Poetrenaissance

‪That she may be free,‬

‪and healed of her unrest,‬

‪she carved the most pertinent words,‬

‪spake her soul’s torment into them‬

‪and imbibed them with her spirit.‬

‪Thus, she created a poem‬

‪In her own image‬

‪And in her likeness‬

‪And prayed it would bring her peace.‬

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A Still Presence

Have you muted me yet

Or do you still hear my laughter in the foreground of your memories

Is the melody of it still the anthem of your life and the soundtrack to your dreams

Do you still hear my soft breathing in the still of the night

When we were alone and I was asleep and my hand was still on the small of your back

Have you silenced my voice yet

Or do you still hear me telling you incessantly how good you make me feel

Is my heart still your safe-box for all the things you’ll never tell anyone else

Do you still tell me how much you want me like I never left even when I’m not there

Have you erased the magic of my touch yet

Or do you still take my warmth with you when you unlock your other worlds

Are your eyes still a kaleidoscopic maze to me

Because I still can’t seem to find my way out of the universe they create

fear, miles, hugs and kisses

we’re five thousand miles apart, yet i’m afraid i’ll run to you with the same speed as when i was just a hundred miles away

i’m afraid that i’ll hug you with more bone-crushing strength than you’d ever expect from a girl of my size. but then, no girl of any size loves you as much as i do

i’m afraid that my embrace will betray stubborn remnants of a love that never left; that i’ll hold you a little too long, and a little too tight, like you were mine again

i’m afraid that when i smile at you, you’ll smile back, laugh that silly laugh of yours and resurrect that flux of butterflies in my stomach i thought were gone

i’m afraid i’ll kiss you, and you’ll kiss me back. and how perfect it will feel will be the sign that we’re fucked all over again

Surgery, Purgery and the Shame of my Nakedness

i’m afraid of being naked
parading in front of strangers
i mean, both things at the same time
because each separately, i’m fine

but i need to perform surgery
and free myself through purgery
or burn myself right at the stake
with no clothes covering my shame

i’ll lay bare, flat on my back and
cut into skin with the scalpel
i’ll hope the pain that will come through
will not turn my blood black and blue

i’ll hope the pain that will come through
will come with peace and healing too
but first i have a burning need
for strangers to watch my sins bleed

that night with you at pent

you prably wasn’t lying when you said my eyes were red
i said couldn’t do it so i passed it back instead
you laughed and said, “take it slow, don’t let it get to your head”
that’s how it went, my first hit and that night with you at pent

the night was cool, the school was calm, the moon was nice and bright
the sharp intake of breath you drew pierced silently into the night
i looked at you and stared in awe, wondering what was on your mind
then slowly you exhaled and let the smoke rise up to meet the skies

whole

my soul is hungry so i eat my own love

i cook up my frustration, season my sadness then serve it up on a nice china plate of loneliness. it’s an incestuous cycle.

i chop up every little piece of me that i can and ingest myself again and again; it’s an endless cycle.

my mind feels so empty so i prepare all of me – my nerves, my brain, my thoughts – and i consume myself again and again.

my heart is malnourished so i regurgitate the unrequited love that i swallowed and chew on the cud of that bitter pill till i quell my deficiency.

my body feels drained so i mix up a cocktail of my blood and some green and in the moment, it tastes kinda sweet. but i drink myself up and i’m still left to wonder

when will i ever feel whole

the perpetraitor

          poetry is a thief
that robs me of my sleep

          the curse upon my sanity
the advocate of my freedom

          the chain that sets me free
and makes my muscles lean

          it trains my intellect
and makes my insides bleed

          so how then shall i flee
if what i write for me

          becomes my remedy