Tag Archives: writing

Blooms and Dies

Carrying your truth is benign,
a flower it was, until into houses,
through unwelcoming doors and shut windows
you start throwing them,
to get in.

Oblivious that flower could rot…
It blooms and dies and pollens
and it dies, inside the shelters not yours.

But a truth can be a venom,
a tear, a wet sunshine, a word undescribeable.

Just because all worlds are created in anger, it does not mean everything must blast they way you want it

In your garden, can’t you see?
Soldiers and seamstresses and prayers and sinners,
marching side by side,
as they generalize
they ostracize

Sorting flower by flower
until left one color,
it leaves.

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Roasted Fame

Rancor is but a kind warning,
A flourished flame, a troubled sangfroid.
Comes fast,
but lasts it become.

A little souvenir,
Bought with two blinks,
and a beaten eye.
Decorated in laces pink with tragedy.

But a warning,
Comes abreast,
Is never enough.
For roasted fame.

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Yellow Memory

It was days before I stopped listening
to anything with colors.
It was not black. It was transparent.
And yellow it was.
Ostracized by the pallete.

This universe, to have the hollow hearts.
To find someone so perfect,
and forgetting the universe.
And it hollows the heart.

Can we not say the word?
I bet on it. I knew the answer but,
I asked the table,
“Where’s my glass?”

But to be there.
Cheers for the mean ending.
Is a mix of green and red.
I see it from time to time.
These memories in vague colors of vividity.

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Heavy Clouds

In a sequence of sky full of nights,
part of wet and blue arrangements.
Angels were let at each other’s wings,
the feathers blue and wet,
pleased by unconflicted warrings.

But in a heaven empty.
Why are you there in the clouds?
Two twenty three raindrops.
On your head.

So, have you found it?
Thing thrown away.
Thing picked up.
So, have you found it?
That heavy heaven.

But in a heaven empty.
Why are you there in the clouds?
Asked three raindrops.
The first one my mother.
Second my mother’s mother.
Third is me.

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Mad Wish

I’ve seen myself
in many-too-many forms
of darkness, of madness,
of dark mess and mad mess…

Others have seen themselves
in those moments, have they?
Chased by tick-tocks, tuts, sneers…
Haunted by the past, the present, the future, and the parallels
Or it’s just a mad guess?
Of is it just me, mad, I guess?

However, no matter how often.
It always feels new…
The unbearable state of half-asleep and half-awake,
and completely wondering
to the point of there’s no point in thinking at all.
Because it’s the thoughts, that harass, the thoughts…

I guess I just miss you, no?
You around. Now you’re so far.
I just miss you around.
But now you’re there afar.
And I just miss you… around…
this is too far. I miss you…

Around and around, these thoughts.
I hope I come around.
These thoughts in the nights,
I hope will never be around…
I hope it’s not a mad wish.
I wish a mad wish…


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