Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius…
Tag: writing
-
-
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
-
Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
-
It’s 2 am.
I feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life,
A perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds chimed.
Success is a hive, hummingbird wings in slow motion,
Hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed.
Feels like they’re talking to me, as I walk on the leaves that I cross,
Demure, you’re so provocative, and I’m surely a ghost.Crunching of autumn is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall,
To possess you is a perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host.
Sunbathed petals drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee and pumpkin,
Squash the soggy leaves after a beer, underneath the frothy assumptions.It’s cost me a fortune, ink-jets flew the loss to the profits,
That’s just the cost out of pocket, I wore the pants, but you wore the wallet.
Living a martyr, nose-dive a dotted plane into soil,
Where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled.Hear the ether perform, a duet with 42 degrees and a choir,
Robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires.
Mechanical organism, metamorphosing orphan, with a heart full of gears,
Bleeding gasoline endorphins, pros and cons was the love you pretended to smear.Propane huffed out of my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants,
You wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. It was ruthless.
Wasn’t enough, contraption malfunction,
The sound drowned out, a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it.
Teardrops were waves, where even an arc wouldn’t suffice,
You took two of each beast that I had, so immediately, I…
Just lost it.You whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived,
With a chisel that was made by the bones of the deceased.
You were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire I wasn’t accustomed,
To go into combat for you with a wardrobe and the cloth that it’s cut from.
Ungodly, the humdrum, I couldn’t acquire the taste,
You were so tongue-in-cheek with me, I blushed into haste when you asked if I’d want some.All I want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely,
Where we aren’t drunk or having sex, sigh, where you just complete me.
Developments real, the buzzing of broken street lights is loud,
A suburban cemetery, not a real burial ground, that’s the imagery.You stole what I had, but now that you did, my soul’s deep with love,
You need so badly what I have, but now I don’t even want.
How’s it feel to have it? I couldn’t sate it but maybe I was deeply depressed,
It doesn’t diminish my character, but it diminishes you, exposes your weakness, you weren’t even a friend.You poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose,
Which were filled with raindrops from my pupils. There, now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed.So hastily brash, sort of insane, but with class,
You took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp.
Heart rates out of the bag, but a cat caught this lung! Out of breath and out of reach,
A tongue with an abrasive touch, I just wanna say what I wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk.I don’t even try to be me, I try to be me, but for you, just like me, to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
You were into astrology, I read the sign of a Pisces for August 10th and copied it ’cause I knew you would make the connection.I manipulated myself, but in that, I manipulated you,
All it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse.
Pixelating, ruse, miscellaneous, who? I’ve never been vindicated ’cause vindication’s rude.
I’ve been to places you… couldn’t move to, in a million years,
Walk a mile in my boots, where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sort of disappear.Dissipating, pointless, ventilating, poignant, vision-aided moistness,
Where physics plays a joint version of the Bible’s revelations, over and over again.
My wound is opening, fix the sutures, fix my future, remove gauze,
Remove smog, sterilize, feral eyes, then apply the ointment.It’s 2 am.
-
I ventured out into the cold abyss today, my eyes lethargic, stinging from the relentless grip of allergies. The dog’s chain clinked against his collar, echoing like a sinister omen in the frigid night. Shadows, those distorted and enigmatic forms, spun my head into a dizzying frenzy. Their eerie, rigid nature unsettled me.
Then, it hit me—the unmistakable scent of the season, that melancholic “time of the year” aroma. It seeped into my very soul, weaving an intricate tapestry of emotions. There’s something timeless about chimneys, a quaint nostalgia harkening back to old Christmas books with Santa’s oil-drawn, bushy beard and rosy cheeks. The snowy scenes illuminated in red and green paint the backdrop of December’s icy tundra.
Entering from the biting cold into a warm cocoon, cocooned in cozy fabrics and cotton bedsheets, there’s an indescribable perfection in it all. Even the air itself seems to resonate with a unique cadence. Passing cars on the street outside sound different, perhaps because the air is colder, the rubber against pavement echoing a somber tune. It’s simply the season—the cold, the darkness, the tiny, icy gusts nipping at my face.
