"shriveling" poems
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.
New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?
Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme
Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?
You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.
Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow
Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
#
A lively debate
that inside I create
A seemingly
simple state
But this state
of affairs
Is like a ****** affair*
The details
I wish not to share
Please,
don’t stare
For inside
I’m scared
Am I prepared?
Do I have
the ***** to do
what I really care?
Or am I going
to stay on this ship
of self-despair
Where
I can scream
my lungs ******
into the air
But does anyone care?
Do I even f@cking care??
Maybe a life spared
but ***spare me the
retched bullsh@t***
of self-pity
I’m self-giving
It wreaks up the air
It’s noxious scent
is not one I care
to ever encounter
or fair
Let’s “clear the air”
and take on
what I want
from now on
No longer a pawn
who is living the tired
joke
of some *pathetic
love song*
No, THIS
is my “Swan Song”
Where I belong
This sh@t is ON!
Climbing the mountain strong
Bellowing a chant
a song
That’s been so deep within
for so long
It can only come out
Right
Because “wrong”
does not belong
**This virus
is airborne**
No longer forlorn
All the darkness
is gone
You have been
forewarned
Are you ready?
Because it’s coming
Sounding the horn
Sacrificed
the firstborn
The “storm”
Once icy and cold
Now simmering warm
Going to bubble into
volcanic ash scorned
This Oath
hath been sworn
Tattered and torn
**** cloth
all that is worn
But forward my path
What’s behind me
**My ***
The past
*Worn out,
decayed,
and shriveling trash*
All that
is gone
as I head
towards the dawn
Through the darkness
I’ve trekked
The Sun rises ahead
And with it
My song
My Swan Song
I am reborn
withered and worn
But still strong
I belong
***I am one
with the Universe***
The path before me
is brightly lit
with happiness and joy
No more patheticness
All the grit
and the spit
Broken teeth
All that sh@t
It all meant something
It was THIS
*Every bruise
Every break
All the “wrongs”
and “mistakes”*
Are what it takes
You can call it fate
or simply short of fatal
but since
neonatal
through this day till
Every day
I thankfully say
“Thank you”
for showing me the way
Because now I have
A love that stays
A true love
One that can’t
get away
Because I value Me
One ‘hopes’ or ‘prays’
But like a house
Each brick is laid
Onto the next
Foundation made
A sturdy house
Can’t blow away
Hard work put in
Made it this way
The same for me
The price I paid
But end result
A saving grace
#
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
I feel like I am diminishing
I am shriveling up
Not really dying
Just a whisper
Fading
I am a soft-spoken word
Like an escaped secret
Never able to return
To your lips
Not ever
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
i can't remember when i last heard your voice
and i need you to know that i miss you.
but i don't think the words alone are enough.
i miss you.
I MISS YOU LIKE A BLIND MAN'S BULLSEYE.
I MISS YOU THE WAY A POOR MAN MISSES A ROOF OVER HIS HEAD.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE RUMBLING IN HIS UNFED STOMACH.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE COLD ACHY SPACE IN THIS HALF-EMPTY BED.
I MISS YOU LIKE EVERY POEM I ALMOST WROTE BUT FORGOT ABOUT BEFORE I FOUND A PEN TO WRITE IT DOWN.
I MISS YOU LIKE A FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAY.
I MISS YOU THE WAY JANUARY MISSES GREEN.
I MISS YOU LIKE MY FATHER'S BEDTIME STORIES.
I MISS YOU LIKE THE LAST TRAIN HOME.
MY CHEST IS CAVING. MY LUNGS ARE SHRIVELING,
AND WITH MY LAST BREATH I WILL SCREAM
THROUGH SPACE AND TIME - I MISS YOU.
