Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
fray narte Apr 17
i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it.

maybe this entire time,
i have been on the edge,
lying like a sand angel
and wading through dead buttercups.
i write a premonition
and call it a poem.

if these walls could speak,
they would call me a resident.
an outsider.
a hostage victim.
a sorry sight.
a paperweight sitting
in the middle of misery.

i am quiet as
an iridescent, swan paperweight,
sitting and melting on sadness —
on sheets and sheets of it;
oh, how i long
to fall and break
into a thousand pieces —

one, just small enough
to be invisible
to slip away
and have
no trace of pervasive sadness —
it glistens in casual,
technicolored mockery.

and i am quiet —
oh, so quiet.

oh, how i long
to fall and break.
fray narte Apr 17
is there a way out of here other than the sudden violence of tearing through my skin? if i  find an escape route one day, i swear to god, i would leave even the calmest sunsets behind.
fray narte Apr 3
i'm still building myself up on top of breaking skin. oh how easy it is to slip on this shapeless, humming loneliness until it takes the form of my skin. i'm a forsaken deity, learning to come to terms with what's left of her ruins. crumbling, i tie them together — they buckle in place like my knees: a sight too fragile to be a worldly wonder. i'm still learning to be gentle. i'm still learning to forget all the ways i have ever hurt myself. and beyond this corpse-cold bed, these corpse-cold hands — the world goes on spinning. restless as my thoughts, yet immobile as my feet. it goes on spinning — leaving, never slowing itself down for anyone.

these words come out of my tongue, in fragments. i pick them like aphids on a rose — maybe it's the closest thing i'll get to healing.
fray narte Mar 28
all the weight of the night sits on my shoulders,
like a ****** of crows pecking on a graying bruise —
i cave under; my entire skin —
it falls apart, in grace,
from the constant touch, like liquid mercury;
such an anomaly, such an irony,
such words mused, lying there in a trance-like state
under all the weight of the night.
i wish it takes with it my sorrows
the second it lifts itself.

yet, i remain.

soon, the dawn will creep and break, eventually,
from holding me up in vain.

such a pity

maybe i will break with it.
fray narte Mar 22
pluck the aching out of my ribs — one by one
as though they were teeth that had sunk —
latched themselves onto these bones,
until it is but a pile of bite marks,
a pile of mildewed flowers —
festering like sins, like punishment.
pluck each bruising bone,
some things belong to my chest.
some, to firelight.

pluck a rib,
make the sweetest, purest, brand new woman —
all lace girdle and nectarine lips,
stepping out of the outskirts of my skin
as i watch from the other side of an exit wound — the inner side.
maybe in another life, that can be me.

thou shalt not covet.

i close the window.
i zip the skin.

tonight, i kneel in a confessional —
screaming away all banal sorrows,
screaming away all banal sins.

pull the aching out of my ribs —
it's in its rawest just before the dawn.
pull the aching out of my ribs.

a corrupted sight
for awakened flowers. ringing church bells. hummingbirds.
oh, a corrupted sight.
and mornings will hear its aftermath.
fray narte Mar 20
maybe some types of chaos do not have to make sense or unveil some semblance of an epiphany. some types of chaos, you just have to feel. some types of chaos, you just have to lie through.
fray narte Mar 20
find me
shedding away layers of skin
like leaves — like cracking tree barks
until i am a cold corpse preserved in the winter.
until i am what nature calls dead.
so long each restless movement,
so long, each ugly mark
so long, each metaphor stitched together
into a sorry imitation of poetry.

find me
shedding away layers of skin
a until i am a hundred sorrows thinner,
— a thousand sighs lighter:
a sorry imitation of a chrysalis breaking
and out emerges an anomaly
aching down to its very bones,
so long, each fleeing breath
so long, each exit wound.

find me
laying down this weary skin,
this dainty roadside silhouette
these trembling, purple veins.
as if an act of making amends.
maybe not.
these lines are
escape routes stitched together
into a sorry imitation of poetry —

maybe my entire life has been that way  —
a sorry imitation of poetry.

a sorry imitation of sanity.

so long.

don't find me.
so long.
fray narte Mar 10
rip my chest the way you would an ugly sight of flowers. take everything away. i have no need for this much aching. i have no need for this much consuming anguish — this much self-violence barely restrained by my ribs. rip my chest and leave me empty of breaths and prayers for saints who don't know my name. leave me clean, and numb, and brand new — without memory and without any trace of all agony i ever kept between the lines of my poems. this isn't one — this isn't one anymore.

rip my chest and take everything away. rip my chest, i beg you, and take away all of my violence. take away all of my pain. take away all that i ever was, now just hurting — now, just lying around in waste.

rip my chest and take away all that i am.

rip my chest.

leave nothing behind
fray narte Feb 27
i can still feel it — the ghostly echo of storm clouds it in my throat, now dry and emptied of the softest sighs. they all had fallen on my flower-bed skin, pristine as the petals that once were. or so i pretend. i can still feel it in my throat: the storm, looming. the calm drowning itself, and its haunting, beckoning call to which my feet slowly walk.

some days, it's just you and the uncharted depths of your own skin.

some days, you can bother with poems — some days, you can only drown.
Chuck Akot Feb 16
I love you,
is this a mistake,
is this a myth,
hear me,
as I am announcing your place in my heart,
here, inside of me,
there is a different ocean expressing itself,
with good intentions,
with beauty,
and delicate breath and tenderness,
and quietly how you touch me with your hand,
your hand that does not,
deprive me of pleasure,
but gives me a sense of worth,
and what shall I give you now,
is it myself,
is it the mirror of my existence?
Next page