Creative Writing
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The better we are, without leaning intoa moment undressed in the tattered wildof our minds. Listen to those crows.Do they know something? Another injuryto count against the reflectionof what we share, consciously. Love holds roses, bleak and barren,dried without tears to water them,because we stood on clouds,hoping we were fallingfor nothing better. Nothing better than…
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Masterful to tell. Another head to roll,another chance to take, before drifting offwithout those symptoms we clutched upon,sick and always comforted, in our fever,in our warmth. What lies are we telling?What enemies are we escaping fromwhen we are turning into corners? Culling our own herd. Lessening the approach,the tears that fall from burning hands,caught under…
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Change your scenery. Neither of our sickness,not a hand, held upon an open, bruised heartcould have quickened us with its pace.We were steppingstones, healing if onlyto be torn, flooded, with the damwe held back or broke open, as perhaps doors should stay closedwhen we step out, after we cryfor another time in hearing our echoes.…
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Enter a trail. Repeat the wounds.Let us hunger over another entre,and leave us jeopardized. Another state to heal us,too late. Another reflectionto find closed wounds, reopeninglike book covers, as our eyesare the memories inside the pagesto go blank, reintroducingourselves to colored wounds, after a period of denying the ending,when a period was never there. Leave…
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Someone told us to not look away.No more to turn awayfrom where we ended a chapter,and closed our eyes. Once, in standing there.Next to hear our sudden heartbeatcontinue its vain deceitfor a love we could never defeat,within everything we did reapunder our feet,beneath doomsday’s clouds, that came from everywhereto gather here,the middle of nowhere. For…
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There, you left. Choosing to bleedfor eternity. Though you will return,coming back for the need,the need to know that your hurtcan continue to lead. Watered eyes replace no drought,reprieve no such effectsupon a disused garden, as your hands tremble in thisdim evening of your fading bliss. Take shelter in more ruins,tell your tale to another…
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A grave. Open and wide, like a mother’s arms. Water comes in from pouring rain, filling up that gap, as the soil absorbs nothing. He sees the scenery in me, the mirror. The mirror, another one of them, although there is only one of me in this corner of Dan’s room. Only one of me…
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Halfway drowned, backwardsfrom being crowned. Our behaviorshave stayed, to fell our grace,have stayed to regain this spacesifted in, like ashes to be lost within.We look back, we turn back,and we are reassured within fissures,spaces that divide,alongside sickness to subside. To take us down, inside Hellish sound.Because we were not meant to belifted for Heaven, and…
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Such attempts to cover your thin form,frail from dust that settles oftenover eyes that have seen snow be debrisfrom clouded nights when pain was free,but you were not pain-free. You listened to these shelled words,captured to an eternal sea,felt at your heart where love was metnear candles, counted, where I first weptwith a smile no…
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Tearstains from both had set,like naked droplets from candles, thin and bare.Their eyes that match those tables,adorned without care. The flavors brought,with appetite crude and fraught in a manwho takes a trembling woman’s hand,He compares her scent, simple and sourto the backyard gardens, without their flowers. Barren, cold, and bleak to behold,a woman told nothing…
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I can believeHell has its own rainbow.A grim circumferencestretching over and abroad,like all the shadows we knewthat faded away. An arch above hallwayswithin our minds,painting those indescribable doorwaysa different color than a canvasthat captured no futurefor us to enter. I can believethat those moments were endless.Spent on wasted spacesto move in our shadows,ones that we…
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Those years we everdeplored each other,behind shadows, called doors.We wore sinner’s crowns,keeping shades downon those lights we pretendedwere signs of further hope.How often were we thinkingof wrapping our handsaround each other’s throats? A comforting connection,a deepening reflectionlifted with the waves. If we heal here, we willkill each other in these memories.We will murder our only…
Modern Romanticism 