IT'S TRUE, WHAT ALL THOSE POETS SAY ABOUT THE SUN & MOON - THAT THEY ARE GOING TO KEEP CHASING EACH OTHER FOR ETERNITY, THAT THEY WILL NEVER KNOW ONE ANOTHER'S TOUCH. SO I AM SENDING UP VENDING-MACHINE PRAYERS TO A MAY-OR-MAY-NOT-BE-THERE GOD, BEGGING HIM TO CLOSE THE GAP BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS AND THE SPACES BETWEEN MINE.
- m.f.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
You stripped my soul,
Ripped me from my shoes
Where I stood
in innocence.
You extracted my childlike traits,
Treated my body
As your ********* paycheck.
My whole future
Was laid out in front me.
Now you fabricated a dent in it,
One that has shattered me
Forever.
I used to smile,
Be full of life,
Slept at night,
My body never reeked the incessant scent
of the lifeless souls you sold me to.
My heart ached everyday,
I longed for home, where safety was waiting for me.
Everyday I was a raindrop,
Trying to cling onto the window of hope,
But always slipped away.
You don’t understand the pain,
You’re only in it for the hunnits
Please understand,
That my dehumanization is not worthy
For what you gain.
My body became an abstract canvas,
For your ugly pleasures.
Bruised, bloodied, beaten, and battered.
Cuts and aches line my delicate skin,
But to you all my pain is fake.
You slapped my delicate face,
every time I asked for my precious prize of my childhood,
every time clear oceans surged out of my eyes.
“Shut the hell up!” You yelled
As I let out wails of agony.
You stepped all over me
Like I was a used cigarette.
You ignored my shrieking screams,
Actually,
You loved it.
You forced me
To comply with their beastly gratifications,
Only in return for your abundant riches.
You stepped on me,
like I was a ***** grimy, muddy puddle,
over and over
Even so,
I was still considered desirable.
I am NOT your canvas.
I am NOT your paycheck.
I am NOT your plaything.
I am worthy of honor,
worthy of respectful awe and delicacy.
I did not feel the worth of a human being anymore.
I felt ill treated, broken, bent, demeaned.
You stripped my soul, and,
Deprived me of my self respect.
And I will never
Ever
Be the same.
The only thought
That seeps into my mind
At sunrise and the brink of midnight,
Is that
I
Was someone’s *****
Listen to the pleas of
Children,
their ribbons shriveling up.
Spouses,
their vows rupturing.
Siblings,
their hearts torn apart.
Parents,
Bawling for their sanities,
Waiting to rejoice
With their miraculous bundles of joy—
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:13 AM UTC
Night flower blossoming
Beneath the summer sky
Petal parasols unfurling
Throughout June and July
She was born under the moon
Nocturnal butterfly
Pollinated by pale moths
To live one day then die
Moonflower blooms in warmth
Her short season’s end nigh
Shriveling once the frost sets in
And conceding to the ice
Moonblossom rich in scent
A true pleasure to stand by
Her short-lived sweet fragrance
Would all surely vivify
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 5:43 AM UTC
you have me running in
dangerous circles (round and round and round and)
or is it you that circles me ---
the helpless prey
?
((well, all the helpless can do is pray))
those alien teeth, they
close around my jugular, only slightly
i forget what (wheeze) air is for
she's are no declawed cat!,
scream my back and cheek and neck and arm and mind
[*that's gonna sting like a ***** in the morning*, warn-growls she,
predator woman
(chimaera, monster she, sphinx)]
just ******* let me go and let's
(make this mess)
get this done
i can feel the words shriveling off before reaching my tongue
[i know the chase to you is foreplay but]
mercy! mercy! timeout!
--- has no one told you that it's ugly to play with your food?
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
I'm just getting in the bath,
Someone else wrote the letter,
I don't want to make a. Mess.
Draw me the water
I point at the tap
Burden no family
Hold my head under icecaps.
Merkel Cells, diluted sensation,
The end of fingertips cant feel your
Flesh.
Shriveling in the cold,
Shivering to stop freezing,
But I cant. What am I doing?
Can I want this now, errectores pilorum erected.
