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fray narte Jul 2020
i wanna dive head first
into a map of the night skies
trapped inside our four-walled room;
maybe this is where black holes go to die
and they can all stare back at me —
swallowing a chaos of sobs
and a chaos of all your favorite songs;
regardless, i’ll dive into the night skies,
or what it used to be
and name these stars – the ones that remain anyway,
after you.
after me.
after us;
at least they take a long time to die –
long enough for flowers to droop and fall apart
on weeds and lonely epitaphs.

and dear, i hope heaven is holding you closer than i could ever had;
tell me, did you, like sylvia
write suicide notes and call them poetry?

and god do i hope that heaven is holding you so close,
you forget all of the world’s sadness
you once took for your own.

out here, the calendula falls and
my eyes mourn over petal-covered graves
poems cannot hope to beautify.
and i still wish this is something i can wake up from
fray narte Jul 2020
calypso withers away in a lonely island —
a blunder away from crumbling
at the sight of seaspray and empty towns.

sweet one, this isle is too small
for heartbreaks too big and soon enough,
gods and grecian men
and sad, sad, dead-eyed boys
will be greeted by a mayhem of sobs,
like flies dispersing off a dead body
held together by skin —
pale,
porcelain,
dead —
skin, stretched across these bones,
like the sea stretches across all of its sadness —
and ogygia, a lost isle,
disappears —
a speck of black in a shade of teal;

a pity your heart is not big enough for these sorrows
and not small enough to vanish.

and perhaps, betrayals do not come from
temporary lovers but from your skin
stretching, growing,
making room for years of blunders
until  y o u  are
n o
m o r e
but a name baptized in the wrong side of the war
and caught in a blunder
thousands of years too late.


it's been a long while;
the sun remembers your smile in his death bed, sweet one.
Justine Louisy Jun 2020
See,
I’m not your normal kind as
it’s difficult to find the
dedication in me.
Yes, I know you payed a small fee,
to buffer your careless cars looks or
to tend to your metal head hooks.

But believe me when I say,
get ready as you better find another way in
dealing with your troubled goods.

Meanwhile, I will confine myself in a multitude of bin lining hoods.

Justine Louisy

Copyright © Justine Louisy 2017
All Rights Reserved
Justine Louisy Jun 2020
Crisp mornings.
The crispness inflamed the soles of my stem.
I shiver at the thought.
The shiver ponders my mind to the last days I ....

Enough.
The succulent hands of the summer breeze is here.
Myself and the other folks sway and cheer,
sitting on the tailored twigs of Oldman the oak tree.
Spencer the sun glazing our trichomes.
Warmth.

We exchange gentle rustling two and fro,
like the sound of an ancient ***** awaiting to uplift the show.
Blackbirds and wood pigeons in the air,
up against each other to strike the berry in the bush goal.
What a perfect life I’m pleased to see.

Maggie magpie why do you perch on my branch so?
your bewitching colours like a piercing cry,
surely I’m not yet to..

The howling of the clouds,
the punches of lightening,
The heavens they open,
good gracious how frightening.

The kicks of the autumn breeze is here.
Stomata is failing.
Stomata is failing.
I’m latching onto the twig,
my ancient armchair.

Carotenoids and Xanthophyll’s,
dehydrated wrinkly skin.
Gut wrenching red anthocyanin,
like lucifer leukaemia stabbing my soul.

Crisp mornings.
I disconnect.
I fall.
I hit.
I lay.
In the flurries of snow,
amongst my other folks.

Oldman the oak tree hospice is empty once again.

