Burnt (2013)

I hold the ember in the cup of my hands
the uselessly toiling fingers are- Kindling.

No longer able to beat out
rhythms on an unyielding earth-

I hear the crackle of the fire
consuming my bones.

Keep the children warm,
feed them my ashes.

 

*Note: Originally posted on my deviantart in 2013

Satiated Sleep (help me sigh)

Give me a reason to stay awake.

Pour secrets into my ears,

run your nails along the peaks-

and valleys of my breast.

Steal my breaths between stories,

locate my pulse by the birthmark on my neck.

Keep my eyes open, help me

scatter poetry on bedsheets-

keep the rhythm of recitation

with the undulating of your hips.

Sigh, unravel, and spool into me.

Curl around my body, kiss each eye

closed. Then,

then I can sleep.

 

 

For the Want of Nothing (draft)

I have atrophied in these sheets.

They cling to me,

sweat gathers in sickness

and in health I know nothing but want.

Yet, need lingers in the door

beckons, but does not come forth.

My dreams run rampant like pixies;

they are splashes of imaginary colour ,

no paper can hold them.

Outside the barren tree branches lacked the strength

to hold onto their colourful autumn,

I lack the strength (will) to even manifest a fall,

So, I’ve fallen into a bed of leaves

(which I did not rake)

Please. Decompose this body,

feed the corpse to the worms-

this is the only way I know to celebrate a harvest.

A Plea to the Silent (edit)

1. A life unlived is not unique.

2. What things keep you from being?

3. Your words are bullets, so speak.

 

4. Could charity save a soul?

5.  Save sinful eyes from seeing?

6. A life unlived is not unique.

 

7.  Pastor, knows how to console,

8.  your empty hums agreeing,

9.  his words are bullets, so speak.

 

10.His righteousness takes a toll,

11. good deeds need guaranteeing,

12. a life unlived is not unique.

 

13. A charlatan wants control-

14. “It’s for your own wellbeing!”

15. These words are bullets, so speak.

 

16. Hatred is an armed pistole,

17. scared are the ones decreeing:

18. “A life unlived is not unique!”

19.  Their words are bullets, so speak.

S&S (Rough) 

Sitting in idleness with-

the creeping ivy growing high, 

oxidized metal blends in with the dirt,

paint peeks out from underneath the bubbles of rust. 

.

& –yet

.

Still the small bell sings, 

(there upon the croooked handles)

A joyful reverberation leaping for the trees. 

Remanents of neon green tassels shyly flutter,

taken in hand by a curious and friendly morning breeze.

.

PN: work that hasn’t been workshopped will have titles accompanied with “(rough)”. 

Tumultuous (rough)

Just as my worries gather they ebb-

drawn out to sea.

The decaying parts of my spirit float on it’s discordant waves.

Glittering foam catches negative thoughts,

they disappear into sand-

become the dreams and castles of children,

my sorrows transformed into well intended moats.

Sunlight bleeds into night,

the dying of a gull resonates down the alley of the beach,

water gnaws on a clumsy tower made of sand,

it draws the melancholy back to me.