Shells of hideousness conceal shattered beauty.
That's what I was going for!
And I'm really happy you like it, Vicky.
BlindlyBlindly People see what they are told.
No MotionNo Motion I’m searching for stillness in time…
ChrysanthemumChrysanthemum Last night, I dreamt of us.We were together on a mountaintop,I was sitting on the edge,With my legs dangling above the bottomless pit,With a lone, white chrysanthemum in my hand as I pull the petals from the stem.While you were standing above me, looking on, languidly,None of us wanting to say anything,My own mental battle sewing my lips to one another,Unable to speak,While you were probably trapped within your own mental depths;In my mind, I was debating between venting and jumping,Simply over the fact I didn’t know what that look was in your eyes,But I think that’s probably the point, that we’re no longer of the same kind,Maybe I changed into something I’m unaware of, maybe you were the one to transform,But I don’t get the same feel of what used to be,This is foreign to me,An unapologetic feeling of extreme apathy,And that is the unfortunate reality of this situation,No matter how long
What Does Love Look Like?What Does Love Look Like? I often think about love.I think about the shapes and forms it takes on.And I believe it is all around us, even when humanity isn’t. What does love look like?It looks like the sunlight,Rays that shine through the clouds,Eternally keeping you warm and bright. What does love look like?It looks like death;The dwindling of the physical embodiment.Your hands may never hold each other’s again…But the souls of true lovers will never fade, true love has no end. What does love look like?It looks like the tide of a sea.The way it flows in and away,Then back again.Love is a like a tide that always returns back to the shore,Because it cannot stay away for too long before it returns back to her.
Food For ThoughtFood For Thought Remember, a three legged dog still has three good legs to lose.
MutteringsMutteringslet me tell you:you inspire me to be better at writing.to create things that stick to the psychelike blackstrap molasses in the folds of yomari.you make me want to unfold the pagesof my memory banks--and i'd pay anything,to remember more of my tales to tell.just to have one more story to sale.to analyze the creases in my palms,just to find another way to tell people,that my re(a)d palms are a symbol of my grip being cracked.doubting existenceand lack of jurisdiction.even my words lack the convictionof the law,but I'll still turn myself inand be arrestedfor a lack of a confession.Father's eyes begin to eclipse my sorrow,distrust and misfortune foreshadow my futureas if in my hands lay a slain sparrow.under his eagle eyeI ask him to spare me hope,spare my life,and spare my soul.but you cannot swallow sin.so I just wallow in this hollow tinmasquerading as my ribswith the cloud of a swallowsitting over my head.writing until my knuckles
Leave Them In SpaceLeave Them In Space Stars have never roamed red carpets.
DespotismDespotism she is a bird sitting, teetering ona power line becauseone way or another, she figuresthe best way to enda storyis a big bang.He is a fish swimming, traversing along,Against the crashing tide becauseHe figures he can defy the law one or way or another,And the best way to beginIs to finish the endBefore he's stuck in her talons.though she is made of feathersand bones and she is still weightless enoughto take to the currents of air,she is powerlessagainst the waves his actionsmake, and she is so easily swept away thatshe thinks her body might as wellbe made of stones.He could tell she was astounded by his ocean,By the place he calls home to.He welcomed her to the lowest depths of it,She couldn't resist the deepest blue of the marine,Nor the glitter of his fishscale,And the place he called heaven,Eventually became this bird's hell.her eyes were always thesize of jupiter when he was aroundbecause she was fascinated withthe way he move
I Don't Need Riches (Wealthy Spirit)I Don’t Need Riches (Wealthy Spirit) I don’t ask to drown in riches,I ask for wealth of spirit.
Train WreckWeare adisasterjust waiting tohappen; but I’m on the edge of my seat.
EmbraceSky Bridge -Horizon's endmeets earth.
OppositesShe was rich with poor ideas.
Six Word SermonLove is not a raised fist.
Airhead (Oxymoron)Empty-headed.But so full of himself.
Someday, FreedomFirst crack in my glass wall.
HonestlyHonestly The truth will never fade away.
The Perfect DayThe Perfect DayWhat a perfect day...The wind Gently brushing my faceThe sounds of serenity all around meMy skin feels the sun's warm embraceI walk along the water's edgeAdmiring it's captive beautyThe clear blue waves crashing down at my feetBrings a feeling of Acceptance to meI feel so at peace,With clear blue skies overhead,And with this sense of pure tranquility,My mind is truly at ease and I feel more than blessedI watch the children play gleefullyTheir minds so pure and innocentAll the troubles of yesterdaySeem so easy to forget.And at least for today, I'm not in any painBecause this day has the makings of a perfect oneI can relax and enjoy the comforting scenes of this amazing day,Simply laying back and enjoying this moment; the sand and the sunAs the sun meets the horizonIn such a beautiful correlationIt was such a perfect dayBut the night was no exception.It's now after dark and this perfect day is coming to a closeAnd as I lay in my cozy bed, a
SerpentSerpent Cut your grass before you’re bitten.
WithdrawnI paint my fingerprints red,for courage; panics coalesce,and regret stains my handshake.
Art Creates the SelfWith my words,I will carve myselffrom this marble prisonuntil I am beautifuland free.
Distant TravelAbsent.Far away.Travelling soul.Home.
Just Don'tDon't tell the people that they are close to God.Don't tell them that he hearsthe half-broken whimper from their strangled voice boxthat is wrapped tightly shut ( so the demons don't hear and intercept our hopes )with the fraying cord of our dreams. Don't.Don't tell the people that they can be heard.Don't tell the antsthat the watchful eyes that hover above them know nothingof their struggleand do nothing to assist them.Do not break their dorsal aortas with your clumsymalnourished ideas about eternal love. Don't.Don't tell the people that they can be heard.Don't hope to cure meningitisand malaria with a well-placed verbor a splinter of metal into vertebrae.Some people are not to be saved that way.Don't tell the people that are close to the
The NecklaceCliché Hallmark cardsAlways start the waterworks.Even at crowded restaurants.To know.... it's a piece,Of my Mommy JeanShaking, beaming, cryingAs that slim white gold claspclick... for the first time.A feather's weightInstantly at home on my collarbone.***Fast-forward***Hiccup-sobbingSlit-eyes red and swollenThat pendant-spot between my breastsScratched and redFrom shaking hands,Grasping for anything to ground me.Tremblingly closing that slim white gold claspclick echoing with tears***Fast-forward***Heaving my duffel up my stepsAnd down the hallway,To my last door on the rightDropping it and a gaspHands immediately undoingthe circular clasp at my neckFrantically grabbing the chain on my dresserBreathing slowing as the heavier chain,But lighter pendant comes to a restclick and my breathing becomes regularSighing as I flop into bed. Home.***Fast-forward***Sighing nervously,Self-co
BINGO: Humour - a pun for each linei can hardly bearlion here:irrelephant and lonely
Twist of FateExpectant hopes.Shattered dreams.Born sleeping.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
Ingredientsletters, words,sentences,punctuation,paragraphs,may contain one or moreof the following:ideas,feelings,nonsense.
ShellsShells Shells of hideousness conceal shattered beauty.