Draw Near ✧
October 11th, 2022Draw near, I say, my nuit swan. Have you since forgotten your plume robe? Your hair, stitched with the deepest of milk chocolate by a starlet with a sweet tooth for prosperity! Arising before me as spring, you delve into the near pond of lavender, accompanied by swans of rose quartz. A faded slant of sunlight across your tanned cloth brews into mauve temptation, effervescent upon the gradient to your soul's spherical oriels. In your graceful tendencies, may you bat your plush eyelashes painted as swift hyphens. To grasp the allure of diluted opposition, is to gleam...I shall swoon, expressing white tulips of my burned-heart affection. Pouring my soul into jadeite fingers, I allow your cascade of vanilla to overwhelm my brewing comprehension. Steeping my mind into your glass teacup; perhaps my moral herbs will serenely infuse through your soul of water; a warmed psyche all the more susceptible to the persuasion of posture.A honeyed museum hall cradles my woven artwork; wistfully tucked in silken grass strokes, which braid nectar within their greenery. Shall I bide my time under the wisteria tree, awaiting your delicate curtsy? Or might I find myself skipping starry-eyed through the meadows in your roseate mind?Your essence is ripped from its current vessel; your brain relives its growth from the earth as a celosia flower, with each thought you have possessing the sweetest of nectar in each individual petal. To your notions I am drawn like a bee to pollinate your thoughts into honey. The dreams you project flood into mason jars shaped as hexagons with mythologized lids, so that they are endlessly flowing with the rich absence of sticky limitation.You’ve sunk your poetic fangs into my mind, and out spills your venom through my own lips.
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Pearls Cannot Seal Your Reflection ✧
June 1st, 2022I shall sit, yearning for mental reflection to encapsulate projection. For whom to light a spark in the wick? Must my indolence snuff out a potential promise? A glance at what once lay a decorative mirror, a thousand glistening halos embellish the crown of my head. The dusty memories are wiped from cracks so nonchalantly, yet, the milky satin cloth tucks the grains of dialogue neatly in sealed crevices. I can nearly remember my name—my purpose. I've rested on the other side of this reflection, alas, those memories shall dawn no longer. What will become of the golden frame configuring the lost soul in the mirror? Its use of enchantment drips slowly, like honey departing from the well outside.I shall ponder, to be aspiring, grace's alternative to desiring. I rise to my feet as the silky lace tickles the rear of my ankle. Shards of selenite crystals brush through my hair, never allowing me a departure from this meditative state. Oils ooze from the thorns on rose wallpaper, engulfing the scent of budding vanilla paired with rubbed raw pearls. The beader who strung the pearls—never failing to string emotions to my words—tells me to melt into my wings. So find me, gently tugging on the thread, as the mistress unfolds my truth which ruffles in sensitivity. Pursue my heart, delicately bleeding in my throat. Pierce my liver so that I cannot filter out your toxicity from my veins. Puncture my lungs for me to float atop the river in which you intimately dump my corpse. For in your mind, I am the most beautiful when I am silenced.I shall write, longing for your ink; to my paper heart, it is belonging. I bid thee farewell in my poem of love, blood-traced lips pressing into folds as an illustration of my gratitude. I'm desperately close to escaping these walls and tumbling through the mirror. Shelves of glass dolls observe me, as though they know the ending to my tale. I—in such a way that is rather lacking of foreseen hysterics—dismiss their gossiping whispers to one another, for I crave what my sorrow has earned. Those precious moments I will not allow to be ripped from my gloved palms as they dangle teasingly in front of my grasp.Nearly tangible is the crisp authenticity of this new destiny, limned to be an apple; one bite poisons my heart with realism. A tug back to reality sends my expectancies flying to my stomach, and I listen to them disintegrating in the acid. The true world ripples in my vision as I fight to melt into the mirror just once more. But it is my gifted locket of clandestine femininity and vulnerability that keeps me grounded; my ticket of safe passage through my thoughts, just not one to another world I wish miserably to inhabit.
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Intimacy Within the Frame of Mind ✧
April 30th, 2023Nearly two years lessened from our present, I believed your comprehensions to be works of Victorian surrealism. Your mind is expensive, and my efforts are penniless. Your intricacy once limited my exaltations.Yet, somehow, they’re now mythologized—my limits. The ambience of my peripheral in which society is domiciled. In the absence of cumulonimbus clouds hasting to strain my mind’s eye, raindrops cease their pooling within my iris. Less than naught remains to sully the obsidian of its core with shades of cerulean and amber; tentatively from the east, the inklike orb broadly shadows an unnatural light, from the bulb above your head of which it gleams. As if in my eye, occurred a reverse solar eclipse; my comprehension now blinded by your glaring, labyrinthine ideas. With thoughts so crystalline, one could gauge nakedly the spark of an epiphany glide through the inner wires of ponderment.I await the light to materialize into a supernova, so that the novelty of my compositions, my identity, and my lotus will be ravaged in the implosion of Apollo’s heart.
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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the clock master ✧
April, 2023
(this poem is better experienced as a performance piece, as it was composed for slam poetry)Time
A simple word
with infinite connotations
Widowed rhymes preferred,
when bearing out resuscitations
tick.Hands roaming on a wall
tampering with the tenuous thread
A sea of chimes to bring a call
The Time for one has been shed
tock.What of thee, Clockmaster?
Are you mastered by Time itself?
Engaging in raging over becoming a laster
To encase your youth upon the highest shelf
tick.Like romance for a candle that rises and falls
Crying tears of wax to seal its antiquated love letters
For its age is ever changing— it can no longer recall
Growing and shrinking unlike countless Time debtors
tock.A grandfather clock
tugged at by his pendulum
He'll intrinsically interlock
with a somber, grim-death hum
tick.So understood, gravity is an accomplice to Time
A devastating weight to bear
The clock is tugged 'neath the surface by thievery— a crime
To escape from a life so austere
tock.His ceaseless grongs, his chimes, had caused even eternity's eyes to droop
And what we learn from his songs, his whines?
Even time can be eternal
and despair embodies a loop
tick.To perceive this tenuous thread, let loose the mental chronometer.
tock.Time now in the head, feel the ultimate competitor
tick.Decades for one
turn into the blink of an eye for another
tock.A new cycle has begun
time and time again, the loop is recovered
tick.The eleventh hour
tock.Your wrinkled hands, sour
tick.Thoughts materialized as clocks
tock.Mastered by aching mocks
tick.Time is untimely, time is unsightly.
Time catching up to us is highly unlikely—
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Song of a Smoker ✧
November, 2022The cigarette smoke you drag behind you through the door melts my stomach against my ribs, as if it was the wax from the candle I lit at your funeral. I stare longingly toward the matrimonial lighter and cigarettes on your nightstand. I ignite the stick, just to taste the last thing that decays in your lungs, as you yourself decay alongside it.It seems agony plays more a part in my imagination than it does in my reality. I wish not to simulate your departure, understanding of its consequences. Yet I must begin the process of tuning this grand piano, before the keys begin to play me, just as they did you. You are a slave to the high given by a guitar, an addict to your cravings the world soberly calls "delusions". My heart collects dust, and you blow it off with your tobaccoed breath. My dissociation eases your shadow into quietude, as the sun washes it over Time's fields. Who could believe that a musician with the lungs of death could sing to me his final regrets?And as you change your note just before the chorus, my voice cracks and breaks as you carry on without it.