RIP

Justine Louisy
Copyright © Justine Louisy 2016
All Rights Reserved
So this poem is one of my older poems when I first started writing around 4 years ago... a metaphorical piece with a lot of context. Hope you enjoy 😊 !!
fray narte Jun 2020
someplace else
alice never bothered leaving.

i know a thing or two about girls who jump rabbit holes —
all dead eyes and ripped laces and cigarettes;
there was no white rabbit to begin with.
i know a thing or two about girls
who run away from themselves.

alice — a wildflower as they say:
with limbs made of wilted dahlias,
with wasps nesting in her chest — alice,
has the cat not told you that
one can only lay too much flowers
on just a single grave —
just a single hollow body,
before they grow into forest of trees
from where all your nooses hang?

nonetheless, tiptoe and fall.
this way to wonderland —
this way to the rabbit hole,
this way to the cemetery,
this way to your eyes,
to your chest,
to your palms.
has the fickle cat not told you that
there was no white rabbit
in the advent of your own apocalypse?

this is your fairytale, sweet, sweet girl.
light that cigarette and set yourself on fire,
your mind already is hell anyway.
and i know a thing or two about a girl who descended to hell —
you are proserpina without the weeping.
you are proserpina without the crown.

but in someplace else,
alice never bothered leaving.
no one's waiting back at home,
and no one's waiting to be found.
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
under the unseen
wastes floating
alongside the clouds,
i’ve peered
at the blurring memories
of times bygone

the waves
that used to waltz gracefully
are now as loose
as the sands in the shore
where they used to land.
when they ebb
into their horizons
once a month,
the daisies planted
on the ocean floor are revealed:
wilting, patiently,
beside the rusting metals
of sunken ships and people

those who reign over
the cities are still
trading air and tanks
with gold;
the cosmonauts that remained
are left with no choice
but to dig
and try to survive  

they say small towns
are now vanquished,
but when you look
intently beyond
the forlorn and barbed wires,
traces of life can be seen —
on half-bare trees and
on blood-painted gutters.

in where we reside,
footsteps and words
are almost nowhere
to be heard.
we walk lightly as how
we breathe quietly.
if you get to visit our place,
squint your eyes
and gaze beyond
our tinted masks —
i pray
that you’ll somehow see
how we’re still
what we used to be:

living creatures,
only trapped
in strange times.
EL Borromeo Jun 2020
carve your words on winds
and let the fleeting air
caress the wounds
you courageously cut open;
let them bleed again
and let the fresh scent
send the birds to singing;
forget about the inked papers —
no one reads anymore
and the world forgets anyway
fray narte Jun 2020
and i will wait for you here on the other side, where the earth and her fields await the footsteps of that girl who dared to swallow pomegranate seeds — each one holding a tenfold of unsaid apologies. i will wait for you here, where the storms i brewed found themselves pressing against the softness of lilacs, where the nightfall forgives the sunset for leaving, where morning smells of teakwood and rain. and you will realize that each sigh does not have to weigh like a thousand bent bromeliads — that each breath does not have to ache in the presence of morning light. you will deserve every bit of softness you tried so hard to ****. you will deserve every bit of moment that doesn't hurt — someday, you'll get here and you'll know. you'll know.

— to my younger self
fray narte May 2020
and my fingers will trace these scars on your chest — they're no fault lines but darling, i can fall and fall and fold myself into wildflowers on which sunlight unfurls. but this world, it's a battlefield and red roses bloom not from the soil but from the skin and every death feels like the first.

every kiss feels like the last.

and darling, tomorrow, we have all the time to be broken. we have all the time to grow up. but tonight, let me hold you close; my hands are weary of writing elegies. tonight, let me drown in your seastorm eyes; i am tired of looking for temporary ports and for all the wrong shades of blue. tonight, i will read you poems about a girl named helen, who loved despite the war. tonight, the world can crumble down and i can stay right here, safe and sound in the comfort of your sighs, like a girl resting against bruised lilacs. i can stay right here watching you sleep until the earliest hours, forever asking myself how can someone so ******, so broken by this world possess this much softness.

this much gentleness.

this much peace.

regardless, rest your weary bones, my love. morning still is far away.
fray narte May 2020
if only icarus had fallen in love with the moon,
for the sea is her pining lover.

if only he had fallen in love with the moon this time,
then maybe,
the seafoam would have understood the heartbreak,
would have been kind enough to caress his dead body
onto the shore.

sweet one,
poems are for when you fall in love
with someone who just breaks your heart,
and this is
an elegy.
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