"unrhythmic" poems
*beneath the star-struck, eternal vast,
painted black, blue-grey black -
voices blister of the past.
haven't felt this way in quite some time.
the restless nights. this cold, empty bed.
unrhythmic breaths flood my chest
as I watch my mother die
for the second time.
it's moments like these you never forget.
find yourself waking in a cold, hot sweat.
mind tracing every syllable, every breath;
remembering every word you should have said.
with eyes like a beating heart;
smells of daisy wanderlust.
soul-fire like passion's spark;
worn-out smiles like last night's luck.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
The campus was all but silent
Rushing water, whistle of the wind
Unrhythmic, the two untrained melodies
Yet they seem to form a single song
The grass is all uniform
Shape and size they are all the same
But alas they are unique
Some carry strong patches of brown
Deep into the shallow roots
Some with scattered leaves
And little pink flowers
Autumn is approaching
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
you’re the sort of person
who cuts their fingers against
spiral notebooks
too soft, too shallow–
a reflection found by
Narcissus after an autumn shower
where even he could not
drown himself in your embrace
but you’ve only ever known hollow
things:
the quill of a plucked feather,
the darkness behind your eye-sockets,
the smile concealed by your teeth
it feasts upon you, this emptiness
like a chilopod’s unrhythmic gait against
your brain–
scooping up the patterned sulci
with its hungry pincers
until paradoxically, nothing, nihil
remains;
so how could you ever know
enough affection to
perform an intimacy like
death?
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
In night, day, morning and imperfect comas.
Recurring three figures of one sole meaning.
Each day, its variety of clouds casts different states of mind.
The unrhythmic, unkind and overwhelmingly melancholic.
The pleasant, warm and astonishingly beautiful.
The timing and place of its occurring, determines whether to reminisce and moisturise one's skin, or to wander through rainy forests of what-ifs, and waterlog one's skin.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
I want more than just your hand
thumb rubbing circles over my calluses
I want more than just your lips
awkward and unrhythmic
I want more than just your words
mumbling with downcast eyes
I want your fingertips
fluttering with curiosity
I want your tongue
quenched with my saliva
I want your promise
that this is more than just childish lust
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:41 PM UTC
The sadness has me helpless as the sand
Awaits for waves to drown upon with salt
Yet even granules know when tides do land
But pain's unrhythmic swells are timed to fault.
With heaviness befalling on my view:
That better be the air, if none found here;
Nor ever were, nor should have been or knew,
For none about the Sun can mine endear.
Each breath deems stolen out from greater lungs:
A weary war my will is not to win
For yonder cloud is death and death's all tongues
Inhale for why? When lifers is life's sin.
Relentless as the waves, such flows the pain
But with me and have left the deepest stain.
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC