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Moon Ariella Nov 2016
read the poetry i write,
and tell me you do not love me.

see the words that pour out of me,
and tell me i am not the most powerful force you've felt on this earth.

feel the emotion inside of me,
and tell me that you do not want to gaze inside of my soul and swim in the beauty, the purity, the divination and be drowned alive - worth it for the cause.

tell me i am not magic. i dare you.

i have experienced ethereal, other-worldly connection.
and here i am. standing. in spite of it all.

i am a living, breathing enchantment of metaphysics.

look me in the eye, engage with my mind and tell me that i am not a force to be reckoned with. feel me, and tell me that i am not everything. taste me, and tell me you are not starving.
Moon Ariella Apr 2016
I look up to the sky and realise how large this universe is and how endless the possibilities are and how minuscule I am in comparison, and I am dehydrated. I am dehydrated with a thirst for life that no man could ever quench.
Moon Ariella Apr 2016
I never want to have my feet so firmly on the ground that I am worried about trivial humanly things, that will disperse along with my body in this shell upon my time here on this earth.
Moon Ariella Feb 2015
They say home is where the heart is and they couldn't be more correct.

You see, I ripped my heart out and handed it to you whilst it layed beating in your open palm, and that is where it remained - in your clutch for eternity, and that's why you will always be where I belong.

You will always be my destination.
You will always be my journey, my route. My souls compass and GPS system will always direct me to you - through backstreets and alley ways and sidewalks, across continents and oceans - my path will always lead back to you. My mind will always have your existence mentally stored as my address. Your name will always be my street, my road. I don't remember any prior location before you. You will always be the place I go to rest, you will always be the place I lay my head. and for that, you are home.

Home is not made of plaster and paint, or bricks and mortar. Home is the look you give me when our souls communicate via the emotion in the dilated pupils of our eyes, like portals to another realm where it's only us that exist; without having to exchange a single word, without having to part our mouth even a centimetre, without having to exhale or breathe.

Home is feeling our fingertips draw together in perfect unison as though they are polar opposites, possessing a magnetic force after being apart for so long.

Home is the way your body slides effortlessly into the shape of mine so perfectly like fate intended us to complete the other half of another like the universes favourite jigsaw puzzle and we knew we were missing pieces before we met but we had no idea we were pieces.

Home is the warm feeling of fulfilment and content that fills my fragile heart entirely at 6am when we are climbing upstairs to bed together with sleepy slanted eyes, greeted by the light of the world waking and the birds tweeting, as we are only now just laying to rest. Because that's how it works doesn't it? you and me. it's us and our world, on different terms to the rest. the sun and the moon dancing around the planet of our love.
Moon Ariella Dec 2014
it's 5am and my bruised and tender ribs are crushing down on my even more-so bruised heart like they are aware of the feelings I possess and are attempting to compress them all and keep them caged inside of my soul to refrain them from making their escape and ending up into the wrong hands, hands who would rip them to pieces and make me choke on them six months down the line.

I feel them dig into me heavily like they know what's best for me, like they are saying "we know we are hurting you right now and we know you can't breathe but we're doing this to save you - to save you you from even worse pain in time to come when you'd stop breathing altogether and your tears become such a permanent imprint into your cheeks that people ask who your tattoo artist is and if he would do similar work on them, but you would look them in the eye and tell them they don't need needles scratched into the surface of their skin to attain the permanent scarification you do and instead you'll pass them the number of the boy who did this to you."
Moon Ariella Dec 2014
If all you seek is a release for your testosterone and a hiding place for your hormones then leave me in peace, for I'd much rather wrap myself around the words of greater men like Bukowski, or Hemingway, or Poe, Wilde, Cummings or Nietzsche.

They'd write about the words that slip from my lips and the way in which they somehow all of a sudden take them back to their childhood when they were three years old again, standing in the kitchen doorway, observing the verbal missiles being shot during the bitter separation of the parents marriage. 

They'd write about my eyes and the way they glisten with hope, brown orbs lit up like a fire, only to be dampened out again with realisation and truth and disappointment.

But, these boys, they don’t bother trying to find out exactly what, or who, I am. yet their concerns regarding me lie within more trivial areas.

They don’t know the map of green and blue that my veins depict. they don’t know the emotion that washes over me and grabs a choke of me, leaving me decomposed and gasping for breath. they don’t know the way the mechanics of my mind work. stop ******* disregarding my soul, my PERSON.

I am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more than a body, i am more th-

in the words of Sylvia Plath, “kiss me and you will see how important i am.”
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