My sinuses, congested and oppressive, amplify the sound of my every breath, grounding me to the earth’s reality. Vulnerability courses through me, urging me to seek shelter. The vivid mental images that gradually materialize are ones I wish to share with humanity because, in these moments, everything feels impeccably perfect.
Yet, these images remain untouched by cinema, literature, or any medium. I yearn to be the first to recreate them, but my words fall short. It’s an intoxicating, leafy, perfect, and mesmerizing scent. When I say “intoxicating,” I mean it—every sense converges to form an integral part of my psyche.
To the outside world, I may appear as a mere bystander walking a dog, but no one could fathom the profound bliss enveloping me. I long to walk through snow, thick and crunching underfoot, seeping into my socks just enough to discomfort me, only to melt away as I seal my boot.
Returning home to a roaring fire and tightly sealed windows to keep out the howling wind, I’d set the record player spinning and hum along. It’d be a peaceful scene, but one brimming with life. An overlooked jigsaw puzzle would become the epicenter of attention, as friends and family engaged in playful banter, their hands darting in and out, trying to fit the stubborn pieces.
After I cracked a joke that elicited hearty laughter from everyone, I’d lean back with a puzzle piece in hand. The scent would wash over me once more, evoking an aromatic high. In those moments, the world slowed down around me, the crackling of the chimney intensified, and a grin erupted on my face.
Then, as if on cue, everything resumed its regular pace. Laughter continued without distortion, while I cracked my toes hidden within thick woolen socks, my actions drowned out by the roaring fire and the merriment of the gathering. It felt so good that, if bad news were to strike, I believed we could conquer it together.
Stepping out onto the porch, it was no longer 2014; it felt like a distant era, a snapshot from the 1950s. The illusion was shattered by a Land Rover pulling up; a scarf shielded my lengthy neck from the biting cold, a neck I had always despised for its sensitivity to the chill. Scarves seemed tailor-made for me, bringing an odd comfort.
Someone coughed, and I offered them a piece of chocolate to ease their discomfort. I understood the misery of feeling unwell amidst a joyful gathering. Perhaps I should make hot chocolate for everyone, complete with marshmallows, and maybe a bit of wine for those feeling more adventurous. In this moment, happiness should reign supreme.
I took a small sip, the liquid brushing against the brim of my lips. My eyes no longer burned, and my allergies had seemingly retreated. How much more of this ecstasy could I endure?
-
It has been a while since we last connected. I hope you’re doing well. I’m here to share some thoughts and feelings with you. I’ve been trying to bring some laughter into our interactions, maybe cracking a joke or two, hoping to share some moments of joy. However, I’ve come to realize that this can only work if both of us are fully committed to it, and I sincerely want that to be the case.
Sometimes, my thoughts get a bit jumbled, and I find it hard to express myself without your inspiration. You see, you’re like the rain that quenches my thirst, and I’m the hurricane that’s named after that rain. We complement each other, just like the way winks make me feel special and unique to someone. Just like snowflakes, which are all unique despite their shared characteristics, why shouldn’t a kiss be just as special and individual? It’s a personal and unique experience.
You’re both fun to have around and incredibly cute, and your presence leaves a lasting impression, etched in the very fibers of my being. But, you can also be exceptionally cold at times, and I hope one day to be reassured that I am truly loved.
I once heard that doves have only one lover throughout their lives, and the thought crossed my mind because it felt like you kept me grounded, unable to spread my wings and soar. I tried to take off, but it seemed like something was always holding me back, leaving me feeling like my wings were clipped.
I remember the sensation of your fingers gently tracing across my chest, the contrast between the softness of your fingertips and the slight scratch of your nails. It was a vivid reminder of how you could be both gentle and intense in the blink of an eye. These memories tend to resurface unexpectedly, like a sudden realization when I’m sipping coffee on the veranda.
Some memories are so clear and poignant, like the color red in a black-and-white world, that they stick with us. Maybe that’s why people say that blood is thicker than water, emphasizing the deep bonds formed through shared experiences and emotions.
I think back to the moments when emotions are so powerful that they feel like a song’s lyrics, or when a group of people comes together to sing along to a favorite tune. It’s like that feeling you get when you hug someone you truly care about and momentarily forget all your worries.
As I write this, I can’t help but chuckle, even as my eyes well up with tears. It’s a bittersweet reflection on the past, sifting through every detail in hopes of learning from it and improving for the future. I strive to live in the present and not let the past weigh me down, but some wounds take time to heal.
Our relationship is reaching a point where it feels like all I can look forward to is a physical connection, a brief escape from the prison of my emotions. I sometimes remember kissing you as if I were watching from outside my own body, an out-of-body experience.
I’ve always tried to make you laugh, but it’s become challenging to distinguish when I’m being serious. I find myself in situations where I pretend to be someone I’m not, like ordering a soda instead of a drink at a bar, putting up a facade to hide my true feelings. It’s a cycle of using alcohol for confidence and then using it to escape reality, only to wake up filled with regret.
Our souls are bound together, and a kiss is a symbol of our connection. I hope we’re not strangers now, as there was a time when I couldn’t predict your actions, but I always trusted that you would make the right move. It wasn’t because you were predictable, but because when you touched my chest, my heartbeats guided you, like a psychic connection with visions embedded in your palm.
I wish I could see the future for us, but I can’t. I can only dream, and in my dreams, I long to be awake. The pain is real, and I find myself crying in bed, hoping the white sheets will hide the evidence of my tears. I see you everywhere, even in the clouds and in puddles I resist stepping on in the rain. They say that eyes are the windows to the soul, but all I see in my reflection are eyes darker than coal. I hope this doesn’t mean that everything has turned to ashes.
Sometimes, I tell you to keep your glasses off because you look adorable without them, but then I think your glasses look even cuter without you wearing them.
-
I find myself caught in a cycle of retribution, a reflection of my initial judgments. This emotional journey has proven to be quite unpredictable, with each intense session coming back to haunt me. I can’t help but wonder if you’re a Pisces; I’ve heard that some Pisces individuals are quite remarkable. However, I remain oblivious to the complex mix of circumstances and my own actions. Am I pursuing a job or a greater cause? Pursuit can be quite challenging.
Every mistake, whether past or present, seems etched in sharp relief in everything I’ve done. It’s as if every action I’ve taken is the single most catastrophic event on the planet. Comparatively, the feelings of others, like Christians, appear as small and inconsequential as an inchworm. I’m expected to move on and act as though nothing happened. I envision a serene bird flying against a backdrop of cerulean skies, both wings stretched high, gradually fading into the distance, out of focus. Meanwhile, a second bird with only one wing struggles, with visible obstacles below. Who does this second bird represent?
Is there a way to mend what’s broken, like an aerial gaze that has turned arid today? It feels useless at times, and I can’t help but feel ruthless, unable to keep it together. If I clasp my fists any tighter, it seems like I could squeeze an atom, wiping the slate clean from all data. I genuinely wish that were possible; perhaps a mix of anger would help.
The mere mention of pistol chambers seems almost apocalyptic in this pristine world we inhabit. When the wind bites with a chilling cold, numbing the skin, it’s as if the entire realm pauses, leaving us suspended in profound silence.
I’ve encountered two formidable challenges: navigating passive-aggressive behavior and deciphering mood swings that seem like cryptic enigmas. You had a way of conveying your desires without uttering them outright, and I found myself intrigued by the art of manipulation. In my eyes, you were my anchor, much like a boat gliding along the coastal waters. I had assumed that everything beneath me would remain steadfast and unshaken.
Our well-thought-out blueprint has slowly begun to show signs of wear and tear, with stains that have taken on a rather ominous shade of red. The stress from it all has taken residence in my head, leaving me with frequent headaches. Each morning, as I rub my eyes, the echoes of last night’s arguments reverberate in my mind. Eye irritations have become all too common companions.