Have I set motion to,
Cogs in a watch I cant adjust.
my lungs mark absolute zero
this is me sitting in chemistry class
english
10th grade
asking sam to suffocate with me
every alvioli is pinned by ****** as thick as knitting needles
my chest is permafrost
my sternum, antarctica
the ribs hollow out
capillary beds lose all the haem
out of their erythrocytes
I'm losing St. Elmo's Fire.
The baths still panting out,
Water roars, gushing spout.
Proud the current sweeps me through,
The porcelain lining this white hell bathroom.
It's bone cannot hide from my blood,
As if I'm isotope 226 of Radium.
Heat seeking marrow.
My serum is Hodgkins Lymphoma,
Tearing through sheeting tile,
Like a young cancer child,
Afflicted,
Leukemia,
No chance,
No good blood left,
To let.
Soon, it will all be gone, and the rivers that
freeze in my arms, and the ribs that are icicles
form, and the atrial canal is not like Venice,
it is the Rhine in winter, the Volga during
the solstice.
Spring will never come again.
Spring slipped its head into the bath water, like my own.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
i am not good with words
i was never good at literature
never good at fathoming
my thoughts, cries, and pleads into lines and rhymes
always on the look out
for words that i can never understand
and metaphors that dont match
but i'll use them anyway because i thought they'll look nice.
i was never good at poetry,
always forgetting to water
the flowers on my tongue
so they just wither away
and the soil of my literature
will run dry as the pen on my table.
i was never good at using words
as an outlet of my shriveling thoughts
i
never
knew
when
to
hit
the
enter
key
i was never good at this.
but your ears were always closed
and your eyes were always open,
on the look out for your next lover
so here i am.
a girl with poetry for lips and paint fir blood.
here it is.
my poetry,
in all of its pain & glory.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
Sunflowers turn their faces towards the sun
following its warm path as it rises and sets
soaking up the comforting rays
in the winter they wither
shriveling in the grey
trembling at the loss of their old friend
the sun.
People can't act like sunflowers
we can't live to soak up sunlight
directing our lives to follow its path
sleeping through the winter
hiding our faces until the return of the warm friendly light
that melts the snow and brightens up the dreary grey
Outside I must direct my life towards the path most productive
working hard so I can have a future
and so my family and my children can have a future
I can't follow the sun with my face
like the sunflowers
But inside I shrivel in the grey of winter
the long cold months that drag on
while the sun hides behind clouds and snow
I too tremble at the loss of warmth
of bright sunny days filled with happiness
Outside I am people
but inside I am a sunflower.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
she was a bird on the water
she was clouds reflected
she was trees sighing in the wind
she was sunlight through Venetian blinds
she was dust motes circling lazily
she was Sunday morning ***
she was smiling at me in the mirror
she was bonfires under a pale moon
she was tidal waves of emotion
she was whirlpools of conviction
she was typhoons of jealousy
and I was there too
she is the silhouette of a cigarette pressed to my teeth
she is my shadow cast behind me in the setting sun
she is blue-tinged smoke silently filling the room
she is burning my eyes like chlorine in a crowded pool
she is bars of the cage where my mind is kept penned
she is electric fencing wrapped around my heart
she is buckets of tar drowning me in my dreams
she is written in cursive on the insides of my eyelids
she is slowly shriveling my liver and blackening my lungs
she is living in all the mirrors I look into
she is becoming brobdingnagian prose
maybe that's just me but,
I'm not there anymore.
So why is she still here?
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
i used to dream in black and white,
grays blending together the scenes that
spin spin spin
until i can't differentiate black from white.
i dreamt about shriveling flowers and endless hallways
and never being able to scream;
and then i met you.
suddenly i was dreaming in color,
a luxury i thought would never come to fruition,
flowers popping and life breathed back into trees.
i never knew how beautiful it was to have someone hold you at 3am,
to kiss your bruises and tell you your scars are angelic
even though the way you acquired them isn't.
i never knew how beautiful it was
to dream in color.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC
Enveloped with pine-
Stretched across statelines:
Beauteous blue upon envious emerald
Pooled amongst royal white mountains
Adorned with grey jewels of centuries
Emitting sweet, earthy aroma
She caresses the land.
Mother to lakes hidden by her red fir,
Provider to the fiery yellow cress
Hydrant for all animals alike.
M(ama) Rose keeps a chary eye
on her joint creation:
The provider, the mother,
The revered, grandiose puddle
is threatened by scarcity.
The royal white mountains,
Remain royal- but lack frost,
And thus the water retreats
Shriveling back 13 feet from shoreline
This once sacrosanct lake---
Devastated.
Keep Tahoe Blue?
Keep Tahoe Wet.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
Why aren't we perfect?
on this boat in the taihiatian sea
amongst the gardenia planted pots
smothered by it's heavenly fumes
and surrounded by leaping dolphins?
1) you'll mess up my bed sheets
2) I'd make sure everyday you'll have is ****
and 3) because change is hard for both you and me.
but why is it harder to being all alone
-
wild
-
wild
-
WILD
-
with
-
freedom
-
than being with you?
so don't write about me,
when I'm dying and shriveling
and not here
and
this premonition comes true
and
I've
given up.
Write about me now,
alive and well,
desolate and passionate
imploring you to go
exploring with me
in both our
wild
-
WILD
-
ways,
perfect in our imperfect ways
being both brilliantly terrible
and both terribly brilliant.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
My iridescent wings fall to the ground as I hear a tapping on the wall.
A promise was broken.
Violent, repetitive, ringing relentlessly through my ears. I am growing weaker by the sheer sound of it and I've lost my ability to fly away. I start shrinking, shriveling, minimizing to a small bundled form. Without warning, plates cascade around me forming a cold metal cocoon.
This is what I never thought I'd feel, what I never thought I'd see. This is hopelessness, insecurity, low self esteem, this is my own bitter purgatory imprisoning my limbs and encaging the full extent of my body.
It's like a snow storm in the middle of summer, a lone wolf lost in unknown woods. It's like a being trapped in a cave with no light or sound, and when you scream, you're lucky if you hear so much as an echo.
This is demetamorphisis.
The ultimate loss of hope in the universe. I see no cracks of light shining through, I can no longer smell of the sweet scent of grass, or taste the warmth of the sun. I can't grow or learn, I can only just "be." I am stuck and for now there is no way out because no one actually knows that this is happening.
This is just another way of coping.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Not for the faint-hearted
The highest peak is
Unconquerable is its tip
Cold and misty,
A stairway to heaven!
Bold climbers ignore
Step is the slope,
Help is the rope,
And the peak is their hope.
Surmounting the rocks
Resisting the freezing air
Holding back against the pull of gravity
Should the climbers do
With the vertical
That seemed infinite.
Escapade began.
In their heart, they held
The step and hope.
Crouching on the frosting rocks
They moved higher and higher.
'Till they could glance
At the abyss of horizons.
Passing the halfway,
Wild fortune they met.
Wind with wrath roared.
There came a snowstorm!
Hope began to melt
Their shriveling souls, too.
Buried.
Vertically jeopardized.
Lives ended with the limit.
Another team conquered
The mighty mountain.
Aroused a sense of adventure
Spirits unleashed,
Saying altogether, "We can!"
As tightly holding the guide
And pathway's light -
Their nation's proud "stars ans stripes."
Valiance flashed on their faces.
Higher and higher they went
Calmness danced with the rustling cool wind
Glaring were the ice flakes
Of noontime sun
The journey was near to its end.
Yet, a huge running bunch of snows met them.
Keen climbers bombarded
Explosive things.
Boom!
A hole was formed.
They went down
Into the hide site-like hole
Awaited the "limit" to pass by
then, it came.
The hole was filled
Shivering with cold
Heroes bombarded again...
