#selfportrait
I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
My fingers reach, still warm from sleep,
for things the morning shadows keep
an open book, my glasses, water —
searching for things that float and totter.
The mirror waits — its silver gleam
reflects the ghost of who I seem.
My hair uncombed, my eyes turned blue —
insomnia has touched them too.
A thought then flashes through my mind:
this isn’t just a morning kind.
I walk toward the window’s breath,
where air smells with life and death.
It’s thick with rain, with earth and stone,
a scent of distance — damp, alone.
From rooftops, raindrops start to fall,
and whisper tales along the wall.
The northern wind lifts darkened leaves,
but none take flight — the motion grieves.
Too wet to soar, they drag instead,
their whispers soft, like words unsaid.
The light cuts through — a silver thread,
where motes of dust dance, pale and dead.
And in the mirror’s quiet view,
I see the morning — and me, too.
I'm a gray hedgehog with spikes inside.
So different from the world outside.
I'm a victim of serious, sad mornings.
You’ve called me perfectly “anonymous”.
19.10.2025
Oct 27, 2025
Oct 27, 2025 at 9:48 AM UTC
I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… _too easily_.
It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… _so awkwardly crooked_
You left me walking alone in this gallery
_of only terrible memories._
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 3:01 PM UTC
Born a girl and bred a monster
Bringer of despair
Bringer of demise
Bite the twisted hand that feeds
Glaring straight into the beast's eyes
Flailing fists, handfuls of coarse hair
A good-for-nothing, two-timing taker
Jan 19, 2024
Jan 19, 2024 at 1:34 AM UTC
I often wonder what would the world look like without me
the ego of man, brazen and bold
what keeps you awake, when others lay
unconsciously
physically opaque
tragically present
ringing echoes of words layed with ink
never having seen the light of the splendid sun
we plot and plot and plot
for naught
we are but a child, collectively
a singular child
one hell-bent on destruction
not seeing beyond the splinter of light
allowed through a cracked door
and the world looks on
with equal parts amusement and concern
our significance is insignificant
both tangible and fraught with the tragedy of being
of the lack of being
of managing what cocktail of emotions we are to be ****** into
when loss knocks on the door
Mar 13, 2022
Mar 13, 2022 at 5:50 AM UTC
Drawn by the sadness of time
Minutes of repeated striations
Hours of wounded sketching
Days draining color
Outstare me...I dare you
Survey my damage
Morphing into
A dueling masterpiece
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 2:41 PM UTC
Stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers,
a soft brown veil dusted with gold.
Take a long nail, pry it aside,
come, see what’s within for a modest fine.
My flesh, a soft pink for a childhood much missed,
my blood, a loud red for all the shocks I’m full of,
my bone, I’m not too sure for none have travelled far
but if you pressed me hard enough, you’d feel it -
scrolls of poems written and yet to be,
my tongue a ribbon binding them all,
my teeth an ivory chest to contain them,
and sweet lips carefully locking them for now.
A treasure trove awaits those
of my blood and water,
presented on a silver platter under
a soft brown veil dusted with gold
stretched wide across mountains and valleys,
clusters of hills and springs of rivers.
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
I look at myself in the mirror,
A young artist, so lost - couldn’t see clearer.
Where to go and where to drip the paint?
I might as well lose consciousness and faint.
Confused, confined, cannot define the meaning of my life.
I don’t belong to any tribe,
Combining stories of my past,
I am so lost, alas.
The right, the wrong, its all collapsed,
The life will always just elapse.
Complex and very simple at the same time,
Oh look, another rhyme.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 10:44 PM UTC
The vision :
(dreams torn, torn)
A picture came to me in the darkness of night,
Of myself in ten, twenty years time;
Worn out with the struggle, weak, and no longer able to fight,
Finally giving way to the forces ranged against me,
Sad and grey and defeated.
The sketch :
(in harsh charcoals)
This dream that came to me,
Was as though I had finally and sadly, late in the day,
Lost my innocence.
The Canvas :
(Life, existence)
I had been high-minded and apologetic,
Full of enthusiasms I didn’t quite mean,
And guilt’s I didn’t understand.
And now I stand looking at the man I could’ve been.
In Oils :
(violent colours)
I had spent years thrashing around in confusion
As drowning men pull each other under,
As wave after wave we are swept away;
Our cries obscured by the thunder.
My signature :
(...)
See my writing on the wall,
There’s no one to catch me when I fall;
But Death was on my side:
Suicide.
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
(rondeau redoublé)
This lived-in face has seen the years go by
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.
And while I always feel the need to brace
myself against life's storms, I know that I
can never win. Death always plays his ace.
This lived-in face has seen the years go by.
It's little help to know the rules apply
to every member of the human race.
Dark clouds are growing in my evening sky
at such a wild and unforgiving pace.
In this vast universe I have my place,
but can my thoughts outlast me when I die?
or speak to those in other time or space?
My powers are weak, though my aims may be high,
Yet while dark thoughts of gloom may multiply,
to let them win would be a sad disgrace,
though many things may make me want to cry,
and troubles are all bound to leave their trace.
Yes, my mortality I must embrace,
not waste my time in always asking why,
or fearing not to do things "just in case."
