Throw me a line

I don't care if it rhymes

As long as it tickles
my posterior cingulated cortex

Spin me a vortex of spells

Yarn me a tale

Take me to heaven
or your own personal hell


Mesmerise me
with your poemetry.

If words can paint canvas on our skins, grow gardens in our hearts, leave star trials behind our thoughts, why are my poems not enough to return you to me?

Sometimes your heart needs to be broken
So you can see what's underneath,
To the flicker and flame of your soul
That you've always been destined to meet.

Sometimes your spirit shines brighter
Through the glimmering light of your tears,
And when you arrive at the end of it all
Love will outshine the darkest of years

He is drowning,

          drowning down a well I cannot reach.

He is drowning,

           I call to him, "Come back, come back my love!".

He is drowning,

          does he not hear my cries, my despair?

He is drowning,

         I see the darkness engulf him, carry him away.

He is drowning,

         he is cloaked in the comfort of emptiness.

He is drowning,

        I cannot save him for he is one with the dark now.

He is drowning,

        I succumb to the darkness with him....

My room

                                              is a work of art

on the unvacuumed           canvas

lies heaps

of U.C.S's

(unidentified clusters of                ****)

heaps                                   ­           that are only destroyed

during nights             ...                                 ...                                     .. .    .  .

that are fueled with       anxiety

or

just pu re
                    r
                   
                                      estles snes s  .

These imperfect     shapes

scattered

in comforting patterns

my          compiled life

in pieces   .

But I'm st ill restless.

The artist

is

never truly satisfied with

her

work

the mes s of          my                     life

tossed comfor tably to the ground

until i am provoked by                       ...                              ...               .. .

...

Each Article

I nd i v i dually held

Set    in   place

Stumb

                                               ling upon

Lost object  s       ... .             .

forgotten   fabrics that

held you unquestionably.

a nostaliga

art

revealing things

you were probably already looking for .

She's an alphabet artist
she paints in words,

from a palette of adjectives,
nouns and verbs,

the landscape she finds
in the folds of her mind

she exhibits in volumes of verse.