The rainbow’s bright colors gazed out of their prism, speculatively, cautiously, almost contrarily, with no wall to paint their patterned pictures on, fading into irrelevance as they vanished into the void .

Time ; torturous and tyrannical, toyed with the torrential turbulence, as it’s transitive tenaciousness thoughtlessly, tactlessly, tooled through the torrid tempest .

The starry-eyed girl gazed glassily across the expanse as if in a quandary over the night sky .

A half human silhouette in a sky filled with thunder heads and birds of prey rooted in a tapestry of alien galaxies and blazing stars playing a melodian .

Water glistened on the skin of the naked woman and rainbows danced in the air before her as the waves crashed against the rocks .

A young man with a pony tail in the center of the back side of his head played his drum while he danced on the grass .

I know how to read
thinking, interpreting,
it's all fresh in my head,
yet writing is different.
I have a penchant for using used words.
The phased out phrases,
the reworked rhymes ,
the secondhand sentences that fly over pages upon pages of my poetry,
that's the writer I am.
Someone made of words written so many times before,
captivating carelessly.
Literature made from the same recipe yet turning out different each time,
new art made from recycled paint.
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,
yet I wonder if i'm simply the lowest form of fraudery
as an imperfect wordsmith writing over printed pads
and old book pages.
Touching on topics tactlessly,
Living through artists vicariously,
weaving with words i could never properly pronounce.
But in thought
looking back
I can only write what I know,
and if I know not the world beyond novels,
beyond poets and artists,
at least I know how to read.

I am not the diamond girl,
That is, I am not strong for compassion often overrules
I am not clear it is quite difficult for me to express my self on the first try
and hard no I'm soft a mush...
Although sometimes I wish I was strong, clear, and hard

But maybe I am the diamond girl
The diamond girl who emerged from a blackness-
That is prismatic
Ha! a piñata at times,
Shiny(glitter tactlessly applied),
With many faces, hmmm
Who am I tonight-

That is I!
That is the diamond girl
I am!
******* :)))

Te adoro
the way you adore me.

Sweep me off my feet
even though it's quite the feat -
to convince me
with sweet sentiments
have me reeling, writhing -
with both pleasure and acceptance.
You say it's effortless, easy -
for me.. I'm speechless.

I've seen lust in a man's eyes
far too many times
but you - you look at me like I'm gold treasure.
Not left bemused, but you call me your muse.

Not
spun around tactlessly,
plucked indelicately,
abused, subdued, misused.
Abandon all hope.

Sometimes I think,
I don't know how to speak, feel or write about love anymore.
Familiarity with the fear - but you allow me to feel.

Te adoro.

how can i say
that i envy the chase
from the tip of my pencil
to your graphite gaze?
spitting my heart
onto an endless canvas
of greys and blacks,
hoping the red would stain…
but it never does.
only your floral words are
indelible on my skin
and the reverse
is just a lie i tell myself
so i could sleep a little better
every forsaken night.
the truth is far from your moon;
beyond all your pretty stars
and iridescent eternities,
it is despairingly beyond my fathoms.
but i hope, and again i hurt
for butterfly smiles
and deluding taciturn undertows
and nightmarish illusions
leaving bruises of you
on the very tip of my lost tongue
and all over my wept eyes;
a lifeless empty void
against the autumn shower
of your warm hermetic glances.
and there is no one else
to keep this rusted clockwork
ticking rhythmically to the beats
of your mindless cradle…
and that is the ultimate folly
of this ascetic destructive shale
that i tactlessly call my soul.
for a fool’s machinery,
this chemical heart is.
So indiscernible to lose itself in
such vitreous self-infliction,
and sabotaging the very blood
that my tiring arteries
now regain, thus to sustain
the very memory of your breath
in tranquil consonance…
foolish—and yet; a fool, i am.
a fool for believing that this
lie was past the dark side of the moon
and beyond my wounded stars
and lacklustre infinities…
you are despondently beyond my fathoms.
but i hope, and again, i hurt.
darling, just how can i ever say
that i envy the calm reflection
from the incipience of your melody
to your coda’s revelations?

Home

The taste of granite flushed her mouth,
Felt like brittle sand between her teeth,
And she grimaced harshly,
Blaming the crust on her teeth for her situation.
Her knuckles cracked as she pulled her hands into fighting fists,
Her heart beat sung cruelly in her ears as she stared,
Black eyes dancing in unanswered danger,
At the large looming presence in front of her.

She could die,
Truly die, splat, gone, disappeared,
Wind howling with her absence,
Never to be seen again.
And she didn't know how to feel about that,
Was undecided,
Twisted and curled and gnarled in darkened thoughts,
Couldn't quite wrap her fragile mind around reality.

She was walking,
Back and force, pacing with side stepped tracked expectancy,
Eyelashes swaying like whiskers in the wind,
Cold eyes opened and ready to see the end, the coast to her city.
Her feet clacked like a horse's hoof beneath her,
Her shoes, never cleaned, smelt quite similar to a horse too,
Musty, sweaty, *****, filled with unleashed stench,
But she did not plug her nose.

The smell was hers to disgust on,
She embraced it.

She tucked stray hairs behind her angled and alert ears,
Letting calloused and shredded hands do such a gentle action seemed wrong,
As if they only mimed the part they were meant to fit,
Even though they had been her hands for as long as her hands existed.
Her eyes raised slowly, in key with the slow moving sunrise,
She gazed in mesmerised and petrified wonder,
At the unveiling scene of terrified beauty before her,
It didn't seem real.

She dropped her arms in shock and amazement,
The two falling tactlessly beside her sides with the agility of a ragdoll,
She found herself walking on slightly bent legs,
Towards the glorious picture.
A child, no older than four,
Demon eyes the colour of the blood,
And silver hair the colour of the moon's reflection on the sea,
Lifted out a curious arm with gentle innocence.

The child was not normal,
Though neither was she with her black eyes and doomed expression,
They fitted together, their palms folding like two clashing pieces, and slotted seamlessly,
She had thought her hands would fall off if they ever touched another.

Why was this boy so special,
And why did she not hate him for it?

She lifted him into her arms with a maternal grace she had never understood,
Tugged him close until his small plump face rested on her clothed chest,
Could hear his gentle and fragile heartbeat thumping softly against her squished torso,
Banging harmlessly against her ribcage.
She felt tiny hands play with her straight locks of hair,
Running fingers through the tragic art of her style,
Sniffing the smell of unwashed hair,
Of unbathed pale skin exposed to the elements.

The little boy's nose did not wrinkle as expected,
He did not appear to think she smelt of horse like her shoes.

The little boy smelt of woodchips, of forests, cooked chicken, and clean air,
He was far too precious for her to be holding,
But she couldn't seem to let go,
Not once she had him.
He brought his butterfly soft lips to her ear,
Gently brushing hair away from the opening,
And whispered softly, as if he had no idea how glorious the words were,
Against her shoulder and into her heart.

“I'm home, right?”

He rolled the words over his tongue,
Tasting them like fine wine,
As if he could not believe them himself,
And she could only hold him tighter.