"illuminators" poems
You are breaking everything with your (un)worn shoes
Stomping on stereotypes, evil, and souls
While tasting the smoke of a rolled cigarette.
Then you worship the streets in the background of jazz
Calling a revolution:
The king is dead, long live the anarchy,
Monarchy is buried under fedoras and ashes.
Damp fingers and open lips cease to surprise,
Just burning leftovers of shame and bray goosebumps
In churches. Heavy breathing nuns and squeaking altars...
Men, what can you see through the illuminators of your glasses?
Your planes and ships, machines have already turned
Back into pumpkins, bleeding cinderellas and their babies
Born in the tales of horror.
Evening - it's the new tomorrow! Instincts wake and it doesn't hurt
When you tickle the Milky Way in search of a Friend.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
the sunsets and the sun rises
creating each day and each night
and not once does it ask permission
the night will still be pink with light pollution
because of the single office illuminators,
found in every breathing building
the night shift family I never met,
will still glow behind little screens
or candle light thought bubbles and ink
the morning will still spill coffee all over him
but only on mondays, when he’s running late
mondays will always come
sunday mornings will still petition against alarm clocks
and sunday, hereself, will always win
it will rain and it won’t
either way, without me
a.m.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
I dreamed I was blind.
Blind, and uncomfortable
With darkness.
Fingers blistered from
Feeling if the light
Was on.
Listening for something
Between the other somethings
That combine
To create the chord Night
Strums with its claw
While singing
To itself about
Morning,
Eyesight
And other unpleasant
Illuminators.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
we used to sit
under the stars
at midnight
looking for the invisible connections
in the infinite tangle of points of light
you would draw little planets
and comets
and stars
on the back of my hands
and tell me the universe
was in my grasp
you always told me about
how your father
was an astronomer
and how he painted out the night sky
for you
on your bedroom ceiling
before vanishing into the world
without leaving a forwarding address
you’ve slept on the couch in the living room
ever since
that was eleven years ago
and the only way you can remember him
without your heart and mind
going into supernova
is through the stars
and even if your mother screams at you
to give up on him,
that the little illuminators
of the darkest part of natural life
have been dead
since before you were even a product
considered by any of the factors
on the whole earth
you still go to them
because they are the closest thing
you have to a mentor anymore
but they started to eat at you
and your state of mind
you lost borders
and crossed boundaries
some nights,
my face was darker
than the bits of sky
around the objects
i know
you loved more than me
you were never meant to lose so much
not with starry wonder eyes like yours
and a heart as big and warm and selfless as our Sun
it took a toll on all of us
when your mother chose to leave
instead of kicking you out like she said she would
she knew
no matter how you refused to sleep under your father’s handiwork
you couldn’t dare leave
the last thing
you were sure he touched
i think you touched everyone
with a bit of fire that day
anger and grief should never mix
they create combustion
much like that of hydrogen and helium
when set to a spark
i came away shedding skin
and sung
and smoking
i don’t know where you went after that day
you broke your promise with your father,
the one you never voiced aloud,
the one you never told him,
the one where you swore
you would never leave
but your house lies empty
and the constellations in your bedroom forgotten
by all except me
i still lie under the stars
-- this time in the center of the road
and this time past midnight --
and draw links between the constellations
which shine less and less bright
every night since your following
your icon into the dark
i still draw patterns
of moons and planets and asteroids
-- this time on my palms --
because i miss having the universe
in my hands
but when i look up
into the points of dead light
all i can feel anymore
is its vastness
and its oblivion
and its menacing gaze back into me
and it reminds me unfailingly of you
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
so you're sitting on a bed
it's not yours,
because the wallpaper around you is yellow and stained
you checked into the hotel at three in the morning
with a pretty boy and the promise of something that night
the sheets are crumpled around you
a pillow on the floor
and he's sleeping next to you
looking five years younger and
his hair is crumpled in a halo around his head
you're not lying to yourself
you know that you picked him up off the street after handing him two crumpled twenty dollar bills
he's here for the money
and you,
well,
you don't know why you're here
lying back against the yellow pillows and breathing deeply
hands resting on a sweat-stained stomach
and when you look over
his blonde hair is moving with each breath
mouth agape and
a light dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks
and while the sound of night and car horns permeates the room
the illusion that all is silent and still
and that the world is waiting for you outside this bubble of *** and safety
exists only in this dark room that stinks of sweat
and sounds like the shallow breathing of two miserable men
the low buzzing of the radiator and the strip of light from the underside of the fridge are the only illuminators in the room
his breaths lull you to sleep and when you wake up
it's only you in the bed with the afternoon shadows looming over you with a sudden finality
you don't see him again on the streets of new york,
or in the dark, grungy alleyways of the underside of humanity
and you can only hope
though why you bother with this teenage boy adorned with freckles and blue eyes
well
you don't know
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
Constellations glazed her cheeks
And graced her button nose
Leo and Orion’s Belt
Penned in perfect prose
As if a brave astronomer
Had scooped up all the stars
Collecting bits of diamonds
In his cherished mason jars
He scattered them along the soul
Of the girl he deemed deserving
Poured out his containers on
This coruscating earthling
So that galaxies could dust her skin
And the universe could taste her
An interstellar miracle
Of flawless illuminators
Now we find the Milky Way
Engraved upon her skin
Supernovas radiate
A trail down to her chin
Every verse in twilight
Inscribed on this mere human
Dotted down her arms and back
Celestial contributions
So when she looks up to the heavens
To beaming lights of fascination
There’s never want or lack within her
For she is made of constellations
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 8:17 PM UTC
thousand of rhymes scattered on my blank sheets. every syllable holds the memory of battles that i've faced and will be facing, spilling my very soul on every piece that i've scribbled hoping it will be the metaphors to relieve my withering verses. i was nothing but a bleeding warrior— a bleeding poet with the paper as my shield, my heart and emotions as the ink, and a pen that will serve as the sword in this big battlefield.
but i was never alone in this battlefield. along with this journey, i had my comrades who did also possessed a heart that bleeds. allowing these very feelings and voices to flow from thy hearts. as our words were written down it has formed a life. thus, i've always thought that pen is indeed mightier than a sword. and if you did asked me why, it's simple. the pen has a huge and far-reaching impact while a sword does only have a short reach. and so we've made the pen as our weapon to stop wars and to create peace. using it to change hate into love and using it to also fight for friendship.
these words and verses sure could heal or **** either start or quash a strife.
we are nothing but the bleeding warriors who wields the power of writing. the users of words and emotions, again with the pen to create new life and letting it be an eye-opener. we are the defenders of the underrated, illuminators to darkness, and fighters of the words unsaid. the chaotic emptiness of our papers that requires to be filled and fought; the blood we've spilled in the battlefield, our words as the blade, and the verses and rhymes we've created to build a fortress and shield.
we are the ones who breathe and live for poetry and literature. the ones who have no hesitations to cut down our souls, to tear down our faith so long as we could still bleed to create a masterpiece, and a life-changing chance for ourselves and to everyone. we have hidden a lot. from every composition and lines created, it held and hid the voices of pain, sorrow, anger, hate, retribution, change, and feelings. with these voices and words that are hidden and unsaid, it revealed the unfamiliar to familiar minds with the help of us, the bleeding warriors.
and until now, i keep on bleeding. i keep on writing. but i have as well devoted my life along with them— along with the writers of the society, the voice of the voiceless. and if ever my life had and would come to an end, sure it would be with full glory and might.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC