Creative Writing
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If you wereallowed to enterthese burning arms, readthe torn pages I have carried,no tears could escape you,no weather would erase you. Born onto the snowwhere petals lost their softness.Born to bebrought lowto the same furnace and flameof the biting frost,where we knelt. Watcherto the setting moon.Gathereramong the cherries of passion,burning in a different momentwhere breaths…
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All to crave,everything to breatheof the oceans in your eyes,to the life withinyour echoing cries. Since the sadnessspeaks in riddlesI am able to fathom.Since those trickling tearscan roam us in circles, – when thunder strikes,I see it coming. The same place, the spotwhere a kiss was loosenedfor the rocks. The love, the quivering fingersrepeat the…
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Liam ended with a question in the same method he uses to enter or begin something else. The inquiry for his surname, the last word to a very fundamental identity. The lack of himself not knowing what is, of a surname, so basic and yet, retains itself at the core of all persons. Liam does…
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It wasn’t longwhen we said, we would touchbefore Heaven collapsed.I wasn’t strongenough to reversethe waves, the scarsthat would send us beneaththe unfading stars. From the ropewhere I found a puddle,crystallized.From the bridgecrossed, for an impossible love,collapsing for kisses lost – upon letters we never sent. Lamentour forever sighs,our lakes, dried into vapor. A kiss to…
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Walk a mile in your sunset.Draped, all over in the shine,the divine remembrance. With a curtain taken back.With receding eyes to notice Heaven.Twin lips, boldest,reddest with a touch offaint glimmer. Wide hips, frozen scarsfrom some other implement of warmth. Give your new waters, for another dipin the sea that a second woundcould set you free.…
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Suffer, in place of the blameupon the barest throat,where you,the love of mysteries, beginto whimper breaths, beginto savorthose moments, beforeyour coming death. Take your hand, cradle each finger.Recall moments we were childrenin the arms of fertile meadows. Glance your eyes watered of a garden,wide in language, closed in open sorrow.Vulnerable, undoable from a heartunable to…
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In this burning ruin,further streamscome runningfrom fragile eyes,weakened heart. Tell the starsto never count what you lost,to not grieveover the scars, the tearsthat were the cost,that were tossed. Your memoriesinto a distant dreamwe could not, should notresonate for,behind the open door. Walk your arms around. Let me hold hopethat you will face the earthwithout tragedy.…
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Walk this fever.It cannot beas severeas the weather, surrounding usin fog and bedsheets. Watcher. You look up to seethe sun upon your face,as you cannot Turn away. Chestnut to raining tresses.Crystal to your smoothness,though the seaswill not calm. Carved breastsstretch for the cup.Speaking smile with feathered wordslight in the drunk, arid air. I leave winter,…
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If I spokecrisp words to delicate ears,as though droppingrainfall into deafness,would she take to the whimperor the whisper, in return? If I wrote Freezing linesupon the snow,where would she goif such were signals,if such were directions? Hold her,not to scold her.Take her,not to ever break her. Tears are loosened leavesto make the trail. Fingers run…
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I Beyond the Unknown Door The first step will hurt. The first step will reopen the wound. Sometimes, it healed not back into color. When monochrome fills the skies, there comes the symptom of wanderlust to keep a person living. When those colors return, reality will sparkle. When the turn comes for someone like Liam,…
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Sharp slopeto lose your tearswhether to the infinite ocean,or to the finite reflection. Raise this grave,watered at the weeping moon. Taste the future, savedto eclipsed presence, too soon. Separations into black.Wandering off-trackwhile kisses, once the lightnow the fright. Heaven had sparks.Love ends in the dark,while the pursuit of passionbecome a collisionflinging pain as water for…
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Her name in safest regard.Bewildered to me, that these tearsdrop to make the stones,sunken with all the bones, – ashen in color,washed out of salience. Modest maker of all love,while she burns the pagesat the furthestlighthouse. The rush to the lanes,an hour of hardshipto land, for an eternityin her eyes. Beyond the mere importanceto a…
Modern Romanticism 