There is beauty in buried love—
The subtle and soft carry so much more power,
and every touch is a stolen blessing.
No moment is taken for granted;
we are present.
Every look: a confession
to be churned over and over,
while we waltz with desire
We are ravenous for a love so blatantly before us but we don’t dare to indulge.
Mm-bap-bap Mm-bap-bap Mm-bap-bap
So we make beauty with the withstraint and we call it discipline.
I found out that with you,
promises were never kept
was never long
so, I had to accept
that our love would last for just a song.
I've been writing again. Not my best but I'm happy I'm writing for the sake of writing.
Much love, N.
I like you
I tried avoiding it
But I've been organising washing my hair around when I see you
So there's no denying it
The facts when laid bare
Read a clear tale
I say I don't like you
Try to convince myself the feelings are gone
Pretend to be okay with all of this
Then I watch you run
Your fingers through your hair
And my heart drops
Looking into shadow.
That place back there
where light won’t go.
and I see…
A me, I think, not me.
I’m not that thing,
a broken soul that peers back
from the blackness I deny.
I Am Me! but me won’t let me go.
( **** me…?)
“Shadow, won’t you let me go?” I ask. And
But, as yet, I will not hear him speak.
We were a country that lived near the equator;
I was the land and you were my infinite sky.
We have lived and witnessed our aeons together.
Each moment fleeting, and passing by.
The wind whispers, and the creatures rumble
weeping for me the unfair weather I hold
Only the dry seasons and the rainy seasons come by
and the sky, he's always done what he's always told.
When he cries, he creates floods and storms
or peaceful drizzles and ditz so plain
and when's angered, he takes right up
the moistened land and then grants me pain.
At night, he's terribly beautiful and quiet
the stars twinkle like stickers on my attic
The silent love, and the prolonged memories
and what he holds, goes far beyond semantics.
I sung, "Precious sky, I am your earth
the land you watch with clouds and dew."
And he replied, "Pretty land, you are my purpose
and there's nothing to take me from you."
When you’re your own ******
viewing your experiences,
pleasures of the past,
as you’re suspended
in branches of a flower bush,
expecting a blush
and rush of life,
find that from afar,
by time and distance,
they’re rather alarming,
you’ll gouge out your eyes
with thorns from
you’re entwined in
and stuff the sockets
with flower petals
to rose tint
that hint of unhappiness
welling within you.
This itch is a burn underneath the nails of my toes
Crawling through the crevices of my skin like a virus
Toes, feet, ankles, legs to my knees
I cannot relive this itch with a scratch it’s a *****
The sickness has consumed my body to the whole of my neck;
Choking me, this Amour
Whom has left me in a puddle of oil on the asphalt
Light a match
For the only relief I can manage is a heavier burn
In flames I plummet
Landing perfectly at the bottom again
Walking uphill I resume
Wrinkled. Dry faced. Charging down old stairs.
Not what I expected, but I lunged my frantic knife.
Wild eyes turn to wells as aged bright stars stare back.
Heart shattered visage glides, bumbling. Mirage.
Please go do some gardening. Your flowers are
Sick without you. I miss you. Dream spoilt. Crooked,
Half-hearted, direful springs sprout poison youth.
Seedlings blight your wrathful name as petals grow…
The flowers you grew colourless now bloom bright.
They miss grey! True blue is cold- burdened purple.
Feel the life drink backward, clutching an endless
Night you downed tools without final reconcile
Or friend blinded from drugs.
Now staring beyond a time-stained bitter fire,
Burnt images caught and ****** through empty dark
Tortured fear-stricken blood wincing agony- ****.
Fate lamenting, sharply-flashing, tortured picture,
Lying motionless. Bleeding internally.
My Grandfather died a couple of years ago. I had been living with him for a while. He died in his sleep and I left him covered in his own blood and ***** for 3 days. I didn't mean to. I had convinced myself he had the flu and had convinced myself that every little change in the apparel of the house was proof he had been out of his room. Until the stench broke through the filter...
Neither of us would admit
That what we had was purely
Bittersweet is what we said
Lies are just like sweetened lead
And Saccharin just makes my
And too much tastes like metal