Creative Writing
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What burns? What turns? A curve,leading me to hear these breaths.Another dive, from a wrongexit, upon this drive over a cliffthat held a waterfall, anyways, though any waywould have done well,if someone as familiarwarmed a drying emptiness. A curve. A swerve,drunk on being lost,content with all that can costthis heart, at another tossinto a fountain,a…
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Half a dream come true,while in our sleep, we taste blue,we drink this ocean to bea desert, from its blanketing coloringto a place for burning sandinto mirrors, unending. What a time to run drysanity’s disembarking flow.What a time to abandon tearsupon miles of hourglass, a length of time to betied to that cruelest necessity.A love…
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Our love, a stranded hope,a peddler’s pack of heirlooms,though music, for our needed journeyto enters our arms, under our faces,blanketed in destiny. Our breath, above this ocean,though most times we viewed sunsets,we were witnesses of bottles,holding unread messages, we were, what we could not find,lost under our own curtains,bathed in what we bled. As lost…
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Hold her prayers close,like those embers she’s tossedupon bloodstained clotheslaid upon that floorlike strewn debris.What a face. In its marble exterior,she performs a displayof enigmatic desperation,beautiful in reddest dreadtowards those she called children,towards those who are dead. Lifelong to be white,in all her crude complexion –sobbing to a faint beatof her grieving heart. Shallowest marks…
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Walking eyesore – cancerous smile,a figure thin, for clayhad been carved with quivering fingers,while autumn was never in delayupon that time, faced with that crimeyour sickness could not be told apart,pulled apart, from encircling decay. Rings of fireburn your finger to clingonto roses, for a purposeof knowing when to hear springbe made, as your mask.…
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Bring close those curtainsspattered with your ink,blotched with your soul, among allthat flooded you out from your eyes, leaving passagesdeserted in gray. Storms are your everything – even when given messages of comfort,a tempest remains that blacknessconnecting you back to nothingness. An emptiness swellsas an ocean surrenders,beneath these dimmed evenings,as you crawl, like all your…
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Hollowed eyes, thin paper hearts.And what were you waiting for,under all that rubblebrought free from your mind?A lonesome answer,given, and then brought down to dust,while you cling to tragedies, maladies,a malignant purpose, a white-water dreamin this clogged void, where allhave called you,while you left. Screams still come, come fromyour nakedness in these coldesthours of you…
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Down these stretches.Stretched upon your marksof infantile desertion, wateredin your birth of other,newer abandonment – one thatleaves you open for another, another dagger to fuelletters scrawled into desire,your pain in a rancid heart. Desert – water those flowers,pink, scentedand powerless. You are scarred,watermarked and left tragicin your leaking wound. An inborn, sacred maladyyou must keep…
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Wild change, summer’s pleato bring me aside,to space me apart from whenyou went by. You were those windsinvisible between fingers,arranged among a loose graspwith remembrance to what you woreupon nights of passion,heated to adore. Those sounds in the lush rush,rapid in all those footsteps,yet you hushed melike a child with a believed fable,among a heart…
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Let me loose. Whatever spillsshould be as dark as this chosen midnight,over a page as white as emptied clouds,turning fair, equal,at daylight’s stream. I run, though I have walked.I have attempted to talkwithout words passing throughthose ears that never absorbedmeaning for what remainedto trail, behind themlike chains, like stains along that path,paved with blinded, black…
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Deep seas, closing wounds.Endless paragraphs for morepages to this uncertainty.A time to hurt. A time to disconcert.Another time for flowers to closebefore petals can rush downstream,dropped from a mother’s arms. I can hold hope open like a book,with its mere cover as a shield,emptied of details from within.I can burn no pages,choosing to conceal tearswith…
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Each teardrop on a salted road,counted, as if to ice it will become.To an ocean – they were meant to be swallowed,among all pain that could not have beenthis weak, that hollow. Stains upon these hands,grafted, where all that had been heldhas been released onto endless lands. We are explored, you and I,to all brinks…
Modern Romanticism 