"craked" poems
i fell
last week
onto
concrete
craked ribs i think
either way
sore
oh how i
swore
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC
the beat of thunder upon the land,
a broken red teardrop on my hand,
smashed remains upon the snow,
my thundering spirit the only sound,
soul of ice,
frozen in space,
far at distance,
lighting shines,
whispers of sprites through the leaves,
songs being carried on the snowflakes,
secrets hidden that none shall speak,
mirrored anger made true,
unseen emblem filled with dread,
spirit wrenching agony,
another day,
pieces of a craked soul,
patched together yet shaken apart,
flare to flames,
soul of ice turned to crystal,
gleaming shards of rhinestone eyes,
this spirit of ice the only link,
shackled in fire,
bound by metal,
each day wearing on,
the last sheds of hope long gone,
in fields of snow,
of diamond,
the sprites lie waiting for the sacrifice,
that is this soul of frozen ice
by scarlet rose
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
No matter how long I stare the
mirror seems craked.
But when I walk away
The cracks seem to stay...
On my body they lay.
Spreading scars each and every day.
My mirror is not broken,
but my body's surely cut.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
the night falls, and so does her.
she gets into bed and crawls straight to the sheets
on, between, under
the thin layer of the heavy
solitude,
hearing the defeaning sound of
silence;
hearing the whispers of life leaving.
the absence of light
as a state of comfort
was very sugesting,
she wished it to stay
for good
calm, timid, flirtatious, unreadable
so
inviting.
the rain wakes her up abruptly
form her desire
from her plans to fulfill dreams...
rain drops hope
because it doesn't want to stay up there,
it has to flush
creating
stalled liquid
and a kid splash it
barefoot, naive
rushed about tomorrow
not knowing that it means.
smash to dissipate
craked, shattered,
water becoming future,
water becoming nothing.
a soft but noticeable sneeze of wind
pass throught the window
not asking for permission
but convinced about
cover everything
sinking into every inch of space.
there comes sharp
the smell of old wood and fresh black dirt.
dawn is not allowed,
not this thime.
death sits in the corner of the bed
to read a story
about Mara,
and then
oblivion kisses her goodnight.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
His face was heavy and craked
with a lifetime of broken bedtime stories
between the painted brushstroke colors
trapped in the tears his eyes cradled
and sang to sleep everytime the moon
showed its thin silver crescent smile
she quoted Bob Ross before
she sat a barstool away from him
and a snort of a laugh escaped his mouth
and the minutes passed into hours
and the shots became doubles
and the empty barstool now swayed
and creaked under the weight of them both
and they laughed
until twelve minutes until three
when the bartender kicked them out
and they got lost between the dim light
of a crescent moon
and a tangle of bed sheets
and soft pillows filled with flowers
that smelled like orchids dreaming
and she guided his hand between her ribs
and placed it over her heart and whisperd
its cold in here....
and he traced the outline of her pulse
with his fingertips
and left a trail of fire
beneath her bones
and he could hear voodoo beating
its drums in her blood
and he felt her smile split his ribs open
and her hands fondling his withered heart
and she spoke in foreign languages
of old tounges tied and knotted
in the arts of love
and the room grew dark
as the moon was swallowed
by clouds and witchcraft
and his eyes bleed out their colors and tears
and he broke down sobbing
and she took him into her arms
and beneath the ocean of her eyes
where their tears swam together
with the salt of the sea
and the night was swallowed
by the sun breaking the horizon
and they both disappeared
into a song known only to mermaids
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
In the solitude of lonely rage dreams scatter beneath translucent skin in graphite lines and watercolor pans and tubes of paint spread by the course hairs of a worn out brush held by fingertips weathered and craked and stained with acrylic ink and blood and ***** spill into the wasted hours of pornographic procrastination as hands are busy stroking everything but ego and ambition and time has no need for patience or excuses and moved at its own pace despite the moving gears of the cuckoo clock trying to convince it otherwise and only mankind would be foolish enough to try to claim time can be measured and trapped and strapped to a wrist to cover up the color of thoughts of suicide and the bruises of wasted desperation as the tick tick tock of the bird inside the clock waits in lonely rage for its hour of desperation
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 2:01 PM UTC
The bleeding moon smiled and bared its sulphurous bone orange teeth and the sky craked with the devils laughter and the ground of the earth opened and swallowed all his hope and he was left as nothing more than the shell of a dead dream leaving nothing for the demons to feast upon and even there under the sky filling with blood he still felt his love for her beating in his empty chest
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC