Sweltering in the sun, wishing for a warm rain
thirsty drooping flowers crave a refreshing drink
the brook dries up waiting for the rain to flow again
the heat waves shimmered, the rocks seemed to shrink,
Then I heard the gentle tapping on my window-pane
and watched the rain spill to earth from heaven's brink
flower heads lift as rain soaks their garden beds
a brook ripples and sparkles as the water quickly spreads
ALesiach © 09/01/2017
I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.
Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.
But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.
My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.
There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.
As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.
The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.
The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.
I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.
My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.
The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.
Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.
I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.
I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.
I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.
I craft subconscious relief,
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.
I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.
I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.
a river bed lies profoundly dry
out in the remote west
showing no visible signs
of any trickle's zest
each day bringing the same
emptiness of refrain
thirsty river banks are feeling
such a sustained pain
the wanted gift of moisture
being absent far too long
a river's course slowly dying
to feel a dampness of song
soon the summer's scorch shall
be again upon the river's trace
in its despairing hour it will beg
for rain's life giving grace
The rain isn't bad unless you're stuck outside,
but then again you can look at it from California's eyes:
a blessing from the skies
Dark clouds collect overhead
You are as hidden as the sun
As far from me as the moon
Joined life we knew is done
It has been storming since we parted ways
Raindrops falling all the time
Friends tell me to keep my chin up
Starting to think the sun lost its shine
I am tired of this poor weather
Heart colder than winter snow
Drafts slipping through the front door
Sneaking in the crack below
I look towards the sky for freedom
Releif from this torrential curse
Although buckets of water dump from above
Only your kiss can quench my thirst
Why is it always gloomy in Amandaland?
every now and then my pen runs dry.
i forget how to swallow the words of others, as if any thought can be truly organic.
why isn’t there a farmer’s market for ingenuity?
how much to buy a phrase that could finally satisfy me,
a phrase that would finally make me stop after years and years of
nomadic poetry tried to string together meaningless events into a story
that actually made sense?
every now and then,
my pen runs
i spit all of my words out in search of answers to
questions i shouldn’t ask.
i was parched.
i have so long been parched.
i will set my pen down
and one day
i will look up to the sky in this desert of my own creation
and i will stop trying to put the pieces together
( there are none that fit)
i will close my eyes
and let the rain fall.
Pain makes people wage a storm.
Most would release the beast in any form
without hesitation, without fear;
without minding the damage,
they wouldn't even mind the effect they manage.
As they release their storm,
they thought they could also release their pain;
but little do they know,
that they actually pass on the pain.
Instead of having it ended,
it continues to grow;
resurrecting, from one to another soul.
But mine is different--pain makes me silent.
There's this huge hole within my soul
which I couldn't even detect.
There's this heavy atmosphere
that prevents me from breathing.
I would like to wage a storm, but I couldn't.
I would like to release my pain, but I couldn't.
All that I could do is feel it.
Suffer from it.
Silence is all that I could offer the world;
not a storm, not a beast, or anything
that would cause some damage to others,
but silence that only brings damage to myself.
At least I wouldn't be able to hurt others;
the pain would just end within me.
Or so I thought it would end.
i couldn't use any rhyme this time. this is more like my raw thoughts without any drop of creativity. yeah well I just need to release something, sorry.
The birds fall from the sky.
My eyes are dry.
The buildings collapse on top of me.
My eyes are dry.
I realize I cannot cry.
My eyes remain dry.
I let out a sigh.
Still, my eyes are dry.
I realize you're going to die.
My eyes want to, but they cannot cry.
How is everyone doing today?
I'll remember the time,
When your words and smile,
Made me new.
It makes my chest sink,
In agony of what could have been.
A love I wanted to give,
That fell, pointlessly.
I still fell for her,
Even when she told me not to.
I'll remember the time,
When the words that escaped my lips,
felt like the perfect me.
Now only letters remind me of her voice,
Poetry for me.
When every word I used was for her,
And they ran out.
A drift of space,
A burning drought.
I'll remember the time,
When I told myself to stop writing about you.
If you feel something for someone, tell them.
for so long, i have been watering my own petals
aiding in my own growth
soaking my roots with positivity and love
growing to my fullest potential
and then you came along
and i thought you would continue to help me grow
but you put me into a drought
leaving me thirsty and gasping for air
now because of you
my petals are wilting away
from your harsh abandonment and apathy
and my soul will now rot
because of this terrible lonely drought
hindering my growth
and leaving me utterly and completely helpless and alone
how can i grow when you are pulling me back