#arspoetica
when she dances every muscle is taut i trace the lines of the letter i wrote her but the words are not enough and they never were when she dances my lungs grasp for air greedily i want to caress the salt of her skin with my tongue but its words are not enough and they never were when she dances wind wrenches me away i flutter like a missing poster clutching the fence because word of mouth was not enough and it never will be when she dances songs rip little daggers from my throat because words are not enough and they never will be when she dances the cells in my body hungrily gyrate bodies on bodies on bodies in bodies because words
because words
because words
because words
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 9:22 PM UTC
To start your mornings with
blood on your hands
smearing across pages
is
incriminating
and inspiring
And you must know
if you were to slice open
my veins would also
spill black fountain ink
If you were to sever my tongue
my hands would speak
for me
Go ahead and gouge my eyes
I can still see
And when I die I desire
to be cut as a cadaver
All the words visible
under paper-white skin
so they will know, too.
I do not aspire to be a skeleton
with brittle bones
I want blood
to pour with every pinprick
of a pilot pen pressed
on a page
But blood makes people squirm
Blood makes people gag
so I intend to
leave this world
with a crime scene behind me.
Let them shake and shudder
for they know not
the life they’ve lost
They live in fear of papercuts
and I carve myself open
again and again
And I will continue to
until I bleed out
and my ink dries up
If it sounds violent it’s
because it has to be
The world could use a
few more bloodstains
Makes it more uncomfortable
Makes it more interesting.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 3:54 PM UTC
A place where it doesn't matter who I am
What words I put on the paper
How I feel or what I mean
Whether it be hidden or clear
I don't have to rhyme
Follow a strict set of rules
A place where I can get all my feelings out
It is like a yellow flower in the middle of a field of cotton plants
Unique in its own way
The only one of its kind
I don't have to worry about anything being right
because no matter what I write it right to me
It is a freeing art
An art where my tears can form words
and the sorrow and grief I am feeling can paint a picture to the reader
It can produce warmth like a fire on a winter's day
The delicate lace that shrouds my heart
when I am feeling most down
lets me to freely write how I am feeling without
the thought of another
It is one art that no matter what
Practice can never make perfect
It is something that is different to everyone
No matter how much one can try
There is no box to conform to
Stumbling upon this art years ago
I look back and smile
Thanking past me
for walking into that meeting
Seeing the faces around that table and taking a timid step forward
That little, timid, shy step is what unlocked this great art
In my life and for that I am thankful
Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 5:43 PM UTC
I'm a poet already -
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?
I've got the power -
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they're followed up only by one.
I'm one, one of you -
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.
I'm no one anymore -
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.
You are a poet as well -
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.
We are a nation, mate -
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other's opinions sans dictums.
Tho, I'm your poet -
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:58 AM UTC
Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.
His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.
Flood of a baby's first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.
Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others'.
Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn't came with the flood,
Just from a former poet's ashes.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:01 AM UTC
I'm just a pocket poet -
No great ballad, no any sonnet,
I'm just a poet.
If it hurts I write -
Asking none if I'm right,
I just write.
I'm writing a stupid story -
That's running on another storey,
Away from everybody.
If it's hurt I hide
My words in my pockets' slide,
I just write.
When I'll stop this hobby,
People may find my pocket on a storey,
Maybe, I will have a story.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:58 AM UTC
Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?
Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.
A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.
---
O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.
O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –
As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.
---
Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?
Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?
Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
You start small
We all do
Frantically flailing about
Trying to catch ideas
Buzzing like flies ‘round your head
You ****** them from the air
And press them onto paper
But the sneaky devils, they play dead
As long as you keep an eye on ‘em
And as soon as you turn to grab another
They mockingly take off of the page
A futile dance
Of reach, snap, splat and lose
The buzzing never dies
The sweat never dries out
The page soiled by the blood and guts
Of undead thoughts that never stay
But somehow always haunt
But, once in every while
You gather just enough
And they start to coalesce
Suddenly, the struggle is reversed
The clump just grows
Despite of all objections
And crystallizes
Into a structure and a form
It’s out of your control
And all is ****** inside
This whirlpool of occurrence
That boils the atmosphere
With each link being added
Until the world, and you
Both remain depleted
You crawl away
Bruised and fatigued
From the monstrosity created
To find a hiding spot
Where the noise will mask your presence
You wish to sleep, to heal
But ****
this wretched buzzing
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 6:06 AM UTC
I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.
An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.
Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******
tender flesh that leaks words.