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Dove Pianist ✧
May 31st, 2022in the midst of ecstasy and warmth, you shall only find competition and criticism.i read the notes kissed along the music sheet
as my fingers dance swiftly across the simplified,
yet melodic checkerboardtuning into emotions you'd abandoned
may be harder than tuning the sharpest sword
the hilt of thy weapon, the wilt of my feathers
a dove pianist overworked
overheard,
and overestimatedher feathers are not sturdy enough
not impactful against the weight of the keys
these torturous teeth shriek of plasticity,
overflowing with fake complimentsever so tired of scurrying my wings
across broken memories...
they brush gray scents gently
over the littering treble clef;
a puzzle of intricacy which stumped me for years.to what one's bass clef unfolds
into a semicolon; a continuation
of a life
a measureto what one's sharp note
might provide a climb to the top
for those lacking light,
feathered fingersto what one’s feet will then search frantically
for the brakes on this piano
only to slam on the pedal
and find its weeping now prolonged
your agony too,
is sustainedlong i perched, atop the willow
talent soon to soar airborne
yet eventually,
my beak drops my olive branchit plummets, akin to my dignity
tucking in the creases of the keys
embedding the memory of defeat
enfolding my purposei shall leave it here for another dove
another chance for them to breathe
for another bird to have the spotlightto gleam
🕊️•
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Astronomer ✧
October 10th, 2022my sorrow is in a committed
relationship with the night
intrusive listening has begun
during the eleventh month
the eleventh zodiac illuminates
through the eleventh inch
of this moral telescope
the onlooker venerates
all that is presentin one’s blackberry sky
eloquence is derived
from the words i string
into each constellationyet my probity when stargazing
falters
against this new astronomer
one whose dreary orbs of fire yearn
nothing more than to be consumed
by another galaxy
one which holds the prowess
to bring himself into space
without oxygenit vacuums out his sorrowed soul
rips his pain from earth
and replaces it with moondust
in his lungshe breathes the stars
and all that he is
inhaling saturn's rings
and exhaling the milky wayhis sigh dampens the indigo cloth
a murmur to earth’s inhabitants
but a shrieking release of anguish
to the galaxymy nose renders the pain
the smell of a soul
being returned home;
hot, burning flesh
then...
ineffability.
beyond my five sensesperhaps in his time on earth
his love embodied a miniscule star
and as he passes through realms of being
it inflates
to the size of the sun
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Nature-brewed Cassette Tapes ✧
September, 2022Out past the night-owl and to his heart we sung
Silent tension, honeydew dripped from our lungs….Another day for two bears of beige
They scavenge for a sweet hive
Brimmed with honey, smoked with sage
Stinging one’s downy fur aliveOne having hibernated for slumbering skies
He emerges through the thick of a turmeric fog glare
Appearing before him is a butterfly
Stripes braid with citrus against two twig hairsShe senses all of your agony reversing
With her gorgeous log-brown antennas
Let your feelings of pollen succumb to her mercy
As she soothes your weakly-petaled dilemmasBe it the delicate, warm-tinted cocoon
In which we evacuate its comforting embrace
However lonesome it gets, and the cooler it hues
The stronger our wings will be gracedDulcet butterfly kisses brush the bear’s fur
An incandescent stare in return will he give
Tilting heads leave the tilting scale to blur
Balance is futile in mixing their will to liveThe butterfly furs akin to the bear
As he flutters his myriad wings
Change is among hearts who hold care
To hold penance, is among other thingsTo live life on a lustrous repeat
But in a thousand contrasting songs
Prospering in cassette tapes complete
Brewed in that of how nature belongsShe’s strayed from her home in search of her rose
He has a plethora of stems to offer her
An apologetic snort comes from his soft nose
For he’d eaten the petals as they wereTo finally see
Her true sacrifice
No honey from a bee
Will uproot her priceThe bear departs as quick as the nearest stream
The piteous butterfly left with no love
Only faux attraction, no passion will beam
‘Tis to happen when one trusts in the aboveShe tries to turn over a new leaf
Play the forest’s piano keys
In hope that the hurt is brief
And her mind is set free
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The Sand Must Sift✧
November, 2022
(this poem is inspired by the style of Shakespeare)‘twas the twitter-light
which bestowed upon thee
a wintry blanket
thy saunter bedward
is what may beckon the Man O' Sand
to one's tristful slumber;
the darkened mare shall gallop
o’er shores of temperanceyet, in order to drift,