Light rays entered as
Dazzling as their smiles.
Escapade continued.
'Till they stood and yelled
The voice of victory,
Overcoming the vertical's limit,
On their success,
On the most awe-inspiring place
of their dreams -
The earth's highest pinnacle!
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:56 AM UTC
I am tired, exhausted really.
I’m not getting enough sleep. Not enough is going my way.
Writing takes a piece of my soul and turns into words while meaningless by themselves becomes something with power.
Life doesn’t feel vibrant and colorful like I know it sometimes can be.
Life has instead been replaced with a gloomy, apathetic relative.
Life has been treating me unfairly, despite my best efforts.
It has left me broken and bruised and bleeding in the middle of the battlefield.
Despite my cries, nobody hears me as I continue to disintegrate into a shriveling pile of nothing.
I feel like I’m losing. No, I know that I’m losing.
Because see it’s not the battles that matter, it’s the war.
Things have changed, I’m slowly coming back to the person I used to be, unhappy with myself and with life.
I’m completely terrified of this thought but far too tired to resist.
I don’t know how to reverse, I don’t know how to find happiness.
I have lost the road map, I’m scrambling for a hand hold or some sort of sign.
I’m too tired to fight.
I’m too tired to be happy.
I’m too tired to focus on school work.
I’m too tired to push myself through 6 hours of homework a night.
I’m too tired to carry around a 40 pound backpack from class to class.
I’m too tired to find balance between healthy habits and what reality holds.
I’m too tired to effectively manage my time, I would rather self-sabotage.
I’m too tired to write, I’ve already said this.
Maybe if I got more sleep, not so much in my life would be wrong.
I like to think that the majority of my life’s problems would be fixed with a little more balance.
Perhaps my life would look a little more like my aspirations.
Perhaps I would be happier and my eyes filled with more ambition.
Perhaps my notebooks would be filled to the brim with intelligent ideas and beautifully crafted writing.
Perhaps my life would look more like the plot to a cheesy indie film with the protagonist figuring everything out during a montage set to sentimental music. I would enjoy that.
Or
Perhaps nothing would change. And everything I imagined is nothing but an impossible world created by fractured idealist’s fuel and fabricated fiction.
I’m exhausted and tired of putting my ideas out only to have them rejected.
But that’s what writing is about. Reality, and pushing through.
Writing isn’t supposed to be infused with sugar-coated metaphors and avoidance of the truth.
Writing isn’t supposed to be lies, although that narrative is proposed often.
Writing isn’t supposed easy.
Writing is supposed to be about emotion.
Writing is about failure.
Writing is about heartbreak.
Writing is supposed to be about the rough times as much as it is about the good times.
Writing is real.
Writing is exposure.
Writing is powerful, simply because of the truth behind it.
So I will continue to write even when I don’t feel like it.
I will continue to face reality, head on with a stare colder than ice.
I will write because it’s not supposed to be easy.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 5:59 AM UTC
I loved you, yes.
Once
You soothed me cool cool water on a burn
You rocked me gently napping in your arms
resting in a sunlit motel room.
I grew to love your company
The simple existence of a warm body in the same room
To desire your lazily listening ear
I learned to lust for shapes that did not my body fill
To moan for groan for
Forced tessellations roughly holding down my hips
in demeaningly false passion.
I loved you once
But was quickly weighted left hand bending
toward the dirt under the ceiling of your bed chamber
“My love do not leave me you
cannot leave me you will
never leave me you will learn
to love me hunchbacked lonely.
My love my sweet my dear.
My pet. “
I drowned in the heat of your sweat
Filling my lungs bursting with salt
Filling my organs with your clammy salt
Curing my love bitter shriveling dried my heart
preserved for future consumption no longer
pumping warm blood bleeding aching no longer
throbbing stinging longing soaked in blood
no longer beating .buhduhn.buhduhn.buhduhn.
living bleeding my heart no longer pouring
sweet blood from her mouth into thirsty veins.
