Poetry Drafts

Worried Voices

A worried voice whispered, did you
Squirt; a worried voice whispered
Did it hurt; two worried voices
Embraced and exclaimed
A single No: there were no leaks, no
Dreams shattered or sore stars
Sailing far above. The cold embrace
In the tenebrous tower, this story’s
Proleptic irony, her farewell and Bon
Voyage became a ballooning belly
Sparked by another’s life force,
Another’s life forced upon her.
A worried voice whispers
Of mad… sad… moments of
Memory recollection without
Trigger and without purpose:
Mindful madness resting
Among the Stars.

Empty Space

I can’t wait for Madness
To strike, for Her high
To arrive, to come and to
Embrace this vacant space
So long and so carefully
Composed.

I wait for Madness in every shape,
Shapeless whispers of Her faith
Like a doom bell keeps me awake
At night, at noon the death knell
Calls for everyone; I contemplate
My position: the bottom rhung
Reserved for the likes of me,
My kind abandoned and
Unappreciated in their world
Of forevermore Insanity.

I wait for Madness, Her mind
Like a space after a new
Line: invisible yet fulfilling a purpose
Opaque in most eyes, oblique in
Every mind. I wait – this vacant space
Becomes home – for another while.

Morning Dew

Morning dew and fog-less dream,
Curtains drawn, mind undrawn,
Dreams not yet undreamed;
A cold breeze on sticky skin,
A scream for more of same, of
Pain from another day –
Approaching;
Morning dew and steaming brew
Awaits the dreamer, the fool
Behind the veil of days of maybes
And lasting compassions;
Morning dew and fog-less dream
My signs that all is well, all is good –
For now.

I am moon pulp, mulched memories
Lamentable; talking trees impart my truths
Tells of lies, of lies, of lurid lies;
Chainsaw cries in dark nights,
My moon swoon,
I am the lucid loon:
Your Gardener in the darkness,
Motionless and moonlit,
The eyes of night flicker, flirt
With memories
Of you – bushy and bloomed

The Caring Few

Wings, I always look for the wings, you answered the question I never clearly voiced; fine fur and wicked wings, you said, with a wink and a smile; but they all shun me, I tried but your eyes told me to try another time, to find another light to guide me through the night. Wings, you said, and a pretty smile: a pretty face in the right place, a pair of lips and decent hips, kiss her and you’ll know, and watch out for … you know. Wings, you said, to lift you and to … ah gawd knows why they have the wings and we do not … go beyond the earthbound realm, to seek the light wherever … and so on and so forth … Do you get it son, it’s up to you to find and forsake, to pursue and partake, to be the instigator of your life.

Dancing With Demons

You asked me once, long ago,
But I refused to answer…
Simply because I could, as
The answer was always there,
At the back where my mind
Meets the self in truthful waltzing;
I refused and kept refusing
Till one day your silence
Became permanent,
Your eyes glazed over and my mind
Set on … other matters; but here
Where time is of no concern
I will reveal that answer you
So long did seek to reassure a self
That love and truth could be found
On the same coin:
Cristina Scabbia.
So now you know,
What I have known
With every step taken,
With every stumble and fall,
In our once dazzling dance
Now gone cold.

Libra

Am I the cure or am I the disease:

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim to have pontifical powers:
Significant of ritualistic satire;

Am I your cure: your saving Grace
And your saving face – but you say
No: CuZ change is pain and pain
Is death …
But pain is life and life is … it
I counter and claim, as truth;

Am I your disease: your pain
Down your back and the
Shaking through your veins – but
You say no: CuZ the pain is not real,
The shakes mere flits of mind:
Like rings on a midsummer lake
Above the circle of life:
A balance to be kept;

I rest spineless on a petty pedestal
You claim have significant powers
Over life and death, cure and
Disease; I find that equilibrium
All too hard to balance,
All too hard to fault,
All too … much
Satire.

Snakes

Venom and spitting / your snakeskin slithers as self-conscious dithering wreaks, unleashes, and vents / nothing. / NoThing will ever convince or convey further engagement of two split tongues intertwined / the storm rages on / the wound of ages still festering / with will gone and without dreams / what will a future of word spitting and venom drinking ever achieve / in the world of men / and snakes.

Anyone else not having a messaging tab in Activities on your main blog? (all my sideblogs have one, this is on the IOS App) @staff WTF is going on? I can’t message and I can’t reply! #TumblrFFSortYourselfOut

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