Creative Writing
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Spit your taste on the doorWhile songs repeat, as hearts pour.Your eyes were never the circleI could perfect, when tears flood a floor – In a space, infertile,Yet scenic within lost light.With death, some crosses are better judgedWhile winter can emptyOur time in the hourglass.Our shoulders rubbed, eyed smudged – From the grains we lost…
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I want to part these lips for light. He chooses to open his mouth, though the blank pages remain. Whether I or him, whether the world full of silhouettes and sighs or the singular man who kneels here will want to breathe for what means to go, it goes without accepting. Short of time, and…
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Walking this trackIdle in your eyes, coming backTo repeat the wordsThat from your lips, were never heard.A form dipped in a lake,A set of eyes in overcoming sapphireTo glisten the moon into red. You were traced, born upon the wire, – Around every curve,Weeping in place of dying.The trail runs cold, when we swerve –…
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All turn toThe raindrops, the petals, the dew.Those faces with mute expressionsLeak sadness we all flewAs burning bannersIn the same crippling fever.Our identical tears, once forgotten lessonsCan become the same crystal rush – Of unified limbs, upon pain’s hush.We are winter in every season,Holding hands around our throats.We do not differ, without reasonTo speak on…
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You hold candles to burn us toSpecks upon an aching shoulder.Why fall, when we knewTo give the ocean its space?One final teardrop breaks into cinders,With heat upon your form I trace.Walk back those eyesFrom afar, to bleeding arms. Do not stop sinkingEven when reaching the end of me.You were strong upon your own scenery.Never decide,…
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Our hearts, our halls amongThese veins that stretch with yearning’s song.Can you count the skipsThe pulse had made, all along?Razor pleasure that holds a note,While summer cures what winter wroteUpon the morning that came. Your eyes, our skies,While love skips the momentFor a second more.Hands around your hips,Watching the stars fall, as schedules flip. One…
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With a note upon some sound,The echoes had carried us to bliss.Steering directions, with distractions around,While we viewed each other in the lakes.I am starved of your kiss,The scent of your hair in the wind.A piece of you is for scenery to make – While folded letters journey us togetherTo find passages, spaces between the…
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How was your heartDug within, bound in dirt?Was deathEver the comfort, ever the hurt?Here, we pour inOur favorite ocean. We sing without breath,We bleed on without flesh.We are in the other’s arms – Still discovering deepest harm.Inside the soil,We trace every mile – We ever lived, under the stars,Now within the sandsCounting each other’s scars.Fallen…
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Speeches collected upon the longest lines,Farewells captured, with eyes towards the wind.Bringing forth a letter,Reading a mystery.She faces the sun without looking in,Running from her eyes light that blinds.She wishes, though cannot love – Without the love, without the heart quittingAll of Heaven’s symptoms.Desperate heart, undiscovered herWho loves with winter lending its warmest,Most concealing cover.…
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Dust never fell, snow never meltedIn the inches we first gave,Separate, upon the ocean beneath, partedFor the one starved child thatKept bleeding in our sunrise, unsaved.Our child, our shadow – Our grief that kept us.With kisses close, a ribbon cutFor our faces to freezeAmong time’s weighted memorialKeeping us as clouds among turmoil. Love takes a…
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You were to beEverything, upon a closed eye. Raining the fog in the remembranceTo two shut windows,Closing for frost’s awakening. You slumber in the nothingTo a heart that skipsAs a stone upon the old lakes. A worried vision,A sealed encasement, where waterWas never the entrance,Never the griefThat wanders within puddles,Never seeing reflection. Listening to vibrations,The…
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How many piecesMust I stitch togetherTo recreate you?Making you,Loving youBuried more of my heartThan I found it. I love the darkWhile the sparksAre still disappearing. To block the sunWill result in your eyes setting,No matter the moon is screaming. What is fewestTo me, in this storm of rainAre the droplets, the pieces of thisAching pain.…
Modern Romanticism 