"memoire" poems
The sweet texture of her skin,
Gone,
The curves from her hips to her legs,
Destroyed;
The hands and hearts in twine with the beauty of a perfect soul
Now lies and in a double layered wooden cabinet
That holds not our dead, but our fatal fears,
Forming mosques out of our open hands
Praying church bells ringing,
Like phones vibrating passing the immortal message of death.
And we look at each other,
Every night
Before and after I got to sleep
For when I sleep,
Although lacking luxurious spaces
I lie next to her in that doubled layered wooden cabinet
That becomes not a casket
But a space shuttle;
We fly and hover
And discover the lover I've loved and still love
But can't be loved back, because
The double layered cabinets
And cab drivers that took us from point A
To Becoming what we wanted to dream
Block our audibility;
And our tongues still tangled from when we last kissed
So I can't talk and neither
Can she- hear me?
Through the escalating winds
And multitudinous vibrations of living corps,
Cropped the days out of a memoire
And pasted them in an internal time shifting memory
That'll last a lifetime until we get to begin again;
The pen that frightened the writer,
The writer that wrote
And brought misery to the readers
As her read through the green in her eyes,
The silk in her hair
The failures in her tries
And the sobs in despair.
I declare, ware upon my enemies
Love, death and my loud conscience,
For none of them brought us good perhaps
And none of them gave us what we need
And none of them were as benevolent as promised to be;
For you promised to me,
And you promised;
But the promises could not be kept by the dead
And the dead are those living in a waiting hall
And the dead, that do not keep promises
And the dead looking at their watches
Counting backwards…
As we all claim dead
Some of us are looking for mortality
And some of us become immortal…
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
when I was ten, I scraped the surface of my skin
soothing the nerves that might be achin’
and I dreamed of being a shape-shifter
instead of wearing my own skin, wanted to be a transformer
like Mystique covered her scales with brown-leather jacket
as if she was hiding in her friend’s pocket
I wanted to be a shape-shifter so bad
that I carry different names in different events
introducing another personality into another styles and bents,
desperate in escaping reality
that my first name is Nobody
with a last name of loser in a morena body
when I was thirteen, I wanted to be a telepathic
because middle school was boring and pathetic,
your freckles and scars was not considered as aesthetic
because they are distractive, not attractive
then most people was stereotypic
and put so much weight of stigma
that was heavier in my own persona
I hope I could read someone’s mind
to attend their standards and be acceptable, not behind
I hope I could seep in the openings of their cracks
to see if I could join in their popular groups and ranks
I wanted so bad to be telephatic
that my sanity was almost equal to chaotic and psychotic
when I was sixteen, I wished I had x-men gene of invisibility
because school was tiresome and heavy
and bullies was way powerful than your mental ability
that you would rather disappear and stay in eternal tranquility
then suffer from discrimination
because your skin was not society’s accepted complexion
they said, I didn’t belong anywhere
because I am nobody from nowhere
mom even said I’ll be fine and should work for it
I said that I am over it and I am so done with it
but mom didn’t understand that suiting yourself in was like
walking in fired coal with trigger in my feet of armalite the wall
now, I just turned 19, I finally understand
how world kept condemning, exploiting and oppressing people who are weak
who are in minority, not hearing their silent screech
I finally understand that if you have no power
people will trample and trample you to lower
I finally understand that I don’t need an approval stamp
from anybody that crushes my soul in *****
and you, yes you
you don’t need anybody to be whole
because, certainly, surely, you can fill your own hole
I finally understand that I am enough
that life is rough so you have to be tough
And I finally understand what made me stay,
you foolish prodigy, do not be easily swayed
I have the right to be here, you have to.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
into deja vu
apercu into extreme
reality, meaning
seeming so lifelike, prescient.
I have done something
similar , before,
28 % of the time
my origin story says.
a propos or aide-memoire
like *** remembering
an anieu regime-
au contraire, I say to me.
I am au courant,
in we!
In conversations with
my past and present,
my Indian and French,
extremes, I see
I am au fuit,
been pensaut
seeing, two ways,
bon vivant,
being,
a ****** tunes.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
The needle of destiny weave through time,
As the thread of fate binds our heart,
Through every twist, through every bend,
It tighten, loosens, yet never ends,
A constant thread, a life it makes,
Yet the woven never breaks,
Each stitch, a promise softly laid,
Each knot, a sign of warmth conveyed,
For all the memoire made become a silk,
Forever bound two as one.
Sep 20, 2024
Sep 20, 2024 at 8:40 PM UTC
**...if a picture's worth's a thousand
In your gaze lies my memoire
I say a person's eyes must change
Fore within your stare I'm marked....**
I write. I drink and I write. I fill bins. Many bins.
I look at your picture. I study your eyes... I start again.
I set the table. I dimmed the lights. I'd like to say I won.
I will not say I knew you. I've no idea who you've become.
My eyes never shifted from the table. We may not have stayed the course,
Had I noticed your eyes so full of tears, instead weighing what we'd served.
**...they capture pictures come to life.
They capture scenes in their reflection
When you catch me eye to eye
You'll learn me from the silence...**
Am I made to play the part, A vagrant full of sin...
The proof is in perspective. You've seen who I have been.
Each time I leave behind a piece. A picture will not do.
Words will not to fill my chalice. My inspiration left with you.
**...the black lines divide the darkest colors
Must be the labyrinth I'm lost in.
Fore when you grow bored, not for my words
I would surely be forgotten....**
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
I left your lipstick stained cup on the counter-
A bittersweet reminder you were here.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Plus dur que fer j'ay fini mon ouvrage,
Que l'an, dispos à demener les pas,
Que l'eau, le vent ou le brulant orage,
L'injuriant, ne ru'ront point à bas.
Quand ce viendra que le dernier trespas
M'assoupira d'un somme dur, à l'heure
Sous le tombeau tout Ronsard n'ira pas,
Restant de luy la part qui est meilleure.
Tousjours, tousjours, sans que jamais je meure,
Je voleray tout vif par l'univers,
Eternisant les champs où je demeure,
De mes lauriers fatalement couvers,
Pour avoir joint les deux harpeurs divers
Au doux babil de ma lyre d'yvoire,
Que j'ay rendus Vandomois par mes vers.
Sus donque, Muse, emporte au ciel la gloire
Que j'ay gaignée, annonçant la victoire
Dont à bon droit je me voy jouissant,
Et de ton fils consacre la memoire ;
Serrant son front d'un laurier verdissant.
485
I find no peace ,
Every time I write my piece,
And you fail to read it's purpose.
I am not good I suppose*,
Because if I were,
You shouldn't always be there,
Avoiding my writings.
I know you will not read this,
But you will hear people talk of it.
My purpose ????
You need to know I'm concerned about your behavior .
Otherwise good day .
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
This memoire...
That Guy was like magic
It was like obscene
Like the internal visual aspect, of yes, my dream
Past night...
I am in love with you.
I can't "see you"
I only cry and I don't know why.
Phsically strong with emotion in nerve endings,
sick.
© Clarissa van Vreden
(to be continued)
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 2:46 AM UTC