Writing
-
If I neverfell at your feetto cry your namein a long line. If I neverresisted these tearsthat carry me nowhere,I might have kept on. If I neverchose to watch youwilt like oceans could notwater your barren garden.If I had alwayskept sand from exitingbetween fingertips,like those words of promiseI let stray like dandelion seedsover infertile deserts.…
-
Those wraparounds,bold curves. Wide in swerves,undressing in shadows,dressing in lace.Broken hands come around,embracing poison of sweat,water of lily pads. Between you, to bewithin you, I hold all ofyour declining droplets,meant for my mouthscarred from absence,meant as a substanceto feel like real presence. I bring you down to softnessfrom those rocks, cloggedin your eyes. I help…
-
Now thatcrying eyes have solvedall frames and puzzles,I’ll look at your watered lawn,your garden that gleamsamong regrown forests. I’ll look at our bedwhere shadows have arrivedfrom set suns, closed eyesresting for greater depravityat retained thirst. Building our fatesto surrender to what weboth remember,holding droplets to soakanother page in our bible,weeping in vainfor forgiveness. Missing your…
-
Burning rooms. Fields of vision.Your train of thought wires usin disconnection. I am helpless,in a battlefield without remission.Our vows are empty,without revision. Nakedness. Petal-less.A near bloom that fadedin an empty room. Rose-red picturesdiluted of their original flavor.We dried in our tears,while bringing our griefonto bloodstained letters. To wine, in its bitterness. To oceans in their…
-
She tells my pain to wait. As if water can fall after I’ve twisted a knob to a faucet. This heart, twisted, knotted in its infinite veins, spread like tree roots to an age of a tree that has already fallen. These eyes have gained flashes. All those empty rooms, filled with one more hollow…
-
Herein lies a crippled horse. He struggles to find a way to walk. Tears have left him burning on a slope that moves his eyes always down. Why will he always look down? To feet that never move him. To scars that never leave him. They are remade to be ripples within hardening soil, though…
-
I’ll hold.Hold your head close.Under these waves,where stars burn down. All those symptoms.Synonymous. With the shot that occurs.In the dark. In the dark.Under our hearts,where waters have come down.Crashing in the dark.Crashing against us,devoted while apart. We have held.Our oceans are never one.With sands that fill around,hourglasses and empty sound. Time is a grain in,with…
-
Wide letters.We were holding on,while recognizing.Those shapes. These marks.They have stuck like glueto these gray hauntsin the washing blue. Worded. Remembered.Burning ships that tag along.Fated noosesthat hold up bottled necks. Stored messages for the sea.Stored letters that go unseen. Who shall hear our screams?Who shall worship our stars,put out near firelightwhere we ignite another rose?…
-
“Feminism has inadvertently implied that men will be to blame for this world’s crisis, in its definition of what it means to fall. To die. To be in love. In essence, to protect and to take the blame for struggle.” – Modern Romanticism What does it mean for a man to love? What does it…
-
Who knocks on his door? No entry. No pulse. Please give him ease. A nurse bathed in white; for I say, he has not yet left. I give him ease, with his hand held in mine. I give him relief, with his breath taken into mine. A leftover. A winter’s clover. As luck will have…
-
Loose notes. She lost her voice. Repeated words, undressed in rhythmic syllables, while she: she hung onto heartbeats. She hung onto sound. Lost in her voice. A kiss deserted in her skin. A phase dug from her wounds. Hoped to be temporary. Forgotten into a memory. A moment that loses control, while she: she hung…
-
Sharp eyes,fortified, amplified,noticing her worldbare, on a one-way roadthat comes, goes,repeats in a world of anguish,scarring tissue, leavingher as forgotten, with handheldmoments, that areemptier than when we arenoticing those leavesshe lets fall fromblossomed cheeks. What do we comprehend,when those letters of hersare crumpled, with her heart?Drenched, torn openin those vulnerable cueswhere skies go from darkinto…
Modern Romanticism 