Writing
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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smoke could clear.Of what has been writtenon these rain-tattered pages,under storms – can come undone,can be vows, soon withdrawn; I cannot silence what will comewithin some aftermath,not hazed inside painful fog.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…
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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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“To think on a close friend for their race, or other surface-level detail, is to spit on your memories of them for what goes beneath that.” – Modern Romanticism At the point of knowing an individual for there to be a stable structure of trust, a person no longer needs to see them as a…
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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…
Modern Romanticism 