So many thoughts feelings expressions emotions
locked behind deadpan eyes and a voice that's toneless.
A mountain of a person consolidated to this form.
A body unimpressive.
A face unexpressive.
The chaos upstairs requires all of my attention.

Conversing takes a back-seat which is why I seem distant.
Too many things to say only leaves me in silence.
I don't know how or where to begin.
If only I could let you inside to weather the storm
maybe you could make sense of this nonsense and bring me to port.

In moments of raging to the hospital, the jolts from the road, the squeal of the tires, and the tripping of your feet only multiply your anxiety. Delicacy is suspended amply in the air, hanging daintily on the thread of life and death.
          Delicacy is the soft and inconsistent beeping from the cardiac monitor. It controls your thoughts; yet is only a shadow on your radar. It shares the rhythm of the pounding in your head, and the thumping in your chest. You strain to shut everything out, leaving only the shy quiver of breathe slithering out from their lax lips. Their lips tremor under the reign of some foreign enemy, and their eyes flutter from an unseen truth. It is the suffering you wish to unburden them from, the pain you would inflict upon yourself in return for both their lives intact.
          Delicacy is a light fragrance, a mixture of disinfectant and sweat. Is it the scent of creating a life, or the imminent end of it? Beads of perspiration stream down your face and sting your eyes.
          The sweet caress of silk treads faintly underneath your fingertips. You rub the back of her hand, clammy and fragile. Rubbing the skin, you forget who the comfort is more for while footsteps pierce the stillness in the air. A figure dawned in white appears before you. Their form blurs in and out of focus, their voice a toneless muddle seeping through your cloud of stupor.
          Delicacy is a whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We can only save one of them." It is the realization that too much pressure, and two months premature, is a cocktail dyed with poison. She looks to you with eyes of understanding and acceptance.
           Delicacy is the collapsing of all you know. It is the berating of incoherent words tumbling from your lips for the pure sake of escaping. You're swiftly taken from the room, kicking and screaming to the hallway.
          The unsettling tick of the clock mocks your every fiber. You **** the void of silence with the tapping of your foot, taming yourself from barging your way into the room. With the screaming from the bed, the instinct of protection, the stiffening of your back, the nurse quickly ushers you back in.
          The soft and consistent rising of the baby's chest is surrounded with the light fragrance of life. The plush fibers of the yellow blanket tug on the skin of your fingertips. The fascination apparent in your eyes, look to her while wondering how this little body will have the biggest impact on your life. Delicacy is the soft whisper flashing goosebumps across your skin, "We made it."

Is it fortune or fame?

No it’s not what she wants.

It’s the freak to whom you can talk.

She is me, and I am she.



Every move makes the sublime wind.

But, my baby’s at home,

And I walk away with pride.

I am not coming back for I made my mind.



They call it sin for I see it nothing but a win.

Every ****** takes me to a place I call home.

Every touch makes me want it even more.

So, see though this naked desire.

For it shed every cloth for the simple fire.



Fill me in with every drop

Take me away to another world.

Bring me down for I care for you not.

A million times before, I have it again.



I have the stuff that you want,

Look me deep in the eye

Another ***** tale you will bury.

For, there is nothing but the open sky.

Our immediate discomfort always feels so wrong
Aren’t we all meant to get along?
It starts as simply as the set of their jaw
Before long it’s their toneless guffaw
Then their mere presence becomes an intense irritant
And you fight to suppress your instinct to be militant
Forget the initial dislike that began to percolate
Now you fight for control as you hyperventilate
Digging deep for composure you seek compromise
But then you recognise the mutuality of warrior steel in their eyes
You know they know
What to do; step away or let it be so?

the bells peal
toneless
in the hollow place
of the night

and the moon is
the cold light
of tenuous dreams
seen through
the strained fabric of
a threadbare sky

shadows of midnight words
pulled long and thin
by the weight
of expectation
sit by the road
waiting for redemption
that never comes

pallid night flowers bloom
in hidden places
adorned by a feeble glow
without scent
in their ragged flesh

words whispered by
constrained throats
are consumed

devoured by the ravening silence
blasting down
from oblivion

Bathtub music and drums played on the surface
of Davy Jones's mirror: the ceramic holds
the sea, the sea, and all within it: ***** me.