the sand must sifthe who shall dust sand upon thine eyes
gingerly extends thee an olive branchhe grants thee ruling
of the sand's land o' origin;
the scorching desert of a phoenix
or the seashore endowed with quietude accompanied by tranquilityboth bask in the palms of the daystar equitably
as the ground marinates in febricity
'tis the ocean of thy cathartic tears
which juxtaposes the two sceneries
the seashore empathetically dampens
the heat which scorches thy dreams
whilst the desert offers naught
for in the land of Nod,
it is most crucial to engage in swordplay
with Adam's ale nigh
to cleanse thy blade of any tracing
of the enemy, the darkened mare
in present defeat,
thou have triumphed
for thy slumbers forthcomingwhile thou doze off into the arms Morpheus
thine equestrian ventures trickle to a trot
rival to the downpours of canterclosure creeps afoot, for over-morrow
doth dawn in due time
and thee who stoop
‘neath the hoof of the brightest stallion,
may be pardoned of their nightly horrors
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Moonflower ✧
September 7th, 2022water the seeds which enthrall
the concept of mercy
the sunflower will rise to gaze
toward the moondisobedience found in the roots
soaking up each droplet from tears
of the starsthe sunflower frightens the black sheep
grazing on the stem
rebellious petals yield from agony
a sunflower no longer;
but one of the dark nightthe moonflower has chosen
it's dreary limestone path
long forgotten by radiation
loneliness wilts the body
pleading to be picked
just once.
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Atlantis is my Purgatory ✧
June, 2023i crack open vibrant corals in the ocean
and fill my seashell palette
with their watercolor
i begin to paint starfish
with seaweed-strewn brushespour my essence into the pearls of oysters
where my eyes may be worn
on the neck of a land-dwellerleave my vessel here to drown
waves cloak it in their salt gown
and as my conscience battens down
atlantis is decrownedmy soul seems to slow
as it prances through the substance
of the sea
it is dense,
impenetrable,
and hugs me tightly,
it’s home.
yet, it is also suffocating,
isolating,
and static to my nerves.this,
this is purgatory.
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Witchcraft in the Media ✧
August 11th, 2022Stellar service through my enslavement
Social media has driven me mad
I gave all my humiliation to entertainment
When self-hatred was all I hadI wrote off my pain for one simple gain
Yet it seems that would not suffice
To ask of the rain to stop slicking my lane
Is a payment not worth the priceRepetitive attempts at healing these bones
I deny all focus on the weakening tissue
When I could just ask for one of two thrones
But my shallow agony is not her issueYour ears are worn tired of my negativity
I cannot blame you any longer
Let us toast to cutting wires of captivity
No self-love spell can make me strongerWitchcraft in the media, spill to me your ways
I wish naught but out of this dreadful haze
Tattooing my desires into bay leaf veins
Gnawing with affirmation at these chainsUpdating my wardrobe and accessories
Splurging on makeup from celebrities
When candles and manifesting fall asleep
You rely on herbal remedies, and your faith will take a leapJust in the mirror, give a small smile
Even if progress will take you a while
You’ll never be comfortable, not in your own skin
An applause to witchcraft media, who played you like a violin
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“Gloria in Excelsis Deo” ✧
October 6th, 2022You draw into my frame as my critic, polishing my glass whilst whispering saccharine-nothings of my fibers. The stories written along my skin are not of my own— I lack understanding of these unwanted adornments. Perturbed deeply, I sit in silence… preparing to obviate your glance at the outside world. To keep you in my heart is that of a lonesome vacancy. You all confluence inward as I stare out, absorbing the melting glares of brainwashed mice. They wire the wheel to my mind as I lose my fragility. We’re meant to remain breakable and clouded with paint; our existence narrated without mercy from the Father.He will thread daffodils through a passerby’s nasal bones, sawing through them with humiliating memories. Their eyes will flush together, and allow them to perceive their sins unabridged; beyond their sense of self will their raw intentions peregrinate.My flesh echos the sobs of “servants” slung into submission. After decades of misapprehension toward prayer, at long last I’ve fallen victim to enlightenment. My hands now clasp, and head sooner bows each Sunday that a newborn soul of purity screams tears of suffocation, so that I may shatter to the floor; painting the path of tedious, antiquated stone beneath me with the extravagance of a saturated, colorful passage unto death. Leastwise, it seems my sufferings have been a service to others under God…irrespective of my fragile dignity.
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Ablaze ✧
July, 2022Billowing brick walls soar through reality, assembling with silence as glue. Pressure plunges me to the centering attention of a newly awakened fireplace. It feels as though each crack from the flame costs me another helpless breath, lungs preluding a weak, throbbing dialogue through pants. The lining of the ceiling which skirts the wall is touched with a waxy aroma and a hint of familiarity, yet shame. My soul intuits I've journeyed within this plane before; even so, I consent to my emotions engulfing any remnant of rationality, for my skin was prepared to endure eternal castigation.Windows and doors for escaping ceased to appear, harsh air with every inhale accompanied by a dewy-hot carpet gushing beneath my toes. There were too many tears shed into this paracosm of hell, too many breaths taken, and not enough exits locked behind each visitor. A disturbingly grim voice seeks refuge betwixt these self-elicited walls, booming out a faulty questionnaire brimmed with salty water and painful gasps. The walls quake, leaking flammable white wine rich in selfishness and jealousy. It pours into a chalice that is the rufescent room, aggrandizing the fireplace's blaze deep into an inferno. Crescent moons branded into my palms, raised horizons imprinted on the inside of my cheeks, I heed the words which drip from a wounded tongue dipped in the chalice as if they were my own."What impression is it you seek from these walls?" the words swelled through my ears like concrete chemicals sizzling against my brain.
Light from the fireplace was the only illumination of mental darkness, therefore the figure attached to the voice had to have loomed in the cornering shadows. This tongue was clearly speaking with that of presumptuous insanity, and with such a background I immediately know I shouldn't have been brought here.
"Take me back!" I demand apprehensively, sweat pricking through every fiber of my skin."What impression is it you seek from these walls?" again and again the voice multiplies, exuding from each brick in the confines of the four barriers.
The cogs under the skin of my cheek have shifted so often that there is no longer rust when they start stirring up tears. Swallowing my confusion to listen for its click down my throat, wobbling plump lips ripped from my face before I could attempt a sorrowful answer. One million loquacious monologues erupt behind my skull, dreading that returning to reality has become futile.My eyes tear open at the clawing sensation from burning fog spilling into the room, draining the feeling from soft, decorated ears. A numb ringing is left to buzz near the broken cartilage, while my hands reach up to poke and prod at otiose tools. Tugging at long, fanned eyelashes are the beaks of flaming swans, for even beauty and grace couldn't pardon the windows to my soul. They screech of their sacrifice to elegance for my supposed blind ungratefulness, and so truly blind I shall be. Left with me are the features I've yet to find beauty in. Chalkdust of turpitude sheds wildly on my collarbone... Originating from inside hollowed spheres that once held love and affection for all but one principle; a mirror.Nearly, as if the object manifested itself out of my own self-hatred— I hear the scrape of fine glass which dances a daring deal at my pitiful perspective. A gust of wind hits my spine like needles, thrashing me to my knees as the hot air licks at my aching joints. I can no longer feel the carpet beneath me, and as if on queue, the mirror spinning on its edge kisses the floor beneath it; shards scattering as pieces of my sense of self wander in different corners of the room. Each one calls out as they ring against the newly altered hardwood flooring.To truly love oneself, is the task of a blind fool. Not blind to the beauty you already hold, but blind to the components that aid visualization. Should you endeavor to seek out the fallen shards with nothing less than your sense of touch and smell, accompanied with needle and thread you shall exist." I catch the last of the voice before it resides back from whence it came, subsequent to appointing me this unfeasible task...Far past having designated me as the room's ostinato-expected intruder.Frantically, my search had commenced; leading with demoralized whimpers scoring and slipping raw cuts in my weak, clay throat. The ash from obstreperous flames seals deep wounds but prevents healing. I drive my soul up the walls as my hands work rapidly yet ungainly against the clock. The heat that radiates sears the tips of the hair in my nose, causing my sense of smell to temporarily fall slave to the feathers of a phoenix. Shakily, my palms collide with the flooring on the desperate hunt for fragments. Splinters from paint brushes of those who have risen with their canvas tucked under my nails, prying them clear of my nerve-embedded skin. Aching are my fingers, the final chances I have left. I must rely on feeling my way around the smoke-painted room.Under the pads of my long fingers, the feeling of sharp edges effectively pierces their existence through olive cloth wrapped neatly over abstract, authentic warmth. One prick after another expresses a willing sacrifice for my escape, and all of the shards are eventually retrieved. Impressions of brick and flame branded into my skin, betokening my visit. I hear the clack of a needle and thump of a spool of thread. At the speed of dark, my palms scrape the hilt of the giant spike before me. Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, as I attempt to thread the string through the fragments blindly—reaching no success.I grind my teeth into the ridges of my tongue, with any pessimism left behind my sewn shut lips; for I have no eyes to wear rose-tinted glasses in this world. I slump in defeat, accepting my eternal damnation in a breathless huff. At the eleventh hour, the voice returns one last time with more of a soft-spoken presence, reminding me of one very crucial thing...True glass is something you cannot thread together. Long ago, I had promised myself not once should I use any senses to recognize my body, as it was too much for an insecure mind to handle. If I simply forgot the things I hate most about myself, perhaps the pain would subside as well. Appendages weak and out of practice for that reason, it struck me as I then knew what I must do.Shakily, my hands begin to grab and rip at the olive cloth along my torso, neck, and arms. I place the vitrum flexile-like material in front of my writhing knees, treating it as if it were tender, honeyed ambrosia; exactly how I was meant to treat it, with love and care. In a cloudy moment, I retain my oceanic vision entitled with blue-brown paints. The draped olive cloth was removed as my skin appeared translucent, threading together the raw shards of my reflection. The last poke of the needle through my beautiful protection shapes a figure mirror holding my stance. I notice I've gained back every feature on my face I've taken for granted, every fragment I have learned to appreciate.
"Oh.." the acknowledgment utters from under my breath, as a brisk zephyr flows through newly risen windows.The melodic breeze smells of aromatic bergamot, snuffing the once roaring fire to now a whispering memory of gray. Scents become pleasant as sounds explore softly through the transformed, comforting room— leading my head to tilt toward a newly developed door. As I ponder my invitation back home, I realize it would be beneficial to acquaint myself with this new room of mine, the more loving room. Maybe get to acquaint me again with my true reflection too.
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‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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Hedonistic Genie ✧
October 19th, 2022A hedonistic genie for the rights of our selfish tension
How might she dim the way?
Cramming base drums against snares of my comprehension
On repeat of traction does my psyche swayYour piano notes wriggle through the vents of my body
I tattoo what I feel, what I observe of your scamming lottery
And as the ink clouds my veins with rhythmic remembrance
Your ticket of fortune seeps through to my temperanceShe knows she’s tenanted in my mind, as if I’d spuriously confessed
Your ocean consumes my pond, salt blending with the fresh
What happens when our components cannot fluently compress?
And clear innocence floats above your guilted cage of wired meshYou’ve caught me in your trap, the net of ethical debate
Which you no longer expand upon with my mercurial stateI’d assume you’d hold a brain of predisposition at best
Yet, trickery is hidden in the form of a home
If you assume I’m obsessed with this lively detest
You’ve yet to gnaw such ink from my bonesOn what planet does my genie reside?
After granting me wishes not one could reach by a stride
I suppose I’d been given my final wish, against the balanced sea
But I cross my heart over every lamp, you no longer haunt me
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