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19.9k · Nov 2015
topacio Nov 2015
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
4.0k · Nov 2015
topacio Nov 2015
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,

humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,

the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,

and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
3.6k · Mar 2015
Emergence as Rebellion
topacio Mar 2015
emergence is an act of rebellion.
our eyelids peaking open like rusty curtains
as we steadily count backwards
5 … 4 … 3 …  2 … 1
climbing from our morning covers in one swift movement
like the bold musketeer ready to pierce his opponent.
allowing the cold to wash over our body
towards the to do lists and outdoor morning mist.
legs miraculously sprung to life from our dreams
seconds ago resting in a field of sunlit streams.
allowing forced smiles to emerge in the mirror
if the natural ones forgot to attend our morning ritual.  
those cowards.
allowing our own smiles to send butterflies down our spines
if our lovers forgot to play their part.
those *******.

our routines steadying us on the road
outside the house
into the yard
outside the fence
into the deli
out of your mind
into the grind
all forming like some rapid fire kiss of motion
where emerging and departing
become inseparable lovers.
and we cherish this sort of alchemy
where our paints emerge as paintings,
where our words turn into poems
that string along
into song

the pulsing of life echoes within
calmly waiting
to emerge
from the gilded cage
we are meant to burst open
2.8k · Mar 2015
killed gnats
topacio Mar 2015
i killed a gnat on my shirt today
and now he sits there dead
next to a hole
which is starting to look
more and more
like his twin brother.
both black spots reminding me
of the ***** dishes and laundry
and the difference between dogs
in the city and country.
2.7k · Sep 2012
holey socks
topacio Sep 2012
he told me i was living in fear
and i thought i wasnt supposed to be here
a sign hangs above his living room couch
"the police ruin everything"
i want to disagree but i control my thoughts
i build a wall between them and my mouth
the same one he built
and her and them and we and us
i can tell by the furrowed brows and tell tall signs
by the words that come out only when we drink our nightly wine
i climb on top of him
in his room of american flags, broken records and leopard ware
faux patriotism and hipster runoff mixed with nonchalant dishevel
i kiss his sweaty neck  
my mind is always down south
even now
where my toes peep out of my socks
curious of the present moment and the theme of tomorrows thoughts
2.4k · Mar 2015
SPF fuck you sun
topacio Mar 2015
is what i wear.
it is a loreal campaign offering the art of concealment
wrinkles are for unironed clothes and old folk homes
all creation and destruction spun from tomb
the glow emanating from a woman's womb

this spf
isn't always available for the wear
its not some cap we can slip on our hair
or the glasses we use to hide the despair
for our pimples have awoken from
their nightly slumber
allowing the light to
illuminate their number

best we take it all in
the midnight pukes
the morning glow
lets carry on with our dancing dynamo
all starry eyed and audacious
all messy and pugnacious
with our lips soaked in red
shouting words of poetic gibberish
to statuesque lovers
who spin in and out of the revolving door
as we sing our tune under helmets
under bleeding stars
and wind up with tattooed legs and arms

for there is a radiant rose in your brain
permanently blooming
against the ticking of time
as you stand in alliance
with lust and love alike
when they conveniently misplaced their pain
at the local bookstore
i can't imagine they'll go looking for it.
2.0k · Jun 2015
the enemy
topacio Jun 2015
the hip children of the night
prey on logos and women,
they have created counterfeit cultures
made from images of yore
slipped their flesh under blankets
next to lovers or empty space
and declared war against
their own human race
chased down roads in eclectic threads
hollering into the wind with wild hair
that navigate over skin unaware of
history and tradition.

while the feral animals look on with
muted colors and salivate
with a thirst to apply
their instincts,
their tendencies
to seek out the enemy
instead of calmly waiting
for their alarming arrival.
2.0k · Apr 2018
closeted artist
topacio Apr 2018
i haven't come out yet
and i don't know how else to say it
especially to
my mother, the nurse
my father, the electrician
my brother, the politician
my sister, the wise ***
i don't know how to say that
i have an affection for words
i have been hiding the paints under my bed
and staring at the guitars from
outside the window
unable to resist how hard
the urge is to touch

i am a closeted artist yet to come out
and admit that i've had an affair
with a few museums and paint brushes

that i have been memorizing poems
from before i could read
committing some verses to memory
as my mother recited them to me softly before bed

and as i stand here waiting in the closet
im sketching a small butterfly on the wall next to my coat
ill most likely wear to the off broadway show tonight.
1.7k · Jan 2016
a life of math.
topacio Jan 2016
i met a young girl
the other day,
and she wanted to
know if i cared to
read her book.

i was delighted at her
especially from a girl
so young as herself,

i agreed to take
her novel, slipping
it into my sturdy hand
bending the whole page backwards,
allowing it
to kiss the cover,
holding it up to the sun as
if i were to recite it
to the curious sky.

the little girl
could do nothing,
but stare and
ask of me
that i not bend
the pages
of sylvia plath,

and i knew then
and there,
that she was doomed
to a life of math.
1.6k · Oct 2012
shit poem
topacio Oct 2012
november you did me well
new love
or whatever people like to call it
new lust
spain or bust
i said
                                                                                                             i like to think that it wasn't just a fling
maybe it meant something
but just for that moment
i felt special
necessary for an existence
air to your lungs
tattoes on a ****
dog hair on a rug
but as your eyes glaze away
i know the end is near
i give you all i have
expecting the worst

another one lost
another one found

you're just a product of your environment
a feeble boy unsure of the publics reaction
provoking a girl to write a **** poem
1.3k · Jan 2016
the walk into my brain.
topacio Jan 2016
i have traversed many miles
walking with the night,
she with her satin leash
wrapped around my neck,
ushering me under
a divine compass of stars
who navigate me
into a
grey fog of fantasy;
tempting me
away from
another tired night  
of suggestion
and malcontent.

i do well
stepping into my role
of daydreamer
in the night,
eyes glazing over,
body weaving
like some
mechanical soldier,
as I slowly sink
and further
into the rabbit hole
of my mind,

where i touch
the membrane,
the pulsing vein,
the sturdy skull
which cups
the hiding  
mass of brain,
and the tangled knot
of treasured ideas
and thought.

i enter casually
under the mark
of exit signs
searching aimlessly
for an idea,
stuck in a lightless cave
of a deeper depth,

the one born and lost
on the winding interstate,
without pen and paper
in hand to collaborate,
eighty miles an hour
of reckless power
births creation,
and speed
galvanize into

but this one escapes me.
it flickers out of sight
like the rest of them,

as i close into
where it hides,
like some feral animal
who knows
not of a friendly hand,
it scurries back
into it's lonesome wasteland.

but i remain
walking under the
invasive moonlight,
for I yearn to take my idea back home,
to wrestle it into submission,
sew it to hand and feet
and give it deserved recognition,
to dive my sharpened teeth into
the thick of it's juicy meaning
to bleed ink
onto paper,

for there is nothing
back in the stagnant terrain
of my body,
or here
lying on my desk
but the blank pages
of the greatest story
never written.
1.2k · Sep 2012
intuitive embrace
topacio Sep 2012
it's the intuitive embrace
leaving no trace for the mind
to confirm its approval

its the embrace that happens to you
on a blinding tuesday when
questions don't abound

you do what feels natural
open arms and wide eyed
heart hanging off your sleeve

blood oozing through your veins
wounds open like a possibility
this embrace has kissability

this embrace can fix it all
you say
1.1k · Jan 2016
misanthropic poem
topacio Jan 2016
the great verses would prefer it if you didn't
attempt to commit their curves to memory,

they croak at the idea of becoming stuck
in the empty vessel that is your head,
only to wither away into a few words
short than what was originally said.

they would prefer it if your eyes
didn't insist on gazing over them,
as you untangle the knots of their secrets
like some drunken buffoon
who has
****** their fortune
at the nearby saloon,

you attempt
to unzip
their threads
into a plausible meaning.

or even worse,
determine value
based on
the fluidity
of rhyming words
or the
vertical lines
which slice
their way
down the
blank white
of paper,
jagged mountains of
letters one must painstakingly traverse.

it goes without saying,  
they cringe at your touch
as you awkwardly
stumble your fingers down the
skin of their spine,
like some
graceless ******
who has mastered
the art of spilling
onto the unkept floor,

they prefer instead
the presence of a curious girl,
making her way
towards a window,
where she can
add meaning to thought.

or to remain
housed on the shelf
next to their
brothers and sisters,
to entice strangers
who don't
easily roll into
the company of
suppressed yawns,
to hear their stories.

for these words
cant pick their company
like you or me,
you have already begun
to make a mess
of this one
you see,
unless you are
of course
some curious girl
next to
a window.
1.1k · Jan 2016
the meeting.
topacio Jan 2016
i cant wait to meet
the future poems
i will write.
poetry poems meeting gathering write
topacio Nov 2015
you gave me a neglected book
and I mistook it for love.
i tried to find hidden meanings
lurking between the spaces.
i waited for it to pop out from the pages
to hit me in the head
with all it's
senseless rage,
attempting to
command me into belief
with the words you couldn't find on your own.

but alas,
the words never arose,

i massacred
i pillaged
i maimed
and threatened
your book from
front to back
i interrogated under the blinding light
in a cold room
without food or water
and it gave up its
muted fight.
and spoke of page 47
and the weightless paper cup
rode the back of
the western wind.
and I recounted my findings to you
and what had lurked on page 47,
but you had confessed to
have never read the book before.
topacio Apr 2015
what is this yearning?
to feel the constant twirl of our turning
to angle the head, resting chin to shoulder,
wedging itself into place like a candle to it's holder
motioning backwards, resisting all forward

where our form turns from flesh to steel
as we wrap our stories onto the rotating prayer wheel
mimicking VHS tapes
and twisting our frames to rewind the spell of time
to undo scripture laid in stone
becoming a one man
time machine freak show.
to dwell in the days of yore
and tell yourself …
"its all been done before"

where we become the whirling dervish
head angled aside like a curious sun dial clock
arms resting in the air on the great invisible rock
or maybe
holding afloat the force of the celestial spheres,
a battalion of Atlas' drenched in marbled white cloth
stirring in a *** of dance turned to trance
into some chaotic mystery broth.

where we become the lazy susan
who just found her running gear
wedged on the cluttered bookshelf
like added day to leap year.
and we wonder what we have become
what concoction have we drunk?
thats spun us dreideling from
under the rug of normalcy.

this potion of feet lifting and descending
-- a mad mans dance --
always going and never arriving
until we no longer know where "I" begins or ends
until time no longer knows which way to bend
and our feet become entangled below
in a rapid fire dance of devotion
between course ground and sweet motion
960 · Apr 2016
tornado inspiration
topacio Apr 2016
Nothing scares me more than inspiration stampeding towards me
I can feel her coming on like lightning bolt
As I sit in the distance eyeing her songs and poems and sonnets and anecdotes
Spiraling with great effort towards me
She has given me a net and a silk floral dress
For she has grown weary in the heavens
Living as idea and essence
Preferring a life of the palpable
To walk amongst the lay of men
To sleep within the threads of a woman
And yet I can only feel the chaos of her wash upon me,
As I throw her net into the great gulp of her eye
And I capture nothing but the pure feeling of
Her wrath in between the seams of my silk dress.
939 · Nov 2023
topacio Nov 2023
So often you vanish in the dark,
          my fair weathered friend.

Although it is there where I require you the most,
          my reminder of a silhouette existence.

I will become my own shadow,
          no difference between me and lightlessness.

I expand like a riddle in your thoughtless mind.
866 · Aug 2021
in replace of your lover
topacio Aug 2021
i looked into the
depths of what i could
possibly learn,
hugging the night's silence
in replace of a crowd,
just to hear her secrets.

and she said

sometimes you
will leave the light at
the end of the tunnel
with a lesson
in replace
of your lover

sometimes you will feel
the agenda of a union
an intuition
a gathering of spirit
welling up in yourself
speaking of some dire truth

grab it

your time with such and such
is coming up, you can not take him
or her of them or you,
with you on your next chapter
leave the lover
leave your mother
father and your brother,
and take the lesson.
775 · Oct 2015
all six of you.
topacio Oct 2015
when i met you
i didn't know id be
meeting all six of you.
your personas
spilled from your pocket
like rapid fire kisses.
little by little
trickling out
with casual coolness.
like perfectly stacked dominoes
shot out into the open
by geronimo and his rifle.
and the only thing you expected
was to expect me to not inspect them.
to not hold them up to the light
and investigate the content.

anyway my hands were
too shaky  
and small
to carry them all.
anyway you smiled.
with the same
smile you forgot to
take off from work.

the angry
the riddle
the obstinate
the sweetheart
the confused
the drunk
the person you think you are
the person you are desperately trying to become.

for what its worth,
i hope to meet him
one day too.
698 · Jan 2016
a tale of bad timing
topacio Jan 2016
i am growing more and more
into the person whom will be worthy of him,
and him of me
but i fear i will be marred with bitterness
wondering why he was never there to help.
693 · Jul 2022
topacio Jul 2022
Maybe the only
vocabulary we have
to describe death
is silence and a
bow of our head,
braiding our fingers
over our books after
each word has been read,
gazing ahead and
knowing that we
are just an alphabet
of letters never meant
to spell out any words.
680 · Oct 2012
topacio Oct 2012
in that second i gave you something
a part of me
like a poet scribbling words
a musician strumming a chord
a piece of my disorganized puzzle
spewed out in a midnight conversation

                                     those things that make a part of you
     bit by bit
small and insignificant
without the aid of time
to stack them into

every thoughtful comment
a piece of truth
that rarely sees the light of day

its a very instantaneous exchange
it meant something
not alot
but it was a shrivel of life one's not used to giving
to just anyone

hope you felt it as much as i did
when you placed it up for bid
677 · Sep 2012
topacio Sep 2012
these words were only meant for today
they wont see the light of tomorrow
because they were meant only for your ears
right now
right here
directing itself to investigate the inner workings of your mind
yearning to mold your thoughts
attempting to flip on a switch
giving you that "aha" moment
that moment which really matters
where time stands still
and selective memory is on your side
recalling later that singular moment
that particular word or statement
which one was it?
i know you remember
the one that lit up your eyes, perked your ears and straightened your head
671 · Sep 2021
topacio Sep 2021
I wasn't crying for you,
regardless of what your eyes told you.
I was crying for me
on that mildew night
when you decreed
we could no longer be.
salty drops of relief,
instead of disbelief.
hands in head to honor
the future I can now possess
as you let go of me
and I can fall further
into the beauty that is myself,
& honor the rose which you never
knew how to stop and smell.
topacio Sep 2021
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
-Robert Frost

And so i waded at the fork
in the woods and recalled
these oft-repeated words,

i aimed my shoes to the left
for this was the road
that was undoubtedly
less traveled

but i hesitated and my thoughts
turned to "conformity" -
the merry subject
at poem's hand.

for although the thick
brush was denser
on this part of land,
i could at least understand

conforming for uncomformities
sake was in itself ..
a conformism,
and the real
unconformity was uniforming
yourself to you.
661 · Jan 2016
i welcome you, silence.
topacio Jan 2016
for you are too encompassing to ignore,
too statuesque to mute with the strings of my guitar,
& so i find the only way to repel you,
is to write of you.
is to sit in the eye of your storm
and allow the thick blanket of your skin
to unfold into me,
as i attempt to describe this experience to a t,
so that your uninvited presence becomes familiar.

        --  treacherous muse --
can become
my ally,  

so that when you eventually roll around again,
which you normally tend to do at the
crisp start of a burgeoning evening,
i can welcome you
with my open arms
and an empty chair,
and we can
use our sharpened vocabulary
to battle
over the
of stillness.
621 · Sep 2017
the subject says
topacio Sep 2017
write a poem.
its been two long years
and i fear I don't even know what a poem is.
i fear i've never even written one.
i look back at my fleet and
i see forced words
prematurely picked
from their fields.
****** into the arena as dogs
with their tails glued to their thighs.
i fear i have succeeded at preparing
a dish of underdeveloped corpses.
589 · Jul 2022
to hold space.
topacio Jul 2022
I've soaked
myself in silence
for so long,
I make space for her
wherever I go now.
587 · Jan 2015
you owe me a poem
topacio Jan 2015
I recounted my day to you
and made sure to use a good word.
some savory spice over the dull topic at hand
about my professor's swollen lymph gland.

It was jubilant or maybe it was juggernaut
thrown into the hallways of dialogue
like some high school freshman
dawning a new outfit on her first day of school
intending to make a good first impression.

"you talk too poetic"
were the only words you had
and I recalculated all the ones I owned
the ones that came so naturally
those who have made me who I am
handcrafting me as much as I them
they who've persuaded
they who've debated
they who've won arguments
they who've lost arguments
they who were chained back
too shy to escape into the cold of a lovers criticism

and so when the branches fell that day
so perfectly onto the ground
mimicking the sound of a fallen soldier
I held back my metaphors and juggernaut of words
my ink stayed where I thought it belonged for a second
and that poem was lost.

you owe me a poem.
580 · Aug 2021
offered power
topacio Aug 2021
the straightest path
to understanding if
its real love is to
offer up power

and while you
sit there
tiger in lambs clothing,

watch, watch, watch

for although you
can weather all storms
and battles, hunters
and terrain on your solo

your choice of comrade
is that of wisdom
not love, for quickly
can a beast change
its tune when
offered freedom with
your heart.
556 · Sep 2017
topacio Sep 2017
if i make a poem out of iphones,
people will actually start taking
a liking to the forgotten form.

i can make every phone sing
with a new hit song
at the perfect time
as your eyes glance over them
while they offer you a new promotion
to go with your completed poem line.

and as you are thinking about the confusing
symbolism between a flea and blood,
you can also get 50% off
your next purchase at Target.
526 · Aug 2021
not into nostalgia i go
topacio Aug 2021
i travel into the past
and i pick apart the memories
unbuilt to last,
quicksand thoughts
in on me,
laughter on the beach
belittling lover
intoxication stare
one by one collapsing onto me
enticing me to revisit,
as if asking to refill
when my night is all but empty,

I don't dare.
i will stay put in my moment
the present tense is nothing
but a gift from my past you see,
I will only glance in your direction,
sweet memory
I dare not linger
within the depth of
your engulfing nostalgia,
for if I do
i will surely
turn into
a tear.
443 · Aug 2021
the constants
topacio Aug 2021
there are some things
that are just written in ink.
the books that line my shelf
the music I play with my fingers
the startling waves I attempt to hurdle
my surfboard over
the recipe my abuelita passed down to
me of her famous tamales
my subscription to Bon Appetit
these constants anchoring me
when characters sketched by
pencil become too faint to feel,
its these delicate yet sturdy constants
that yank me out of sadness
with a "remember me?!"
with a "remember your abilities, young lady!"
"remember your divine calling to perpetually grow!"
433 · May 2020
recognizing the difference
topacio May 2020
your love was actually
just attention disguised.
& my reciprocation
was just the need
to feel admired.

your compassion
was just
little gifts of generosity
with an agenda,
and my acceptance
was just
a mere hope of
your possible change.
418 · Aug 2023
Deep Stone
topacio Aug 2023
There are lots of ways to
watch the babbling brook,

eyes closed fishing for
memories in a nook.

There are lots of ways to
walk along park trees,

a deep awareness of green
and the sound of autumn's breeze.

There are lots of ways to
name the sturdy rose,

white petal pearls  
and her iceberg clothes.

But today is for nature
and her in-between silence,

like a grey stone
tucked between dirt
we look to for guidance.
389 · Sep 2022
Happily Engaged
topacio Sep 2022
What good is a conclusion
without anyone there to hear it?
Is what I wondered when
I realized I did in fact
love the man who
asked me where
my smile was,
even though I
know I wasn't
supposed to.

I often ask myself
the same question,
strange man,
usually after I see
the sharp corners of
my mouth ache
for their lost soft.
and something foreign
has taken its place.
a slow settle
like the
thick fog
that sweeps
over orca waters,
usually right after
a month's long fight
with a pen or falling
too far from my
blanket of zen.

Maybe I'm not meant
to smile this year.
I am after all happily
engaged to my year of solemn,
another conclusion
I came to on my
road of conclusions.

And yet although
I have no one to
speak to on my
epiphonous road,
these conclusions
do exist and  
will persist,
despite what
the others
376 · May 2020
like the wolf
topacio May 2020
who still needs to hunt
when injured,
so do you.
need to fix repair move
faster than ever
on your own
without your pack.

laser movement
in the dark
blind to whats ahead,
instincts guiding you
more than you know,
passed down
in your bones
from the
generations before.
374 · Aug 2022
The Northern Lights
topacio Aug 2022
It is nightly,
I shift from person
to sleeping archaeologist,  
as I shut my eyes
and fall into you.

And it is nightly
I set out to
decode the great
of your sky,  
etched out by
or maybe the great
ancient spirits,
who try to
relay simple
answers to
heavy thoughts.

It is is evident to see,
after my nightly research,
that you are simply
the dancer's ribbon,  
and the beings
yet to be written,
the ghouls in the attic,
and the poet's poem,
the union of electricity
and circumstance
colliding to
put men in
their place.

And as I fall
deeper into
the excavation
of my slumber,
I hear your whispers
dancing through my sheets,
saying: yield to me
when we one day meet,
not like the lunatic soldier,
but like the silken lover
who is reliably there
upon your awake.
317 · Apr 2020
go in
topacio Apr 2020
Going in
Can be hard
When you don’t know
If it’s
Or angels
That inhabit you
310 · Nov 2023
The Flying Bed
topacio Nov 2023
Your child floats
above you like a kite,
umbilical cord string chaos
like the wing that you are.

I want to reel them in for you,
to fight the wind
and collapse them in
like stacked dominos,
perfect circles
that never topple over.

Your innards are desperate
for your attention,
they say as they dangle
above you like
a fickle skyscraper.

and you find a way to
skydive off of them
into yourself,
your parachute
falling short each time
to start the process
all over again.
263 · May 2020
rearrange your pieces.
topacio May 2020
no need to be scared little girl
no need to fear your change.
the woman who you
need to become
is already inside you.
this is not your
this is your
257 · Oct 2018
bad poems
topacio Oct 2018
bad poems
never cease to
inspire me
more than the
greatest poems

and i don't know
if its because i feel like
i can do better
or if i relate more to
the state of ugliness
than i do of
249 · Dec 2022
topacio Dec 2022
She was a person with a lot of punctuation,
wherever she went punctuation followed!

Periods never lasted long
since they carried resolution,

and she was a woman always
embarking on what was next,

to uncover what was beyond
the point of no return --

the flat earth made round,
as to run in perpetual loop,

commas and exclamations
were common guests

and stayed long after supper,
well into dessert and into
         run on mornings,

they commonly crashed on her couch
until they got soaked into her furniture,

and now whenever she tries to rest
her head in the ending of her day,

she is poked with the scythe of her commas,
reminding her there is still work to be done,

her YALP! summoning her exclamations
from under her favorite pillow --

falling baseball bats barreling out,
their effervescent presence bubbling

to the surface where they burst and
reveal how itchy they make her feel.
247 · Aug 2022
The Color Wheel
topacio Aug 2022
It's so easy to pick up a color
and dance her to bed,

he picked up blue but
prefered green instead,

he tossed her aside
and mixed her with red,

without a color wheel
he painted her dead,

I am wary of your hands
from now on she said,

I'll dance with the moon,
and then eat an egg.
246 · Apr 2020
to keep your soft
topacio Apr 2020
keeping your femininity
after you've
weathered unimaginable storms
is a high form
of rebellion.
246 · Sep 2020
topacio Sep 2020
i want to make a toast
to the pause in between the wind.

a sweet dance
i partake in of
man and nature,
willingly i observe you
& then
silently retreat into myself.

i will always dance
this delicate waltz
which allows me to
examine the ways
in which i am the
same and different to you
231 · May 2020
the outskirts.
topacio May 2020
you threw me far flung
away from myself,
an act of hate and fear.

but it feels good
i have to say,
to look at myself
objectively from this point
so far from the beginning.

i am on the outskirts,
looking back at myself
with love,
and a dedication
to walk through
this new fire,
in an effort
to make myself even
bigger than before.
218 · May 2020
everyday motions.
topacio May 2020
every day you must add a drip
to the well of creativity
flowing within you.

a word here
a lyric there
a small drip
no need
for the flood
my dear
breathe into it

drop by drop
little by little
210 · Sep 2020
a poet's etiquette.
topacio Sep 2020
i can smell a poet a mile away
who only wishes
to read their poetry to you,

who prods and pulls
away at your brain for insight -
what about this word?
let me tell you of the girl
who broke my heart enough times
for me to procure this poem!

i smile and offer
the best of my critiques of course
empathy running too far into my core
and the naive understanding that all
poets hold the same truth.

and as i begin to take the baton
to set out on my journey of recitement,
i see my comrades eyes glaze over
to the toaster where her thoughts now linger
and remain.

and not as i had hoped on the syllables
and motifs i had painfully extracted
in the midnight hours of my
bedroom rumination.

and there your brain remains
as i run my last lap around the
sweet syllables of my favorite words.
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