Creative Writing
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Surrounded in haze, buried in clayfigurines, for they hold you closein earthen shelter. Are you in Heaven,where eyes are lookouts, lighthousesin all looming stars? Frozen body. Worn temperament,another hour, another chanceto close that emptying draft – your breath under a blue moon,one that becomes redduring days when you are dead. A loving heart for allwho…
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Here’s this darkundercurrent. A pathwayto explore, when all I had,where all I held, were stones,pulled down within pockets – dragged to seea void of discontent within me. You were that ropearound my feet,with one more kiss to remind meof whom I had knelt before,lost deep, buried beneath. You were a force,a contagion that moved swift,keeping…
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A nightlight keeps me aware.For our words, we have all things to dareto keep our eyes open, though we havealways hoped that those storieswill keep pausing at desperate pages,keep us against that next minutewhere an ending might take place,where this book might burn, as we’d wilt within a hollow vase,exploring our emptiness, uncovered,finding our breath…
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Who guesses you? No one knowswhere you will end up, left offin flowering gardens, or buried underwith seeds, drowning or deprived. Are you sleeping? Are you keepingeverything sheltered? Another symptomrises from your colored, discoloredheart, and you’ll continue to float, holding your eyes wide open,for your sadness can be nothingto, for this blackening world,ever hide, in…
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Who says, when time ceases,we are in love, in arms, under sheets,breathing again? Will wecontinue to weep, even when weare lost in another’s heat,as if cold has failed to remind usof a love this old? Grayed smears, formless tearspeddling disused wares acrosscheeks that have been leftwithout their kiss, without knowledgeof where our loves are being…
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Burn through – blessed throughand through, beyond Heaven’s gates,and all emotions acrosswill be picked up, left off in some scenic turbulence. Are we this close,when we cannot even mergewith a tear that never dries? One complete sentencefollows an incomplete vow.An ocean, between,among all sadness and scenes,bleeding in betweenmoments we thought the mosthad mattered, in a…
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Compelled to be silent. Thrashingonly on the inside, where you’ve shelvedtruths, that you believe. You believe,though you can barely breathe,holding close those curtains,surrounding yourselfin the rush of another’s air. Expel yourself, for me, for you.Repel me, if that’s what you do,for a living – to live, while I walk back,mercifully loving you from a distance,and…
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Blame the weather. Burn forever.Reread the letters that heldrepeated promises, though we were not,as we cannot remain together.A final word. A desperate hope,left on a pile of broken,wept aside memories. Reword nothing. Repair somethingwithin our sickened, feverish hearts.Change everything. If someoneever said we were two childrenin a crowded room, listeningwhile smiling to a tune that…
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More moments like this,built as stretching figures,with fingers –letting fall all those handscounting our figmentedlimitations. Drastic, plasticsmiles – all seepingand connecting our mouthsfrom being apart. Though, we area flower becoming burned,lost in desire,roaring in our fire. An entertaining trail,an engraved heartdrawn as a subtle proportion,standing out above eons,above marksleft on floating glaciers, and won’t we…
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Laid. Strewn. Settled, like all thatfilters her voice. Muted, though notwithout an uttering, sputtering songthat ripples alongwith her ancient deformity. A pain that keeps bringing her in,bringing me back – back whenall those tears came out, from inside,like a child wanting to play.Like a child with a scraped knee,that injury had beena man as me,…
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I have long been hidingunder sheets made for withered,deserted green – waiting here,with a mile still to be discovered,though I am covered.A dead form, beforeall those passing childrenleaving their laughterwith fleeing winds. Spring leaves are underneath,with me, while I am notwithin their purpose. I am notmirrored in their place. I hold hands with a golden…
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If smoke could clear.Of what has been writtenon these rain-tattered pages,under storms – can come undone,can be vows, soon withdrawn; I cannot silence what will comewithin some aftermath,not hazed inside painful fog. Within these ruinspulled up to chins,quivering to cold dropletsfrom unmerciful storms,we caress, if onlyto deplete all we ignored,like our hearts of its blood…
Modern Romanticism 