The doubt is with the night
forever hanging in the head
it sips all the fire
the flickering stars, the
bickering meteors
the maelstrom spews hate
over the pinned madness
the magnetic field emits hate
over the pinned sadness
if it sincerely wants
to be accepted
look no further than
how life has been enacted.
Turn me into a metaphor
Any metaphor, I don't care which one
Either I'm the raging storm or the silhoutte against the moon
I'm the sunshine on your wet hair or the rain drowing you
I don't ask for your love
Just make me into a literary device
Pen me on paper
That is the only way I'll feel alive
When your words caress my presence even if your hands don't
When I will be immortalized in your works
I don't care if you stay with me for eternity or let me go
I want you to remember me and construct me into prose
Which maybe people will recall
And feel something, anything at all
I want you to use me to create that warmth
That sensation that the lonely strive for
So break my heart
Use my pieces to scratch out words
Use my blood to ink them into sheets
I don't care what you do to me
Just turn me into a goddamn metaphor
And store me in your poetry
Inspired by Not Marble Nor the Gilded Monuments by Shakespeare
kiana Jul 8
my picket fence
is ablaze
the white paint
begins to flake
as the fire
of my thoughts
uses its flame
to burn me down
plank by plank
theres nothing left
nothing left to hide
there's the burnt house
that I am
doomed from a previous fire
I could not contain
With Statius I will spend
400 years whispering
accompanied by 500 more
before we might venture
to that shining shore
of Paradise.
Would it have been worth it,
after all,
after the wealth,
the races,
after the fiery sea,
among some whispers between you and me,
would it have been worthwhile
to have prayed for 900 years
for sin as vile as
Paris' bow and arrow?
I know only
what you know,
save for the certain facade
we tread now.
Dreams, the friendly version of the ghosts in unfinished business. Constructing bloody minds and arguing morals, while privately respecting the Devil. Shaping poems, turning ethics to ashes. Sweeping fashions over this world.
Well done. Life given freely to living souls. Death is owed. We’re all in debt. The forbidden fruit always tastes better and generally more successful.
It’s too bad.
Dissent friction. Sparking life. Duality of individuals. I’ll keep going back. I’ve looked behind the curtain and saw everything evangelical. Faith not required. Dogma becomes an addiction. Conformity in actions of order-impressions. Laughs and hugs.
And if a philosopher is asked, reality is depending on perceptions.
Power and freedom are this world's best lovers. Enticed drawn in by people.
For some, the difference between God and the Devil. One can be meet before the act of dying as the other is waiting for you to cross over to be judged. Following one will provide freedom here on earth as the rest compensate to be completely corrupted. Don’t sin in my steps. I’m going to be punished by hard-living. Best kept secrets are told in tender moments after lovemaking sessions. I’ve got nothing but love for the mystics in penitentiaries, soldiers of the century. I’m directly organized and their husbands will never, because I got away. When I die, teardrops will soak into earth, I’ve got meaning in exile. I’m long gone.
;
We use punctuation for:

Expectance.

Living can be,

Paused.

Cannot be;

Restarted.

Punctuation is intended to empower

(Superiority in writing).

Life is pointless without meaning -

It needs details.

Things can be said

"I love you".

Questions can be asked

Is that a lie?

Living can be contemplated

Life is *

* Good

Life can be created

@ my house @ 4.

Or you can be trapped

[you].
gabriela Jul 2014
I noticed devices,
the signs used in books to foreshadow
to hint at the written future
and at what is ahead to come

like our strides while we walked
or the difference in our shadows
that hints at our now-passed future
and at what has already come

it has been six months now
half a year since we have grown apart
and I'm not asking for you back
to be as close as we had come

just please think about me
was I important to you at all
if you left me as fast as you did
even as close as we had come?

just please think about us
and I'm still not asking for you back
it's just something to think of
if you have time left for me, love
for a friend of mine I lost and how I felt several months ago
To be in pursuit in my own destiny, to break away
from my dreams. Proclaiming my inner world as
my state. Land walked over. Vagabond. Lusting
for experience. Haunting now. Haunting never.
I’m breaking the narrative of society and made
something of myself. Poetry that I write, is a
different story. Truth be told, its in order to grab
attention from thy lover.
(knowledge variable)
I miss you, Cincinnatus C.
How long were our days of captivity
for knowing that we
know not.
Our part was red and
loud and
hot,
and I can now only wait for
the reign of terror to end
me.
Title credit: Vladimir Nabokov, 1935.
Next page