Poetry

Inside me, all is sky: in the unfathomed vastness the echo of a crow spreads, words and moods are stray breezes searching for a harbor in which to fade, an amniotic silence. I keep the memory of a remote sea, sweet with silver, stirred by a nervous, shifting moon; and within me awakens a blue pain that once was frost but does not fade: and so, here...

Rooted in place, too many things pulling at it. Instead of being nourished, it gives and gives. It withers, draws itself inward, yet the roots are still searching, still trying to give of themselves. It tore itself up by the roots and flew off, not knowing where it was headed. It crashed straight into a wall and fell to the ground. It lay there...

When you look at my eyes you’ll see nothing special. An average brown like fallen leaves; Dead after a cold, hard freeze. Every now and again they might rustle a bit, brushed by a breeze of emotion. Droplets formed by morning dew, Well up and drip down, caught by the rays of the sun. But look into my eyes and you’ll find a fire. Burning...

Spontaneity woven, self-indulgence driven Oh the countless secrets beneath this skin Emotionally stolen by a moment given By death. That wolf whose teeth are sin Spawning now are drops like rain With a life span like that of just a vapor The moment lasts, then stops again The enveloped anthem of a forgotten caper Puddles dry. Evaporation The itch...

after long and deep reflection I still reek of your infection a pressed flower in your journal bleeding black out of my kernel after careful consideration mixing honey and frustration I'm the spider, you're the fly I can crawl but I'll never fly

The Joker’s divinity is laughter; his faith keeps him alive, it is his water and his bread. Among the colors he wears red would stand out, were he not so skilled at hiding his own hell. He laughs at others’ hearts, offers roses of sarcasm and knives of tenderness to lovers who kiss against the doors of his night. The Joker mocks those who throw...

A life of luxury I live in peace I have quiet nights I have slow mornings I have everything they cant I was born this way With privilege They arent Yet they are resilient They are dandelions Sprouting through dry concrete I am a rose Drowning in the window sill It is both amazing and disapointing I have the resourses to take the world And...

Words burn like black candles, the mirror turns a blind eye to the rush of your shame: a mark is being made, a seal to lock inside you the drop that will poison all the days to come.

Only the night matters, its granaries filled with gold, the awakening of the voice. Under the regime of the sun time bends the heart, waiting frays the mind. That's where I survive, among fragments of screams and visions of blue; my dream-horse lost in the desert.

Oh! Dear shattered mirror Your shards agglutinated together, Birth rainbows of dissimulate Between the breaches of reality. …mirror…mirror… …my debilitated glint, I gaze, I gaze.

Illumoria: "The realization that every person has hidden parts of themselves, a light they rarely share" (definition from urban dictionary). there she is across the room her head in the book she is reading she looks up ever so often to stare out the window and he stands there surrounded with people secretly glancing at her wondering about...

The Iron Cage** Within a prison built of bone and sinew, He dwells, a captive, where no sun shines in. His flesh, a battlefield where armies clash, And joints, once fluid, now are bound in ash. Psoriasis, a crimson, crawling tide, Leaves burning trails where life should freely glide. Arthritis, with its gnawing, twisting grip, Has stolen...