obsession bleeds over infatuation
greek myths of long buried bodies
held hand in hand, breast to breast
to their literal other halves

infatuation longs for lust
roman stories of emperors galore
a state of mind to be lived
and to only resonate with power

lust wants for life
urban images of loud colours
rooms filled with material carcasses
half dead but never more alive

(none of these stories need any more characters. try once more with feeling)

This Is Always the Way Home.
Current word count: 564.
A snippet for this morning!

One of the most tragic parts of human existence, is our ability to boil down our worth, dry and to the bone in a blink of an eye.

/ human tales - s.e.s poetry

Women

You don’t get to tell me what to do, or who to be—

No, let me speak.

You say you know better when I’ve worked harder, longer than you.

You’re not the expert. I am.

And yet you make me feel so small:

My justified screams become whispers in your presence.

Despite every fibre of my being telling me to stand up straight,

Your voice, echoed by history, forces me down.

According to you, I am faceless, nameless.

I call myself strong because I have earned the right to speak.

But who gave you the right to interrupt?

Mujer leona de corazón noble,

Tus ojos de caoba iluminan un rostro de tristeza, y dolor profundo. Pero brillan como el sol, encandilando los que los mira.

Tus labios sursurran rezos de salvación, suplicando por un milagro. Pero tus manos demuestran una fuerza de guerrera, capaz de hacerlo sola.

Mujer leona, fiera salvaje,

Tu alma es de fuego y tu belleza es regio. No te dejes vencer por las manos del enemigo. Demuestra tus garras y defiéndete. Nunca te dejes domesticar.

- F.N.V.

“Time moves slowly, but passes quickly.” ― Alice Walker, The Color Purple

I became a ghost, even to myself. Wandering through each day, the incorporeal fingers of my soul reaching out to the world, and sliding right through it. So I keep wandering, hoping each day will be different, that perhaps today, my ghost will find what it is looking for, and perhaps in that moment, this world will make sense to me.

A. Ram

I do not remember the idea of your touch, or almost touch; presence. Today I wandered beneath the night sky and felt, insanely, like I was more apart from you than ever before. Often I remember your face.

“What do you mean the anti-life equation is a safeword?!” Darkseid demanded.

‘Only’ And 'Ever Almost’

Perhaps you only picked me up on accident.

Was I not

that shell you found on the Oregon coast

which turned into a trinket

whom you only loved in whispers?

Those whispers were the loudest sounds

I’ve ever almost afforded.

Those whispers were the longest smiles

I’ve ever almost resisted.

Don’t you dare love another

only ever almost!

A steel heart would have

popped like a balloon

in the pinch of your accidental embrace.

You were the pearl in me.

Big Top

Honesty is

the sharpness that we swallow;

it is

the whistling blade we share with others

and we are all

soldiers in a circus..

licking wounds

other people deserve.

Wishing You Were Here (On A Cold October Morning)

Oh, what I would give

if only you would zap me with your frozen piggies once more.

How I hated that!

That which I presently desire in my shivering state more than fire.

More than the embers that died

I miss the pieces of you that I never knew I loved!

So I wander narrow emptiness,

rufusing every love that isn’t yours.

Hallways are lost with me in them.

Ears without hearts are deaf

to my incessant knocking.

You’ll never find me with the door closed;

it’s impossible.

Hitchhiking

I stuck out my thumb

and asked you for a lift.

You caressed my thumb with your words

and convinced me that I’d never feel needy again

as long as I had you in ear’s range…

but then off you sped.

And my body flailed in the wind behind

like a balloon tied to a bumper.

I think my sporadic view of your backside

was all that kept me hanging on.

“i know we haven’t really been talking much and i don’t write as much as i used to and maybe it’s my fault. it probably is. it doesn’t mean that we’re not close. you told me awhile back maybe i have a hard time writing because sadness pushes us to express those feelings and try to connect the dots like constellations traced with fingers by two lovers in a hot tub trying to find meaning within themselves— we are bigger than all of the negativity. we are so much larger if only we’d just slow down and try to see it. i don’t want to write only when i’m sad, i want to write when i’m happy too. i want to write when i’m bored and it’s okay to express that. loneliness is a silent killer, i’ve been praying for an answer, and sometimes all you’ve got to do is look a little deeper. you don’t always have to be happy, you don’t always have to be so sad, young man. sometimes i’m lost in my head, but i’ve been in spirits as of late. do you ever feel that conflict in your head? some duality within yourself that’s itching to get out? it’s more than a headache, but closely related to heartache. my soul is hungry and i’ve been trying to fill its belly up with something real. i’m tired of fake things, i’m tired of faking some of my emotions, i’m tired of smiling when i’m not alright, it’s good to let those things out. you don’t want to implode, it’s not a pretty sight. i know we don’t talk anymore, but i always think about you. thank you for keeping me company during the latest parts of december. you’re my best friend and i love you so much. i hope you’re doing alright.”

— to alexandria and her land of snow

Sharpened words
So carefully used
Thorns that surround me
Piercing, wake me every morning

Staring at the ceiling wishing
You were here with me to dance with
Tell me otherwise but actions speak louder

Then words
I sought you out
Every night and even now
You don’t respond what should I think now?

I’m afraid of dying alone
But more afraid of dying with someone
Who doesn’t make my heart skip a beat
Rather be alone then led astray, living in awry

Nothing makes sense now
Radio silence, it breaks my heart
It gives me hell, when I see you turn to go
But I know I need your love to stay here with me

I’m trying to write poetry because I think I’m gonna be able to write something great and finally get some validation or some recognition

It’s like I’m trying to prove my inner worth through external works but Christ himself already said that it’s impossible

So why am I even trying

When the gods have warned us about this very thing

I guess you could call it arrogance or hubris

I think too highly of myself

I’m doing this for selfish reasons

I’m doing this to impress or gain notes

I’m doing this to prove that I can create

That I have value

That I have something worth saying

And worth saying well

Because like always I expect my work to be some masterpiece but I don’t realize I’m not fucking Shakespeare

I’m not Dickenson or Keats or whoever the fuck

Take your pick, I’m none of them

I’m some punk kid with the gall to bastardize the words of the English language and try and spin some meaning into them

I’m some idiot who think the words they think and write can ever mean something