Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
acacia Sep 10
I haven't seen you in a while; did you know today I wanted to be pink? Today I wanted to dress up in purple darkness (like the juice we drink in the dawn and dusk to commemorate the fertile groves between your mother's—that is I—legs) that'd stain every shoe you'd wear. You could sip orange juice while I dance all over the mirror,

the mirror, the mirror sees you in the way I'd want to: like the water—from every angle—like an angel you've been, even when my own plasma splashed your anatomy—from every view of that frimple in your eye, of the crinkle in your cheek, of the small mark above your nose.

My baby boy, conditionally, we are suppressing these memories: the memory of you no longer loving me. What is a mother going to do? Her baby bird has broken his farthest-right-wing; the dapper dauphin desires to fly even when he can tweet no longer. Can he even bring the petals to the celebration?

So because of this I cry and pray and grovel in the coarse sand while dusting my feathers; the same bath you used to sit in with I, smiling when I’d brush the hard Earth from your tiny head. Take your leaves and bring them to the nest:

feed me with words, I’ll feed you endorphins: my little bird, just let me die, take my note to Suicide—your phermones are all I need, I inhale them furiously. And we cry and we sigh to the God (inside us) above us, and we beg It to bless us with soft vapor that swallows us like the Swallow does; cuneiform scribes as the whispers form to you: bring me luck for my own return—I want my arc; I need rays to hit me with the brightest contingent beam. Poisoning you and not me, so I wouldn’t have to go on without you by choice.
I will grade the essay about the light inside of you, you present on the light inside of Me, me inside of You;

this started as an automatic writing session but then I started to expand on "My soul is maternal like a native country"

So this is automatic turned sequel. . . this doesn't have any direct muse, just an image of my head of a mom and a son and her husband
Dredd Dec 2018
are you actually laughing?
did you fall of your seat because it was that funny?

or was it just a silent filler,
filling those awkward pauses just so you can start another conversation.

was it just an automatic response that doesn't have real meaning?
did it make you LOL
or ROFL?

i didn't think so.
it wasn't that funny.

These days
It hurts less to be away from you
The pain is more like a
Gentle sting
Several seconds after
Pulling off a plaster
It’s still there
And it still hurts
But I am beginning to see
The light in all things again
Tequila tastes no longer
Tastes like desperation
Flowers bloom with a delicate scent
Mornings are an opportunity
For fried breakfasts and
Coffee warms more
Than just my hands
Forgetting you is impossible
But seeing you
In every day things
Feeling those tingles
Along my spine at something
Other than your touch
Gives me hope
And that is all I can ask for
These days
Another piece of automatic writing about how when you've been hurting for so long, eventually things will plateau and the light will begin to seep in again, slowly.
You might as well ask me
Not to take another breath -
To climb to the top of Arthurs seat
And not stand with my arms outstretched –
To stand in the middle of an icy street –
In the depths of midwinter
And not gaze with wonder
At the cloud of unspoken poetry
Pouring from my lips
Utterly failing to warm my hands –
And ask me –
Why do I continue –
Look in awe upon something –
So natural, that gives me
So little pleasure in return
And yet enriches my life -
So indescribably?
A piece of automatic writing I came up with in roughly a minute when I had some time to myself during the Edinburgh fringe. It's a brief meditation on unrequited love, both with a person and with a city.
Cecil Miller Aug 2018
I'm so unique nobody could be me.
The words I say reflect what I see.
I know you; I know what you're thinking.
I see the light, but I don't know why it's shining.

Sometimes, I know, I get too upset
When wrestling with the puzzles that are in my head.
My heart could love, if not for the dread.
It's like a blade that's doing me a chining.

But I can't blame it on the rock-and roll,
It's the only thing that keeps me whole,
Lord knows, it's the only, only thing that's holy.
No you can't say I'm like the other guys,
I was living large before it was fashion wise.
You know, the angels treaded far behind me lightly.

The gossamer was endless and nestling to all it neared.
The tingling within the earth let usher forth a worthless beauty to every person of it's time; but which was to be unknowingly priceless to the lives yet to come.

And the prophet cried before the day he realized he was to die, the hour before he was to find...


The automatic writing happens when you give it up,
And you never even know the meaning til it comes to pass.

But divination is a gift, even as the gossamer blinds your eyes.

And the fiber dissolves into the nullity.

When then spasm has become as the tapered wind, there is left but nothing.
The first stanza has been written for decades and been used in several pieces I have written. The rest was written tonight, as I was staring into the mirror this morning to look a little deeper. Much is still a mystery. Who knows?
Bea Mecum Jul 2018
Spirits in animal skin

blind to what they truly are

tearing apart what once was kin

leaving in wake an open scar

spirits shed your animal skin

remember what you truly are

the time has come to join your kin

and mend a deep and open scar
Bea Mecum Jul 2018
There is a golden chalice

far beyond the pale

where you may drink of all your dreams

if you can lift the vial

There is a place of time untouched

where unkind blade will never meet you

Tread the path of blinding light

to find this place is pure and true

There is a fire of untold heat

to lead you in this sacred quest

cast your self upon its flames

consume the body, and leave the rest
Bea Mecum Jul 2018
On top of a tree

between heaven and hell

was a beautiful bird

and a magical bell

when man came to be

the bird rang its bell

and from the great tree

many gifts fell

On top of the tree

between heaven and hell

man sought to steal

a bird's magic bell

when man got to the top

of this mighty tree

they stole the bird's bell

but the bird had broke free

In the ruins of a city

between heaven and hell

wan will re-discover

an old ancient bell

And though it has been long

since man did this crime

it will pain their heart

when they hear its chime

Where there once was a city

between heaven and hell

will grow a new tree

from the tears that had fell

the tree will replace

man's greatest mistake

and those who still sleep

the tree will awake
Bea Mecum Jul 2018
deep within the forbidden forest

past the crystalline tree

there is a lake that reflects the sun

and that is where you will find me

Dive deep within its waters

let them make you clean

there you will find a treasure

that man will rarely see
Bea Mecum Jul 2018
In the window of dreams

I showed you a sword

to wield as a peasant

and not as a lord

a sword that is not weapon

a sword which is a tool

to empower the wise

but burn the hand of a fool

In a time not so distant

when you open your eyes

wield this sword as a gift

but not as a prize

for this sword

that is trusted with you

should guide you to light

and save what is true
Next page