Scrubbed you off my skin again for
the umpteenth night in a row. Row
row row our boat away from the constant,
constant rows. Stormy arguments and
weathered mistrust. You'll break me,
won't you? I'll break you, won't I? Won't you
come drown with me Ariel? Won't you
come up with me to the kitchen and lock up
the door then lock up the oven then lock up
ourselves in carbon-monoxide poetry?

But then how does cooking gas end up as sass
in a library? How did sustenance turn into
asphyxiation?  Why are our hands on
each other's throats instead of being binded
by the absoluteness, the certainty, the assuredness
of palms within palms and fingers interlocked
and question marks dispelled.

Splash! as way in and over my head
is the bathtub music
and my absorbent curls are
drinking, drinking, drinking, thinking
about the why you only call me when
you're drinking, drinking, drinking; thinking
about the way I cannot suppress you when
the cellphone has long gone quiet and
your Hughes of blue are still loud but
your red is dead.

Ariel, Ariel,
I want to be your dark-haired prince.
Ariel, Ariel,
my country is landlocked but I still see you in the sink.
Ariel, Ariel,

gurgling away as the bathtub music fades
into ugly brown rings around the ceramic
pause button
that shows no hope of continuation
Ariel, Ariel, you are the final splash!
as the false sea drifts away, the final splash!
that scatters bathtub music past the drain
and into the air. Ariel, Ariel,

you are the false rain
that my landlocked country never prayed for.
Ariel, Ariel, toneless, begotten and forgotten
Ariel, Ariel. I cannot sing for you. I cannot.
You will not sing for me. You will not.

The final splash! past the drain and into the air
is you Ariel. The false rain.

The rain song of our endless games.

it brings nirvana
the idea of a faceless brunette girl
petite and soft and curious
i lie extended
i imagine her laying extended
but open
like a star fish
the alphabet exists between her legs
she's like a peach in full bloom
and tastes like one
sweet, ripe, delicious, visceral, here, now, once, ever? yes, here
she sings toneless notes
my eyes roll back into my skull
and that's it

Thou wert born as a treasured prince,
pure ye' unloved without a sin.
In t'ose grand days thou grieved alone-
blandly and coldly as a stone.

How thou blushed at my first ingress!
Dull and grey was t'at day I dressed-
abiding by t'ose lawful tones,
which people shyly greet'd with scorns.

And seen thy smile-thy bashful smile,
my heart shook in me for a while.
'Midst th' repressed shrieks of th' gale,
within our sunless room and shell.

Thou wert sunset to my evening-
docile sunrise to my morning!
Thou lifted me whenst as I felt bleak-
and breathed hope whenst I fell weak.

O Nikolaas, my gem and merciful delight-
how I once longed to be thy bride!
Ah, thy starry gaze made my soul blithe-
and turned my blackness into white.

But how thou saileth to thy homeland;
and wasth never seen back again.
'Twas me and my love t'at remained-
cries of hatred I wrought in pain!

For days I sat in spiteful doom-
only toneless songs my mouth hummed.
I felt like I had lost my shield-
thy soul t'at now dwelleth far afield!

O Nikolaas, dance in thy very handsome feet-
and sing by thy voice sleek and sweet.
Those grey eyes once to me so dear-
ah, how thy jests I yearn 'gain to hear!

Thou art th' lone son of my night-
and by day th' fruit of my sea!
Hark, darling, how sins canst be right-
and how glad misery may be.

In fiery dreams I'll care for thee;
and stroke thy cheeks by green sunlight.
Ah, t'is lone abyss canst be witty-
ye’ its recesses may be bright.

And farewell, o, my darling king-
for by another I'm waited.
To memories thou shalt not cling-
as together we're not fated.

Kiss my vapour, and candlelight-
as thy fond pictures of o'r nights!
Full of merit and confessions-
quick'ning breaths of red affection.

Ah! and to my poems shalt I retreat-
cheer my keen reader with quick wit.
Bless them with tales t'ey're desiring-
of a prince, genuine and charming!

T'at shalt be of thee, Nikolaas;
yon first story t'ey're bout to pass!
How 'midst th' anxious windy gusts-
thou'rt still th' prince of many hearts!

Joy be with thee, o my darling,
in every step thou art to bring!
Be thy soul blithe with fond laughter
as we once promised together.

And forward now shalt we saunter,
to th' future shalt we wander.
Cannot as we walk hand in hand,
ye' still thou art my precious friend.

Ah! but today I'll remember thee-
yes, as mirth on lovely, sunny days!
How I once sat and quietly prayed-
so t'at by my side thou could stay.

But as I creep to r'ality,
I'm thankful for t'is love with me.
And grin at him doth I sweetly;
as he leanst his head on my knee.

I open my eyes with glory;
and rise ahead with fixity.
In his charms doth I rejoice;
as he plants on me a shy kiss.

O, Nikolaas!
Still thou holdeth a place in my heart;
t'at no-one dear canst tear apart.
Whilst thy burdens round but heavy;
and thy summers gray and weary.

Destiny was we possessed not;
and passion we couldn't afford!
Ye' whenst t'is world should pass away;
thy name still th' first I would say.

I live to die and die to know,
The way of life the blood of flow,
Remember all you can't restrain,
You captivate the dream with pain,
My nightmares haunt and nothing's real,
Forever will I bleed to feel,
The corner helpless of my eyes,
Distort the horror of my lies,
I’ll try to run but I will fall,
I’ll try to hide but then stand tall,
You know the cold and I feel numb,
Feeling destroyed I will succumb,
A craving to hard to ignore,
The tears from my eyes they pour,
A hurting to deject to tame,
a toneless voice I cannot name,
A place that puts your hell to shame,
And that’s my mind a wilting flame.

Amorphous blobs of yellow and white
Fly by the candle sticks in the hall
Halls melt hourly when they meet light
Fire of the candles makes paint fall
The blue mixes with the yellow
They make a mellow green
The bowls holding the wax afloat
See the world through a cello screen
The man in the middle glares with watery
Eyes on fire in purple airs
All this time the song keeps playing
Endless, toneless, knocking
on, off, on, off
the music never stops
till the hall melts from the candlesticks in the bowls catching the wax through the cello screen with the green mellow light, but even the man in the middle with the flaming watery eyes cant stop the music from throbbing its beat, drilling into our ears, you can hear it can't you? I can see it, silly you
Until I see the blobs of yellow and white.
Good bye, I'll see you in the morning light.

Wander through a dark room, groping
always thinking, always hoping
Mechanic red flash, toneless recordings

A handwritten note lies carefully folded,
can't hold it
creased to perfection, it gathers dust

No message carries your voice,
your choice
Our paths long parted, and yet
to forget
seems too painfully real a possibility

On the ragged crumbling cliffs of sanity
I stand, shaking with torment
Both hands clasp my head
As I look up to the black sky
Eyes wide with no focus
A dark star shines in them like polished obsidian
Mouth gaped hideously open in a toneless scream
Heavy cumulonimbus hang in the black
Displaying their strength with blinding flashes
And loud rumbling roars of thunder
I teeter on the edge, as it crumbles
Beneath my feet.
I want to let go and just fall
Simply fall into insanity
Let it sweep me into it's core
Devour my knowledge of anything else
I look into the abyss of insanity
A humid heavy mist
Whirls and swirls in a downward spiral
Beckoning me to take flight
And follow into it's depths
The wind pushing at my back
As if urging me on with a forceful nudge
My tattered clothing flails and waves
Like makeshift flags in the gust
The edge recedes some more
I lose footing and slip
My first instinct to catch myself
Then giving in to the forces within
I fall
Accepting my fate, I turn in the air
Face downwards and swan dive
Turning counter clockwise
Three feet from the cylindrical walls
With arms outstretched
I relish the rush
Velocity hitting my face hard
I force a rebellious grin
Speeding deeper into the abyss
Like a black bird of prey
Diving for salvation
No turning back
Not even a look back
From where I came
Suddenly my flight becomes floating
I see demonic creatures
Holding my extremities in their claws
Escorting me down to the core
They touch me down lightly
Then flutter and climb out of view
I walk through a short cavernous tunnel
Out through the opening
A huge bonfire stands towering before me
There's movement at its base
Hundreds of bodies dancing around it
A chanting fills the air
And I know with every ounce of me
I have reached the core of madness

Unhappiness washes over me,
in a terrible wave of overwhelming agony
I can see it
Even taste it
Hear it in the toneless voices spoken
Smell it on the clothing worn by the undetected broken ones  
I feel alone in knowing this
Our whole life you have built for us
Is slowly crumbling into rubble dusted with regret,
strewn among a barren land of twisted memories
Our story is coming to an end
Yet some of us try to hold on
Grasp on to every last bit of positive feeling
that is given by the words off her lips
Hugging tighter
Looking to gain a trusty allie
But before we end
We must realize that
Wherever our story may finish
We will start new ones
And build two shining cities
Among the rubble
Where happiness can be spotted between them
Even though, they no longer are identified as one

Anguish Of A Homeless Child

He is destitute and homeless
all his prayers are hopeless
all songs he feels toneless
and life economy is boneless

On the earth he is just born
but his destiny is so worn
all his clothes are so torn
a blooming bud not a thorn

Why his eyes are downcast
and emotions are so aghast
when his dreams are so vast
why then so dismal is his past

He demands handful of sky
and angelic wings to fly
at his fate why we outcry
he has only question “why”

Why his face doesn't ever glow
why his planets walk so slow
never he felt tickles of snow
all answers he wants to know

If tomorrow this volcano will outburst
we will face another grisly cloudburst
then the situation will be the worst
so please save century twenty-first

(By Kishan Negi)

A mind weighing worthless fortune
with foul ability's stench in the dusk-ish air
(pardon the jest and useless ridicule
in the above words' toneless tune)
has no love saved
no godspeed wished
no warm departing greeting
for the luckless, weak, and unwilling,
for the mind knows
the Rights Man made Rights so.
And it is so.

There is this endless song that plays in my head.
A complex tune that is thinner than a piece of thread.
A note that composes a toneless lyric that can never be said.

Piecing its rhythm and harmony through a broken medley.
Written on a distinctly colored string of unsuspecting melody.

There is a beating percussion that lies for the truth.
A key to strum that opens the eye of the youth.

A balance of ballads that just sways and dance.
That plays a masterpiece in a deeply woven trance.

There is this music and it is unsung.
It makes me feel like screaming out of my lungs.

This is a soundless piece of harmonically made lyrics.
That no rhythmically accentuated type of melodic medley can better its music.

Standing on the edge of the world
Is quite different from what you may've heard:
It’s quiet but with toneless droning of as if
A swarm of bumblebees in striped adorning
Buzzing relentlessly and aimlessly;
No waterfall or chasm or nothing it’s
Just, well, you know, reminds you of a list
Perspective: one step ahead and you
Are back again; no wonder it is so
Decrepit and shackled and you may
Not believe it but feeling of something,
Like, you know, of everything and nothing
At a time; something Lovecraftian;
Indescribable; inexpressible;
You just stand stranded and derive an
Energy from this darkless-though-lightless-as-well
Being in nothing at the edge of something;
Edge may be a little bit far-fetched;
You may be’d rather prefer a rim;
So be it so
A rim of the world; no end and no
Beginning, you know, just it somewhere
There aloof from everything and still
So close to all you know and feel;
Dunno; you just stand stranded on the
Sand as though at the edge of the ocean
No motion though is visible or tangible
But breeze you may feel tinkling on your
Face imbuing droplets of sweat but at
The moment of realizing of thinking
About it it drops and vanished and you
Again just standing stranded on the edge
Of the land abandoned on the rim of the
Horizon of events as reverse gravity’s
Rainbow is arching the other side of the
Universal plate where nothing at all but
Everything

ITS EITHER :

i am a self centered *****
or they are too good at pitch

i am going crazy in this sinking ship
or they are seemingly decent lunatics

i am unable to convey whatever i say
or they lack comprehension , message delay.

ITS EITHER SOLO TIPTOE OR PUBLIC TALK SHOW
CAN'T BE BOTH, IS IT THOUGH?

PERHAPS,
IT COULD BE EITHER OR BOTH
PREVIOUS IS SOMETHING  I  LOATHE
BUT LATTER NEGATE POSSIBLE OUTGROWTH.

so i glued myself dreading the worst
with unwilling nerve to scratch the crust
this mystery could be blessing or curse.

this constant feeling of  inevitable doom
consumes me but they know, i assume.

so here i am
In this pickled fiasco staying afloat.
with toneless stern face they gloat.

they talk tall and taller
i feel small and smaller.

i dream peacefully tonight
with you on my mind
s
    l
      o
         w
             l
                y
singing me to sleep
with words transferred
through a toneless electronic soul
i  cherish them
reread them
s
l
o
w
l
y

with every joke and letter
inking into my mind
recur, recur
'til I am no longer sane.

dream alone
dream vast
dream slow

because i'll remember you,
in the depths of my dreams

slowly
but permanently
you become
a part of me.

Silent pleas are meaningless in the face of overwhelming odds. The strength to move forward is not always as easy for some than others, yet the others who can afford such staunch accord seem to never comprehend how difficult a task it is to simply rise from bed.

The ones who see most seem to always be most blind to the qualms of those with such resonant concern for the pithy; even the innate ire of one begets the inherent ire of all.

Slowly, thoughts become tangible, changing from empty shadows to a festering aura. It leeches life from all things good and meaningful, and there begins the downfall.

Things which once were the epitome of joy - sometimes subtly, sometimes abruptly - become festering reminders of what once was; they sit rotting at the pit of a dissonant cacophony of sore misdirection, doubt, and unwavering fear, a solemn reminder of yesterday and everything which can not be had anymore.

Anger suffices where patience once stood watch over all interactions. In that brings suffering from doubt for all things said and done, all things come and gone, and all things not yet relevant, real, or existent. The agony builds in each passing moment, staggering and belittling; suffocation enduring, mired belligerent tones of sheer desolation sets the stage for a Grey, toneless perception.

Once stagnant, all fades away. Sounds echo broadly, profusely; words fall short in every regard; feeling stops existing, plight becomes numb: an emptiness no other void can retain or convey becomes standard, and the moment fades away becoming not one, but many. Becoming persistent, real, and the only thing true.

Emptiness suffices where a whole sum of love, experience, and joy once was. All things considered, nothing brings memory of such passions. Nothing breaks the void away. Nothing changes, nothing progresses.

Emptiness consumes everything, even rationality of resolution. All one can think of is escaping this nonsensical devouring void. But it's not possible, because nothing good exists here.

And the cycle repeats

i'll never forget how his radiant blue eyes
concealed such a vast, continuously expanding universe
and how his notorious laugh echoed like a toneless thunder
through my quietly admiring, sunken gaze.

the messy handwriting adorning his caffeine-kissed lips,
lovely tainting the fancy words on his fiery tongue,
as mesmerizing as the last remnants of a lunar eclipse
i was swept away easily, utterly stupid, naive and also young.

i would have loved to be absorbed by his crazy tellings,
deeply hidden underneath that soft, brownish locks of his,
containing the tempting sweetness of honey drops, indwelling
as an uncharted, seldom kind of bliss.

© fey (11/09/20)

She hasn’t left her room for three days. She hasn’t left her house in two weeks. She hasn’t gone into town in a month before that. She hadn’t been rationing her food supply on purpose but it’s what ended up happening anyway.

She’s laying on the floor, now. She’s been laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling for hours. She knows that the ceiling is a muted, toneless, comforting beige but all she can focus on is the creeping gray shadows that feel like a physical barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She knows that these shadows are only really in her head, but four nights ago the angle of the sun coming through her curtains had been just right and all she could focus on was an oppressive mass of shadow that froze her in her tracks and locked her inside her own mind as it crawled nearer and nearer.

That horrifying moment had only been that, a moment, but now that she’s locked away she doesn’t even have the energy to start looking for the key.

She’s been lying on the floor staring at her not-gray ceiling for hours. She has no idea what day it is because every time her mind starts to right itself into something resembling coherency there is another shudder of uncertainty and the physical shadows in her mind slither over her more tightly and she is left again a shell of herself, dead, glassy eyes staring, seeing nothing and the ceiling, both at once.

However, if there is one thing she can focus on longer than anything else, it is the shadows. The ones that wriggle in the corners of her periphery and make up her cage. Even if her mind can’t pull itself together enough to name the days, she can at least count how many times the shadows were at their weakest and instead of reaching towards the silhouette of her body, she can at least count the three times where she felt the light pressure of warmth on her skin. It lasted a little while, she remembers, vaguely, but it was never long before the briefest change in the shadows illuminated their own movement again. Again, if coherency was anywhere near possible she might question how her strict one-way mind can connect that this means that days have passed, but for now she just waits in numb agony for nothing and everything in her mind to make sense.

She has no idea if she is awake or asleep and really, doesn’t care.

Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.

it looks
he took the rights
never thinking
the same turns
make a spiral

The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.

the pale eyes
were toneless
—one might take
them for blind—
but underneath flesh
and inside the hollow heart
sits a little blue guy
whose chirps
aren’t recognised

The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.

still ******* air
and as alive as any other

Peace... sometimes even in dreams i can't obtain it,
Sometimes distant to my being,
So close that i can see it,
So far that i can't feel it,
Lights and music,
Memories roam,
Bittersweet to my soul,
Incidental and great,
Melancholic and destructive.

Cicadas sound,
Trying to accomplish their duties,
And i have not been able,
With a simple task that brings me pain,
Which is forgetting you,
Which is leaving all memory.

Empty the cave is,
But its walls,
An art so enigmatic,
Precious stones sprout from it,
And maybe at some point,
They will shine,
And the cave,
Empty will leave to be.

Until then,
In my impervious cave,
It will roll out an echo,
Some toneless voices,
Whispers in the air,
Recesses from my soul,
Faded paintings from my memories,
Whose direction,
Will guide me to the same point,
To my search,
My quest,
My bedded,
Of finding out my glimpse of peace.

I don’t have the right to miss you,
because you were never actually mine.
You were just a passing day,
a place and a time.
Your eyes burned through my skin worse than
the sun does in mid-July.
Your fingertips lightly imprinted my neck
and lit me up brighter than the early summer fireflies.
But this thing we built collided into nonexistence
when the cold came.
Because without the heat I was now nothing,
but a lifeless flame.
Soot covered branches, burnt and cracked.
All I felt was tears, when all I wanted to hear
was your laugh.

But I didn’t just lose you,
I lost all of the best parts of myself, too.

You had taken my warm June heart and
somehow turned it into a January afternoon.
I yearned to be painted a shimmering gold,
no longer a toneless blue.
So I started caring for myself the way
I used to care about you.
I tried my hardest to scrub my wine stained soul clean.
I woke up, realizing there’s so much life to live,
I was only nineteen.
The seasons changed and so did my mind,
and I finally felt myself let you go,
after all this **** time.

Today I began to sing again,
Somewhat louder than the cry,
That I still cannot avoid
But that I can now bear,
Wrapped around me like a cloak.

Music knows how to call back,
That which was previously lost,
Through not knowing how to love,
Or not wanting to stand out,
And was buried in oblivion.

No fissure is too deep,
For us to climb out of,
The deepest darkness,
Can with a pure white light,
Be pierced.

A few notes on a chain,
impregnate a melody,
And out of ashes and sand,
Shoots of hope can grow,
And give birth to joy.

My mother in her sadness,
Cried tears of song,
With great skill,
And painful beauty,
Music was her daily lament.

My song is my poetry,
Toneless, painful, and impure,
It is not a song of joy,
But sadness provides release,
And hope endures.

(I)

I once had friends,
gathered like pearls on a string.
I kept them with me,
as a bird would
with its pretty wings.
But once they outgrew me,
they all fell apart
and along with them
my fragile heart.

(II)

I heard a nasty sound,
with shaky hands I searched
their presence on the ground.
But they were gone,
already rearranged.
So all I had
was a tattered ribcage.
Frozen in time,
lost in space
a heart with no beat,
just a shallow haze.

(III)

I made friends with words
instead.
Once they were written,
they would all stay in place.
The letters on paper
toneless, they said:
"you are my creator",
to which I replied
"with pleasure.
as long as you are not a traitor."

© fey (16/07/17)