This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 8:38 PM UTC
Today marks 133,920 minutes and
the answer still isn’t clear.
Unfortunately, it never will be
because poetry doesn’t have one.
No rhyme or structure
nor 14 stanza song
can make it easier to
solve this meddling art.
Only 336 hours to go
maybe you’ve got an idea for
what all the math in this poem
actually signifies or -
The message it might have
and the meaning rooted in
this 23-year-old brain
who is struggling as well.
Still, after 106 days
when the final day is here
we’ll all scratch our heads with a shrug,
and say, poetry is never clear.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
Mistakes are miracle gifts,
An opening of spirit wings
Teaching what might be
Painted on the sky in
Numerous serpentine solutions,
A letting loose of reins.
Just listen to the whisper
Of the mind’s darkest corners
Impossible words joined,
Somehow making sense
Of this life’s chaos.
Let them drift through dreams
Into puddle-muddle messages
In some esoteric language,
Translated from the frenzied scrawl
Of love-letters written to a thankless world.
All poems are exquisite mistakes.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 5:11 AM UTC
We lay naked
in a blank room
unable to move
or speak
and yet
Colors
Vivid, brilliant colors
Dancing
to sounds
only we can hear
The only source
is our inner most thoughts
and our deepest emotions
We are poets
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
Language, manipulated and
spewing out of my limbs like a divine creature—
but what does it mean?
Similes taking form like sprouting dahlias.
Metaphors, monuments of staggering praise
for late wordsmiths.
Abandoned thoughts drain themselves into a
glass fixture of laser beams screaming at the world.
Language,
a broken jar, aching to be pieced back
together in hopes of being filled to the brim
with a French mélodie.
Shade me from the misery of
Earth’s neglected face, and I will proclaim your
significance to every being.
Words, I have danced with you too many times to
remain ignorant of your mastery.
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
Today is tomorrow’s Tuesday
night and I’m drenched in what could have been
your breath or my carbon monoxide. A cocktail of the two,
of us- the gemini
we are. We were.
Your weight felt heavy and my body concave.
Rasping through the speakers of your state of the art
speaker system-my playlist. I made it
for moments like these. Named it blazing lips
and raptured fingers or maybe just:
'Revival'.
I'll let you trace
my outline, if I can be
your vertex, pulling deeper and harder,
pushing pencil to paper—ink on velvet
and the emptiness of words.
I gave up to you. I give up
through you. What words could mean
more than you’re okay. We’re just
fine:
You could ignite me, or let me simmer
in the twisting of the sheets
or your dreadlocks. Built in
subtlety and
abandonment. The chronicles
of sobriety detailed in the hollow
of your tongue-- the stale space
between two thoughts--a presence
and my innocence: fruit
ripe for the tasting. You could sip
at my pretense and I’d swallow your malice
or we could delve into my irreplaceability. Wait
a week. We’re just fine.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
This disorder is characterized by three or more of the following symptoms:
1. Odd appearance or behavior.
2. Peculiar coping mechanisms that do not seem to follow any logical train of thought.
3. Fumbling with language to the point of gross disorganization.
4. Odd perceptions that can range from illusions to hallucinations.
5. Strange beliefs that fluctuate wildly depending on context.
6. Wildly wavering opinions on others -- that is, a fluctuation between idealizing and devaluing people.
These symptoms must cause some sort of impairment in everyday functioning, social skills, and workplace skills.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
I thirst in my search
for words
that came first
in verse and in song
what's been here all along
since Peking (wo)Man
singing in the womb
at Zhoukoudian
when the first moon climbed
above branches frozen in time -
our rhythm and rhyme -
a memory of a memory
of the history
of how a poem came to be.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
Poetry is subjective
Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's hell.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.
Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.
In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.
Poetry is personal
These realizations cannot penetrate
A being who has not been pried open
In preparation.
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
it's the morbid fear to tickle the pen against paper -
and behold; the fear to connect the matchstick to the taper
to stay on, till the sun shoots
to pick out thoughts, from their roots
counting syllables and rhyming words:
they don't matter much.
for look at the birds
they put freedom on your heart with a single touch
no
i can't rhyme no more no
my continuum is hampered
by your wholesome self oh so patient
quatrains and dissection no
feelings and love
and how i mutter words
this is how you make me feel, boy
incoherent yet filled with passion
i can't think but i managed a few adjectives for you
this is how you make me feel, boy
you bewilder me
and
oh
-
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC