.
His spirit lingered, drawn to the sounds of her broken heart

Wandering through the depths of her own despair,
her callous heart made soft by flowing tears.

She remembers him as he was in the spring,
Its essence as sweet as her memories of him
Feb 2015 · 18.2k
Budding Existentialism
PH Feb 2015
I am lost in my own germination.
I miss the innocence of adolescence,
I miss the days of being a seed.

Nostalgia stemming from maltreatment,
roots of disdain running deeper and deeper
as they absorb the negativity of my surroundings.

The sadistic nature of being
has instilled terror in my heart, a terror of the future—
for I’m not ready for my contempt of existence to flower.

I preferred being a seed.

As I blossom, I grow consumed by feelings of self-doubt,
tears falling, like petals in the springtime,
Will I survive the winter?

I preferred being a seed.

The strong winds of life rip me up by the roots.
I am slowly wilting and withering away as days pass,
unaware of when I will be trampled underfoot.


I remember the days of being a seed.
For remaining a seed would have been easier
than blossoming in a world slowly and aggressively plucking my petals.

I am nearly barren.

— The End —