This whole ordeal has definitely taken its toll on me. To find some semblance of solace, I’ve turned to an unconventional blend of coffee and liquor, sometimes jokingly calling it an “elixir,” even though its taste often reminds me of overly congested chestnuts. On the brighter side, there’s a certain exhilaration that comes with speeding through a closed tunnel in the early morning chill with the top down on a convertible.
In a nutshell, my emotional journey has been characterized by a yearning for redemption, a constant sense of uncertainty about my pursuits, and the weight of past mistakes. Through vivid analogies and metaphors, I’ve tried to capture the complexity of the emotions and experiences that have colored my path.
-
You heard how I breathe when I sleep,
Or how I made those odd little moaning noises.
It was funny; I just laughed at how we laughed,
Sad. Now, I’m saddened by the memory of our laughter.
A Neptunian fury, name it a curtain call,
The brim of the acrylic cloth that concealed shadows in our love,
Hollow in the squeaky bed, bolted in with rusty lugs,
Lunging forth to greet the sunrise, under covers dried with passion.
In our eyes, there lies a passive, sane, perhaps a way,
For absence makes my heart grow stranger,
Struck gold with a pickaxe made from my own bone,
Marrow that you’d swallow, a diamond in the rough, drone,
Piling up, glowing in the dark.
We’d pair up so close to the heart,
If we were of another genus from the start,
The geniuses on Noah’s ark couldn’t have torn us apart.Whispers of Laughter and Sighs
–––––––
-
Feel the vectors into orbit,
melting into fiscal porn
Each waking moment exists to mourn
the pensive rigor mortis
And I hate myself so much every single morning
It’s like clockwork, lonesome, staring in the mirror
See a monster, bones drugged, mainly see the errors
Home drunk, sloppy, with a motor function failure
Open palm my soul in one, the shodokans prepared
I’m off the bat, I’m off the case, I’m solely here to reap
A wad of air I waste, so oddly placed you forget to even breathe
You wake up in your sleep, catch your breath, and then you’re weak
Wake to a dim reality that you’re never truly buzzed
Whole life I never felt hungover
Till I was happy once, then got drunk, so then I felt hungover
Like ignorance was bliss, sort of an ignorance to drugs
To duly know that without or with them my life just really sucked
Like I’ve been wasted the entire time, while I was fucking sober
Bring the jester in, and clamor while I become a fucking stoner
Unbelievable, the whole time I was fooled into a misnomer
Eat and see, consume and teach then touch just like conformists
You aren’t watching a train wreck this is not a pure performance
This is unadulterated steroids being pumped into my assortment
Lie inside apartment, leering at the star scape
See your jaw to constellate, I’m so pleased to see your star face
Everything I wrote always had someone in mind
Overcoat and overwhelmed, now dear no one resigns. -
Because in this world, your world’s restricted.
When curtains shine through blackness, we play and then we’re victim.
Every person out to get us.
Every person tries compassion?
It’s more than mere prediction.
There the serpent lies unchallenged,
But you whirl and try to damage, because you’re weak and your world’s afflicted.
But to no concern to you, that serpent turns into a worser type of dragon.
You’re hurt. Your mind abandons.
No service. Wires. Synapses.
The sadness morphs to scene addiction.
Your journey’s rite of passage.
Feel worthless. I have had it.
And addiction turns to habit.
Fervid. Decline to comment.
You persons can’t certainly try to fathom
What’s become or what’s to come, but you can read it in description.
The words are tiny, and they’re captioned.
Then you hurl up your prescriptions.
It’s tightly woven.
Mixture of ambition.
Has slowly earned its actions.
Artist dies with his work, and this model just burns inside the pageant.
It’s of worth, and it’s off-course.
The piercing pain pans in.
AND I want more.
Of course what’s written inside the diction are more than I could manage.
It’s the purpose.
And these conditions are perfect.
My mind is madness.
And remember, you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.