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fray narte Oct 3
tw

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this sorrow has grown stems and branches;
soon, they will dig their way in,
handing me flowers for a funeral.

some nights, it is a switchblade
digging deeper into my wounds —
other nights, it is an act of kindness.

some nights, my lips refuse to read aloud
the epitaphs carved in my headboard.
other nights, i recite them like poems
worth laying at a forest's doorstep —
in a worn-out dress and
with mud in my skin.
from the dark,
i cannot tell whether the offering
is this poem or me.

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this sorrow has grown roots
in the gaps where all my bones used to rest —
and there is no way out of these woods
when your heart has long hanged itself —
when your feet are sinking quicker
than they move.

and soon, you'll find that the butterflies in my stomach
had been nipping on these funeral flowers —
nipping for so long on my flesh —
inside out.

sorry, i am running out of ribs to break
and this chest has become a wide-open mass graveyard.

here, their weary bodies lie —
the girls made of blackened bones and dystopia.
the girls who don't survive themselves.
here, their weary bodies lie.

here — where my weary body lies.
aviisevil Sep 24
home is where the heart is, but what if the heart is broken and lost ?

what then, when there are no roads and no pathways, but a forest with naked trees, and with barely enough sunlight creeping in, to make out the void that surrounds us at all times.

what if a mind does not require a body anymore ?

where do we go from there ?

questions pierce my conscience like an asteroid hitting earth traveling at a thousand miles per heart beat,

evaporating any sense of belief or religion that existed in the deepest corners of my being, resembling a fire that even sun is afraid of --

what if the answers never come ?

what if everything ends before i can wake up, before i have the urge to do something worthwhile with my dreams and fears,

i can build castles in sand and bury my doubts in tiny rooms with tiny beds, but never escape this impending sense of doom that has made a circus in my veins, always to and fro the axis, as i wait for the silence to scream from across the ocean, i guess i'm still waiting for somebody to say my name before i forget how to think,

and i'm still thinking of various ways to end this train of thought and perhaps i'll jump off at the next station, i can see myself from afar howling at the wheels of my suffering for taking a turn for the worse,

it's better if i leave this room before it devours me, i have so much to think and so little room to sit idle, it's as if the walls are suffocating me for fun, every brick vibrating like the bones in my body, trembling in a careless rhythm --

and it feels as if i can never escape from this sadness that has made a nest inside my hollowed body, i am but a step away from breaking down in little brittle pieces of absolute nothing,

i'm so close to being scattered, of crying rivers and oceans of my solitude and misguided birth, but i never do, i never let the rain **** the storm --

i never let the blues paint over the rotten reds, and greens and everything that does not come with a colour,

i enjoy my drakness alone, and i make peace with the ghosts those dance around us when nobody's looking,

i swallow my screams until i'm drowning in my own sorrows, my eyes in a horrific trance, watching the atoms destroy each other a billion times in plain sight,

it kills me that nobody bothers, nobody cares until they're dying, with unrelenting sadness at all times breathing down their necks, ready to bite and drain away the lesser world.

why life when there must've been so much before ? -- i wonder in disguise of madness and tame melancholia, ruined by man made conditions and nefarious activities of the restless and unkept,

and yes, i'm talking about you too, about us, about the gods that live in palaces made of rejected prayers and songs,  

i'm talking about memories, slowly decomposing into dead skin and dusty old book shelves that harbour nothing more than old age and forgotten fingerprints fading away even though the arms of the clocks on the unraveled walls have stopped moving, and the time has stood still peeking from outside the window, waiting for somebody to draw the curtains.

in the cold gloomy room where i've sat everyday for days to come, i sit even now paying attention to every detail, with empty promises and smothered dreams, with voices that echo across the many places inside my mind, buzzing with words that change with every step, and no matter how deep i crawl there'll always be something on the outside that just doesn't make sense.

i wonder if that's how people feel, otherwise it'll be harder for me to explain when i'm done talking,

i'm always breathing the fumes of whispers and stories that people radiate, walking room to room, traveling in circles, and in straight lines that never deviate to accommodate any other shape, reason or thought, always blind to the things passing us by, never turning to see if there's more than what greets the eye when you're looking for something out of place.

perhaps that's why we never leave our souls and wander about in the world of ghosts to see for ourselves if there's more than what we think there is, always believing to choose the lies instead of the truth because we were taught not to be real in this binary world where being out of the box means you're exposed,

that's when i wrestle with the man in the mirror, strangle him and complicate him, abuse him and starve him, carve out his body in my own, paint over him until all that i see, are my eyes peering into my soul, telling my mind that my thoughts have died a sudden death and all there is, is an echo that keeps fading away whenever i remember i do exist, and this is more than just reality, and i'll be better off without my own company,

who am i ? three words that keep me from ending it all, i hope there's no answer.
I'll try to explain what I cannot.
fray narte Aug 24
this poem is a lovechild
of my weary skin
and the sensual creeping of an all-consuming melancholia;

my voice, hoarse
from calling for the gods
whose names all fall away
at the sight of my undoing —
besides, who falls apart
at ungodly hours
but sinners?

why hast thou forsaken me —
there no longer is a need for this
when they had all forgotten your name
hours before the daybreak.

and yet everyday, i still wake,
waiting for this bed to collapse
under the weight of my hollow bones, holding
the weight of the frailest chaos
to ever befall these sorry sheets —
i thirst,
for a new kind of skin, unstained,
untouched —
wide enough
to hold all this weight of sadness
lying in these sorry sheets.

i've wanted too many epitaphs for a girl who's still alive;
today it's started wanting me back.

now, i tire,
wrap the cloth around my skin:
all ashen, all stench,
all cold, all dead.

now take this poem.
take this lovechild in your arms —
all brown eyes and little hands;
half melancholia;
barely a girl.

now take this body;
take its peace.
bury it in a pauper's field.
Graff1980 Jun 28
Give me a piece
of the beast
on which you feast.

Listen closely
and mostly
you will hear
at least one of these
children cry
from hunger,

stomach growling,
while predators are prowling,
and the wolves are howling.

Back home the at risk
sit and wish to be rich,
instead see their
family fall sick,
while praying
god will fix
all of this ****.

We could have been
partners and friends
to all of the children
who have fallen in
the hole we were digging,
struggling
with filth on their chins
as strangers pass by
smug in their disgust.

You know,
the world is broken,
and we allowed it to happen
cause the shiny little tokens
made our monkey minds smile
while rich wolves stole the whole
world.
Graff1980 Jul 2
Here I am
one more
dead man
just walking.

Here I am
quietly
reflecting
on what I see.

Here I am
wishing
not to waste
the space
where poetry
plants it blooms,
that perfect
pink fleshy room
that will soon
be consumed
by rot and decay.

Here I am
ready to play,
for this short stay
which can be bad
or made great
by the way
I take it.

Here I am
hold my hand
as I walk us both
through the
forest trees,
and starlight
reflected in these
rippling seas,
as we share
all this beauty.

Here I am
ready to give
the time I have
left to live.

Where are you?
Graff1980 Jul 3
Just passed that last blast
of winter’s wicked fury.

What a relief
to get some heat
cause I was tired of being
frozen.

Finally, here
seems like we cleared
spring
and jumped
straight into
the summer’s blue.

Sadly, this quarantine
has me catching
the fevers of cabin,
has my jets lagging
without ever flying
spiced with just a tinge
of unwanted crying.

Please no more storms,
please don’t get too warm.
Let this disease
finally pass by all of our
families.

Cause all that I want
is to come out of the house
and see all of you.
I observed outside the windowpane in contemplation while marveling at the nature between the radiant sunray, and the blooming myrtle.  My coffee was brewing in the French press I have owned for as long as I could remember. The view of the garden gave me the impression of a pastel dream, some melancholy longing for some forgotten reminiscence.
fray narte Mar 18
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?
Spicy Digits Feb 7
Come one, come all,
With all your **** nonsense
Shed those serious souls
And serial brawls
Engage in gravelly goodness.

Touch hither soft lemony lightness
And ruminate on he said/she said
Like severed fingers in brine
Que appropriate melancholy rhyme

Like Lord Paragon of Virtue
With or withered will
Atop his freshly bejeweled spire
Delights to set the world on fire.
fray narte Feb 6
somewhere in manhattan,
atlas carries the weight of his heart —
a suitcase of battle scars and cigarettes
that strayed too far from his lips.

each vein, a thread
for all these sorry poems
that cannot write themselves.
each valve,
a compartment for spent lights
and all these fallen dandelion clocks —
all centuries' worth
and his body, it longs to rest
like a mass of dahlias and complexities,
coming undone in the arms
of a funeral song.



i remember someone telling me it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.


and yet, how do you depersonalize and say that
in there,
sadness has lovingly grown its flesh —
like wild grass spreading free in abandoned lawns,
albeit carefully contained,
carefully covered by these patches of skin
so as to not flood —
to not spill at every sigh
and yet, there can never be enough
breaths taken,
breaths given away

to keep it all intact,
to fend off all the
pecking,
the gnawing at the skin from its forgotten corners,
now a feast to a flight of vultures.

i now know why it's easier to talk about yourself in third person.


somewhere in manhattan,
atlas shakes, crumbles, collapses.
the flesh gives in;
the arms cave in under all this mass:
this weight of a heart,
this weight of the skies — they just slip right off your hands
and words don't see the difference.
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