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Literature Text
My broken shadow stumbled on
and left me dragging like the sun.
The twisted branches snagged the sky...
how skeletal, their fingers stretching.
The earth I knew choked on the last
of yesterday's dried and cracking dreams,
now I am stumbling through the dust
chasing my spirit through withered leaves.
and left me dragging like the sun.
The twisted branches snagged the sky...
how skeletal, their fingers stretching.
The earth I knew choked on the last
of yesterday's dried and cracking dreams,
now I am stumbling through the dust
chasing my spirit through withered leaves.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
about
i.
i want to tell you
why i always write
about my mother and
not my father.
ii.
i love poetry but
i hate words;
it’s like loving
air but hating
breathing –
(loving breathing
but hating throats)
words are what
ruin poetry. they
mean nothing, and
poetry means everything.
words talk, but
they don’t say
anything.
(words reduce poetry
to nothing.)
iii.
time slips through
my fingers like
breaths through a sieve
because i don’t
grasp onto it.
i have no will –
the thought makes
me suffocate from
exhaustion,
sinks into the black
circles under my
eyes while i lie
in bed.
time passes.
(time is crema
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
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Not a happy poem, I know, it's meant to be bleak. I've just had a bleak state of mind, I guess. Guh. 
Dearest muse, can you bring me some happy things rather than these terribly depressing stress poems? :\
Dearest muse, can you bring me some happy things rather than these terribly depressing stress poems? :\Comments7
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nice work 
I see there the word "withered" used twice, was that intentional?
I see there the word "withered" used twice, was that intentional?