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tainted black Oct 15
I was chaos in delicate lace,
in satin and taffeta; a pretty face
what they see is what I let
a peek behind; they may regret.

I was chaos in delicate lace,
with smiles charming--- tears no trace
lips with chapstick; smudge on side
nothing but a breathless ride.

I was chaos in delicate lace,
disarray with class and taste
I reek of Chanel and all things sweet,
nothing but a foul treat.

I was chaos in delicate lace,
only but a pretty face
a troubled heart and restless mind,
a woman whose love is always blind.
This one is inspired by my favourite line from the book I'm currently reading.
fray narte Oct 10
i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me; if you dust off my skin enough, you'll see traces of the sighs we exchange — spilling down gracelessly, they bruise a fragile skin. i have mastered the art of naming them after wild lilacs.

maybe for once, i can say that i am soft enough to grow flowers on my wrists. my lungs. my sternum — all the parts of me that hurt.

but i know too well all about screaming in barren lands. i have thrown my poems in a forest fire. i have forgotten how to breathe without hands around my neck. i have wished to fall on a sword, way too many times to still call these open wounds as bruises — these bruises as flowers — these flowers as soft.

i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me — kindly, and yet, how can i tremble over gentle things? maybe pain isn't what it always is, and i wish to unlearn this language — the mother tongue, whose every word i know by heart. and maybe one day, when it sighs my name, i finally will stop sighing back.

but now, this bed is caving in under all these lilacs and glassy, distant eyes. oh, such a classic case of a girl gone mad at the sight of sunbeams on dying flowers — aching in silence, as she watches it all.

i am fluent enough to understand emptiness when it speaks to me. and outside, the sun rises in vain.
Nylee Oct 8
I see, breathe and
feel my heart
breaking a thousand times a day
I keep silence all through the day, the night
but when I go to sleep on my bed,
I remember each broken piece
like a still fresh bleed
Depriving me from night's peace
this is my sleep disease
All these heartaches control my night dreams
They won't cease till I cease.
Shrika Oct 8
Withered and within
a dying breath
and yarns of endless ephemerae,
like thunder, like lightning,
igniting ages of delusion;

A fear.

Astral and adrift,
I  bloom in adventures,
yet amble in ink of hundred hues,
like a bubble, like a feather,
lazing in prismatic pastels;

A vagabond.

Etched and enshrouded  ,
a fiery trail of my footprints
I have yet to reach,
like a fantasy, like a nightmare,
calling, in dusk-soaked whispers;

A journey.

A life ahead.
Posting after a long time...
This one holds many of my thoughts,
lately they've been drifting a lot
fray narte Sep 28

i need a place to rot and breathe —
a place to spit out pieces of this heart
but i have fallen apart
in all the corners of this room;
each tile,
each yellow wall
reeks of the rain and burial wreaths and
there is no space left to taint,
no grave left to lay
this sorry poem on.

i need a place to rot and breathe,
but my demons have seen me
hold enough burials;
if they pick on my skin tonight
they will see layers of grief,
softly decaying under another.

i remember the first time
anubis laid kisses on my skin.
the second.
the third.
still, i wince in reflex
at the memories,
and maybe if i perfect all these staged funerals,
i will learn to kiss back, with total abandon.

i need a place to rot and breathe,
but t h e s e parts of sadness
don't get written
and my demons, they have pitied me
for holding enough burials
to last a lifetime.

tonight, they bury me.

somewhere, anubis smiles his kindest
and my name in a eulogy haunts
a church's weary walls.
Ces Sep 27
A jumble of words I cannot utter
For their incoherence
I consciously mumble to myself
Struggling to put into writing
The garbled mess of my mind:

Filled with images
Of discarded tires and umbrellas
Of sandwiches and old socks
Withered flowers I bought
For no one in particular
The street where I live
The unbearable sadness of
Losing a dime
My self-referential musings
Of time loops and black holes

All nonsense...

Reality is now this gooey
And icky, unrecognizable
fray narte Sep 27
This love was made for late-night drives and city lights, left hundreds of miles away. It was made for footsteps, softened by museum floors. It was made for crowded airports — your hand, still finding mine. It was made for sunset-lit kisses, as Intramuros crumbles in the background; the walls and I are both made of brittle bones and curiosities, falling away at your kiss and yet, I felt my purest — my softest whilst the free-fall.

Maybe I did love you more.

Love, it was soft. It was good. It was home. And it was a lie.

And I loved you, I loved you, I loved you — finally with a kind that didn't hurt. And yet, I never knew how to miss you without wanting to rip my heart out.

Maybe I did love you more.

"I wish I didn't hurt you."

"Me too."

And despite you saying it, maybe it was I who loved you more. I know my poems have been saying goodbye way too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.

But this love, it was made for endings. And I hope you comb through airport seats, looking for my face among strangers. I hope you see my name, fading with dying lights. And I hope you know I'll no longer allow myself to think of us. Tonight, poems won't be mourning you — it'll be mourning my wounds.

Your name is written all over them.

Tonight, your memory will feel the steady flow of my pulse. It'll feel each of my aching breath, in silence that once belonged to us. And tonight, your memory will hold me gently in its arms, for the last time. As if we weren't broken. As if we were still us. And I will slip away, one breath at a time — before the day breaks.

I hope your thoughts no longer haunt me come early, morning light.

And I know I say goodbye way too many times, darling — I say goodbye too many times.

Maybe I did love you more.
here you are
farther to my touch,
closer to my heart;
bridging gaps between
my heady desires and,
sanity and sensibility.

here I am
lost in your thoughts
and words,
dreaming about a hundred
springs and summers
that await us.

here you are
looking into my eyes
asking questions and
seeking answers; listening
intently to all the quiet
sighs and loud silences.

here I am
showing you the way
around and letting you
through the walls I've
built  without fears or
inhibitions of any sort.

here we are
brought together by
the distance but aren't
sure of treading the
paths we've never
been on before.

here we are
writing happy little
stories in sand until
the impending wave of
doom and despair crashes
into the castles of our future.

and here we will be
hiding behind
those tiniest of smiles
that keep lingering on
our lips which have always
reluctantly said goodbye.
LeoH Sep 4
For what it’s worth
The accidental poet, Leo
Finds catharsis in
Composing in
The poetic form

His words are private
Musings of a distressed mind
And yet he is happy
To share his verse
So you may also
Find your truth
I wrote this a couple of years ago when I was asked for a bio for a poetry publication.
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