A cured lump of jerky fell from my breast
onto the floor and I looked on indifferent as the dog
took it in his mouth.
I loved you once
I sobbed childish little girl confused in your absence
Upon your return arms vines twisting clinging
to your steady torso
Flowering my gently parting lips eager to pour forth
my nectar into your life to sweeten
your life
I only wanted to be sweet for you.
You unearthed me chopping roots clinging
desperately to cool moist earth
You unearthed me peeling tendrils from your walls
wrapping me in a ball and tenderly bringing
me inside through the side door
You unearthed me dropping me in a too small ***
Pruning pruning roughly trimming flowers falling
to the floor I only wanted to be sweet for you
now daily thirsting in your window nectar
no longer flows now daily drying my leaves
soft plush foliage bursting green browns
falls crisp to the table I only wanted to
be sweet for you now daily dying browning
petals fall from my cheeks to the table and
I wilt as the cat takes them in her mouth.
You loved me once.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
mechanical wonders are they!
the greatness of ever-changing plains
withered weathering willows which wallow in the wake of winds,
shriveling, sniffling, cynical twins.
solaris, the fantastical bringer of light!
oh how we lift our faces in your fruit-bearing gaze.
our thanks for extinguishing the inky blight, you have given us sight.
we miserable, entangled creatures in locks and chains,
at the mercy of the return of your fiery blaze.
we rely on Pandora’s final curiosity
and during times of ultimate crisis, we wish for you
and pray for catharsis.
but your sister…
luna, you wretched being, wrecker of sanity!
oh how you unravel the psyche, fibrous ends,
intertwining tapestries meticulously woven yet disassembled so quickly.
we are aghast at the horrors with which you plague us.
each stare through the mirror, reversed pools of vanity
freckles of light fall from their places
on weary onlookers’ shadowy faces
as they melt in the hysterics of your obscure domain.
finally a farewell, an intonation of speech:
“good-bye.”
discombobulated words, addressed to each;
for one sister revitalizes that which the other hath slain.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
"If anyone botheres you
I've got your back"
You said
So I guess you'll have
To reevaluate your statment
Because your phrase
Echoes in my head
Bugging me each
And every one
Of my days
How you told me
To stop being myself
Because I was a little weird
And now my fears came true
I got to know that everyone else
Thought that too
Because how could a father
Tell his daughter
To stop being who she is
So my smile slowly faded
You saw it less and less
Each time
And my playfulness halted
And turned into series of complaints
I hear it all the time
In your voice
you are disappointed
You are slowly shriveling me up
Weighing me down
I am sorry
I am not enough.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
When the screaming ends
the flesh seared away by the blinding white light
many eyes opening wide in colors yet unseen
eyelids peeling back and shriveling
cursed to forever look and see everything
burning hot metal sloughing the charred remains of flesh and bone
teeth acidily dripping from the writhing form
and as the ashen wings sprout
and all noise ceases
you pick up a feather
hearing the chorus and choir
and wonder if this is the epitome
of beauty
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 2:13 AM UTC
You wear her ring
I'll cut your palm
Draw your blood
Skin cells fusing with the dust
I trace the scar
On my left hand
A lifeline made
Slam the glass and cut it again
You turn away
To ashen Verde
And shriveling flowers
Come back with uninspired eyes for this tired pen
So I spit on your grace
That comes bearing shelter
And descend upwards
To putrid ducts where I can freely release my own sins
Then I ascend downwards
To appease wasted salt
And find you there with a gun
And bullets on a three-legged table set for two
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:20 PM UTC
Her tongue in cotton,
a crack
between her jaws:
A boy left the scar on her chin
slick and gleaming,
shriveling like a moth on fire
in the burn of those words
he lit that night
e.e. cummings was on *****
windows, blurred,
and everywhere he went she found
hope
Her heart a scoop
in a honey jar,
something thick and sweet
to toss onto breaking waves,
only to end up back at her feet.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC