Tag Archives: writer
that i loathe
has no worth.
“and though to my arms you are forever lost,
you are a prisoner in my fantasy.”
~Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
you are my sweetest fiction,
conjured, derived from the very ends of
the lacklustre impediment
that is my algid imagination.
light calla lips flushed pleasantly
(though, i may only be imagining it so)
elusive soul a taunting fugitive
(from which i could never hope to catch
with bare hands and bare feet)
cerise smile melting upon liquid gaze
before i then realise—the blood was my own.
missing birthdays, unsent letters
piling into sealed dictionaries upon my oaken desk
and again, i weep the night sky
in the grievous absence of your starlight.
falling, falling; lilies, lilies,
plucked like shimmering innocence
from the skin of my gritted teeth, sighing
though, your divine body is not mine
to ruin and revere relentlessly
under eternal storybooks and lost volumes of
anthologies, the empty pages
all at once interjecting: “impossible?!”
but, is it always so? must my fluttering shyness
be short-lived like your tyranny?
surely we must not always adore the
blinking butterflies, cascading iridescence
billowing solemnly into my reverie—
aralias, aralias; painful, painful;
i am to dirty fly as you are to decadent fruit
dragged down rather cruelly into
the ad infinitum of your fiery veneration
and i am unable to twist my words into cathartic
crashing, collapsing, holding it in…
but, i do not mind at all; for i lost mine
the moment you slipped from enthrallment into
the ache of my charismatic sternum,
submerging me in pacific oceans of desire—
enchantingly alluring me into the cozen, shackling confines
of the prison you call your heart.
the very thought
of ink and repulsion
as tongues invade
i’m simply complacent
just a noiseless
so hire me for your
sanity, then pay for
let me be your proxy
poetry and your
eyes, a sacrifice
to be scarred
the irony of the
but i’d rather die whole
than to endure infamy
that tears me apart.
i keep losing
a part of
until all i’m
may it be piano
or a guitar, i’ll
play it for you
may it be a pen
or quill, i’ll write
no matter how
many fingers i
break or bruise,
for you my dear
i’ll endure every
blister and callous.
The way that you wrote your A’s—
Like incomplete stars missing a line.
I could simply open your notebook,
Flip it to one of your lyrical compositions,
And make constellations in paper;
White parallel lines in two dimensions.
The way that you wrote your A’s;
Like unfinished stars waiting to scintillate,
I always liked the way they appeared.
Your A’s were little constellations,
Existing within a galaxy of ink stains,
On a universe of art, doodles, and words
In that tattered and frayed notebook.
Dear Miss Acquaintance,
This is quite simply such a lovely weather today, is it not?
A fine blending of the seasons, neither too chilly nor too hot
Matter of fact, the sky matches perfectly the blue in your eyes
A cool ice cream colour with a sunny disposition, quite nice
Flattery? Ah, no no, dear miss acquaintance, it is all genuine
Although I quite like the rogue in your cheeks from the dopamine
But enough compliments, before I embarrass myself silly
How was your day, dear miss acquaintance? Pray tell me
I bet it’s been absolutely marvellous, a bonny little jive
Perhaps you’ve gone out with a parasol to take the stars alive
Or caught a redhead fairy in your perfume jar, named it Amelia
Gave it as a present to your cousin, who cheers in hysteria
Maybe you found a butterfly weak, tucked it within your lace hanky
Wept emeralds and rubies in a fit of an injustice melancholy
Ah, how awfully kind it is of you, dear miss acquaintance
Oh how I wish I wasn’t admiring your kindness from a distance
I sorely hoped I was there to offer you a comforting wonder
Or feign a jocular slapstick act to lighten your spirits asunder
Did you pass today by the candy shop, hugged all the sticky kids?
Did you pet that calico tabby by the park, just like you always did?
Did you set in motion a million carousels, spinning pins, Ferris wheels?
Did you make this planet a little greener than it is with your soft rosy heels?
You are quite the mystical creature, I must say, dear miss acquaintance
Your precious soul’s much too fine with purity for the universe to even taste
You splash colour to leaden tinsel towns like a Rembrandt with your dance
Making assurance that not a single day goes by you to wither and waste
Yet now it’s quite the gracious blessing to be resting at the same park bench
With you, dear miss acquaintance, it pulls even my stubborn heart at a wrench
You sit there with that whimsy smile of yours, polishing painstakingly your glasses
I stumble silently on my quill and linen as centuries cease, a sluggish second passes
Ah, it seems, dear miss acquaintance, that you’re rested and ready to head on home
You smile back to me, a glowing lollypop smile, and I trance before I wound up alone
Sitting dumbfound, holding a shaky envelope, a lost letter of all the things I have yet to say
Forgive me, you’re a busy maiden, my dear miss acquaintance, perhaps you’ll hear me out some other day.
My mistress’s soul hath longed to seek finer fortune winds
Whereupon seeds of chartreuse grass blusters and grows
Akin to the radiant canary sun, her most youthful fair skin
Upon the cherry blossom horizon, glitters finely and glows
Treading tentative upon quaint dotted rhododendron bushes
To fill her wicker basket with the ripest succulent blackberries
Silvery light catches her mellow lemony hair’s ringlets tresses
My bonny mistress’s efflorescent spirit nay falters nor wearies
Lithe body like a chromatic hummingbird’s wings arched in flight
Roses damasked red and rogue on plump lips and flushed cheeks
Serene zephyr doth pass, carrying with its breeze a sound quite
Like the merry Stradivarian laugh that which thy mistress speaks
She flits posthaste, non dither, questing from blossom to nectar
Yet soon my aromantic honeybee learns that life isn’t all sweet
When flourishing foliages swiftly wilt, leaving but a tawny scar
And those frigid turbulent rains make her vitality falter and fleet
My mistress doth seeked her fate on the outside world, yet she barely survived
Only to discover, unfortunately, that all that joie de vivre hath but misery belied
My lost mistress shall wander her path home soon, when her heart finally realises
That her greatest treasure sits lone writing her melodies, a bard sending inkstained kisses.