I'll dry those tears. There's no point to deny
this lived-in face.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
if you draw yourself, looking in the mirror
then that’s a self-portrait.
if you’re looking in the mirror to draw yourself,
you’d probably start you think of who you really are
I reflect on what happened and who I was in the past few years.
and I made this poem.
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
She was a force.
So resilient, that even the strongest powers of nature, were terrified to cross her. She wore her hair in messy ringlets, laughed unapologetically, rocked red lipstick, and didn’t sweat the small stuff. Nothing the universe threw at her could knock her down.
Except
there were still parts of her, that she hoped no one could see. Fragments of a woman just trying to make it through. She loved from a distance, spoke clearly with caution, only allowing herself to be vulnerable when she was alone. No one could see that she too, was human.
She was a paradox.
Each piece of her contradicting the other, and she made sure to never let anyone in long enough, to understand what lived below her surface.
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 9:49 PM UTC
skins translucent,
hearts on your sleeve,
doesn’t matter how hard
ya try to hide it,
no ones that naïve.
w.c.
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
This is me,
But the truth is-
There's much more beneath the surface
I'm not talking 'bout the bones
Or the flesh beneath my skin,
If you look into my mind,
You'll see a portrait from within.
My eyes are two glass windows
Smeared with colour stains,
There's an endless rush of brightness
Always pulsing through my veins
I feel hope among the stars-
Cosmic blossoms of the dark,
I don't always find my way
On the journeys I embark
I am at a crossroads
Now knowing where to go,
But I've ways stood up straight,
Despite carrying cargo.
My face is not my only worth,
See the truth:
This is me.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
A lady stares blankly ahead:
Ignoring everything in her stead,
Inhaling the adulterated room air,
Taciturn, stiff, certain, or maybe scared.
Still as a rock –
Calm as a lake –
Strong as a dock –
But those are all fake.
Inside her, a war is waging.
Beasts, monsters, and heroes –
all fighting.
For the longest time,
Her mind has been running wild.
Her clock is ticking
Yet no one is winning.
Not one bloc is determined to fall
Because all she does is feed them all.
/pc
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC
i.
melted ice cream afternoons
bogged down
rising from asphalt
in magical mist
that transforms
the day into
a test of endurance
even dusk offers
no solace
in frozen watermelon bliss
ii.
smoke permeates fabric
hair and every surface
with peace and grit
wafting over
the crispy
edges of predawn
begging sleep
to the most stubborn
insomniac
rotisserie style dreams
till morning
iii.
there's less death today
waiting in line
in candy store nightmares
begging silence
from the jubilant
but the sky turned up
a dream state
in that beguiling beauty
is brilliance
iv.
in shadows
the earth falls silent
rustling through
tall tales
the moon births
images in hidden corners
evening strolls
turn adventures
and every day
burns quick
to be reborn slowly
v.
the weight of hell
in short tempered bites
**** will with a proficiency
unseen outside
a viper's silent hunt
ready for war
with fists losing
responsibility
breaking triple digit
pressure
vi.
Incessant banging through walls built faster than I am strong enough to demolish, cradling lace so it won't rip on my forked tongue. There is only so much care left to handle perception just trying to breathe through a smile.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
I am emulsified.
Painted onto shingles
of glittering rooftops
Where the weather abrades me.
Fated observer from a distance
Ogling people and their things
People and their things
Feeling feelings inside me
and all around me
People and their things
Passing past.
But I am empty windows full of images
and antique furniture.
Never looking and always seeing.
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
I AM THAT HOUSE
in your recurring dreams
I AM THAT HOUSE
the one you are always running from
yet never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
full of old-things well-loved
crooked and cursed by the neighbors
I AM THAT HOUSE
the white one rubbed grey
paint peeled away
sighing at the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
my creaks and groans so familiar
you know exactly where to step
to go unnoticed
At the crossroads
I AM THAT HOUSE
Paint peeled to grey
Never entered
I AM THAT HOUSE
Always running away
Unnoticed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Of familiar steps
Crooked and cursed
I AM THAT HOUSE
Well loved by the neighbors
Ablaze
I AM THAT HOUSE
In recurring dreams
I am that house.
You're back here again.
The door is open.
Won't you come in?
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore. I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor. My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers. The frozen silence
does not know my strength. I will bend the world
with feet of glass. In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.
I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt. There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
blurring a line
defining an edge
I have to find a way
to make my colors blend
I'm only happy
when I'm me
and my canvas is black with complexity
I draw the lines
straight and clean
but sometimes that isn't
what is seen
blurring a line
defining an edge
I am alive through my pen
I work on my portrait endlessly
my cells are words
my blood a river of poetry
an unfinished work
an oeuvre of me
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
I promise myself
you'll break
if I keep pushing hard enough.
You are an angel of liberation
How could you ever love **** so hateful?
It must be a lie, it must be fake
But I can make it true if I break you
Heavenly creature, let this creature come to you
Smother you and shovel all his wretched love in you
The way a golden goddess glows, mortals always follow
And only through destruction could she love a fiend so hollow
At your weakest, I strike
A predator in love
I convince myself you'll feel the same
If I damage you enough
I will teach you to love me
So that you can teach me why
What a Demon's meaning is
In an Angel's Eyes
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC