Creating Writing
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Deprived, somehowyou have surviveda descent, to crawl towardsyour four corners,sinking in order toalways arrive. Damaged lungs,breaths come throughfrom a face, that twistswith autumn’s reveal,beyond decorative green. Your crisp, wandering spirityearning for more to sunder for,swimming in depth over depth,layers of discarded touch. One lesson has never been enoughto remind you of a sickness,where condemnation has
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Why does sheseek surrender, in timesarms are always open?A breath would spreadher seeds, as a teardropwould grow her garden. Why does she find answersin her memories?She likes leaving truthat a door, closing itbefore she forgetswhat kept calling her back. She remembers a second,a moment, ones she collectsfor decorations of painto adorn her hallways,framed with harrowing
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I tend to forgetthose tolerable simplicities.I keep dreams, more thanwhat’s a mere shadowin that corner, marked with dust,marked with a blanketof remorsefulness. I mend what’s rememberedin times of sinking pain,because I haven’t forgottenwhat’s true, as it remainseven what’s blue,in the beyond. I gather photographs,twisting secrets with everythingI care to keep conceiving –a conception, a beginningof
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Give deep breaths,present channeled expressionsof envious, sideways looksdown the throats of twowho were stargazed. Their purple sunsetshave dropped, with curtainsstopping all remaining light. Sell their night,with their heartsseeded by the moon. Kisses come backinto surrounding dark.They’ve held hands,for as longas eternity remembers, just as they have swelledtheir years to fullness,with gravity bringing them downfor a
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How we have instigated,intimidated our own,leveled each other, down to ourfoundations, with nothing morefor sentiment nor sensations. I clung deep to our light,though here I’m wading inthe depths of an infertile ocean,going blank in this mindthat carried on our kind. We were lovers, going graywith vapor that exited our lungs.Trails were giving us sails,though nothing
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Understand that we wereleftovers, to be lost,needing a trail to beour forever’s sail. But how could we hold,when to our stars,we were never gold? Love has made usa town, to be faceless,to not be remembered. Love has gifted usa plain of ruin, because we were,as we always were,one step behind the latter. Life has been
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Soon, am Isoon seeing you?You are not tangible,as you are not even closeto that once great pieceof natural architecture. I kiss a ghost,ruining tears at their fall,wasting seconds,when I could beanswering another’s call. I am grieving – knowingflesh cannot be a wallagainst time, though deathwill be an eternal fixation,letting heated blood flowin my branching veins.
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Who were we?Under synchronized sunrises,dust began floating. We were feelingwhat two lovers will drinkfrom their cups, of extended toll. Passing on a highway, to that driftwhere we explored insideour eyes, for fountains of depth. What did we see?A plain of emptiness,a space of white, soon to bedrawn over in collectionsof starlit photographs, until we had
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A wild tasteof our empathetic journeyleaves us murdered,leaves us open.Are you hearing this?A heart has fallenin love, with a stone,has found itself alone. Am I hearing you?You are a step too heavyto keep walking upon,because I cannot get ridof what resides. You’ll pay your price,just as I will – the tenantsof our heartswill not be
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You knew betterthan to wander backto those marks,as I knew betterthan to keep youturning back, than tokeep rewinding backour cruel history. I left openings in a road –graves for many miles.I deserted beautyto be answered by another,while I driftedinto space, outside of ourwinterly yearnings. I knew betterthan to keep us walking,as we knew betterthan to
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Between the rush, delicatein what we touched.I am reliving our fever,for its warmth. I’ll not commit,with eyes, under blankets,under where we oftentook to rewinding. Wind had blown outour candles thatbrought ignition to our gray.Faces had run outof their tears, withoutanything leftto bring closer. I am reliving this fire,burning beneath those curtains,the ones that decoratedwhat windows,
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We were, under layers,simple infants, learning to talk.Learning to speak,when we wanted to repeatwhen we couldn’t let go. We wouldn’t let go of our stars,fighting endlessly with those wars –those we’d race off to. When we wanted to drown,we wished to seek comfortin our minds. In our minds,where we would let go,of each other. Among
Modern Romanticism 