"indiscernable" poems
i was reborn, like a phoenix
but without all the glory.
i didn't set the hospital on fire; i struggled
to pull myself from the ashes
of a former prodigy,
one entwined with madness
in all the right ways
laced with misery like a noir heroine,
so sexily depressing-
whereas now i am just empty
i did not emerge unscathed, no,
not like the fledgling, i
am covered in scars and faultlines from where
the sorrow tried rip itself
from my sorry body
and the crimson glue holding me together
replenishes itself more diluted each time
before i died
i swung through technicolor
episodes of scarlet, rose,
ecstatic white, and the
sapphire blue to haunt my dreams
waking and at night
but the color leached away,
the antiseptic began to pervade, refilled my veins
and purged me of everything but grey.
before my death,
i reigned over the darkness, banished it
when it did not suit me,
manipulated reason, lived in a waking dreamland,
in complete control of my life-
but now, when i am fragile as eggshell,
it's the only place i can hide,
a haven where i can act like the lack of light
masks an imagined vivacity and not a skeleton in flat black and white,
disguises and emboldens me,
allows me to be whole again,
to forget the borders, my limitations
indiscernable in dusk
i used to cast my own light-
now i am my own shadow
and in the dark i fumble for
what i used to be,
reconnect myself with the world
throw myself from the cliff
and hope to find my wings again
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:41 PM UTC
The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were tripping over themselves
Like the ancient trees, their overreaching roots, deep underground
Like the canopies, so intertwined, no tree could claim ownership
Like those worms who made their homes everywhere, and lived everywhere, all at once
The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were unintelligible; hieroglyphic
Like those haunting sounds at night, when the insects crawl and cowardly predators prey
Like those etchings on beautiful trees, bearing a hundred year old story, be it love or revenge
Like those indiscernable twines of creepers, snakes and curly twigs; sly, deceiving, inviting
The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were just a mingle of whispers
Like the spider's sweet rumblings to the flies, invitations to his abode
Like the torturous immigration of winds, tree to tree, blade to blade, a shrill tune in its wake
Like the chantings of night fairies, wishing health and wealth and death and breath and everything, in hushed melody
The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
And I reached out, caressed the stringy trails, tripped over some, embraced the halo of your presence
And I let them struggle with me, smiling as if that was the essence of peace, and then inhaled the torturous wind
When I could breathe again, I recognized the words on that old banyan tree where you and I became immortal
All hail the homeless, the hieroglyphs, the whispers; and the woods spoke no more.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
fur crusting over with blood,
entrails pouring from a gap
in its gut, the cat laid supine
with an indiscernable
emotion frozen on its face.
georgia watched from behind us,
crossing-uncrossing her arms.
Is he dead yet, are you done?
i thought so, but prodded it
to be sure. some blood seeped out;
it lay still as the surrounding air.
Gentler with the knife, she said.
i responded, Why’s it matter,
it’s dead, you know? and stabbed it.
*** you’re gonna make me cry!
No use crying over it,
i said; she cried for a while.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 4:23 PM UTC
L’impression de cueillir une fleur avant qu’elle n’ait éclos,
Un cadavre en guise d’ombre.
Une douleur sombre,
Indéfinissable,
Presque indiscernable.
L’impression d’avoir tué l’éveil d’un souffle,
Pendant que mon cœur se camoufle.
La folie d’y avoir cru anéantie dans un soupir,
Et puis ce doute, le risque de fléchir.
Pardonne moi de ne te donner que des signaux codés,
Chez les autres si simple ça paraissait.
J’y ai cru,
Je l’ai même voulu,
Et je me suis perdue.
L’impression d’avoir arraché une toile à un maître,
L’œuvre est inachevée,
L’arc en ciel côtoyant le vide.
Et tes larmes invisibles, inaudibles,
En bande son.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:50 PM UTC