my god is in the faces of people i love i see her even in not-so-distant strangers who remind me to slow down and notice the little things in life—the sun hitting your face, the little wind playing with his hair, a cup of coffee as company. i worship my god in ways i only know: breathe in; let the pain wash over me and welcome the tears like old friends i fought against in my younger years. i worship her in the dark as she knows it does not matter. my god—she is indifferent but there like pinkies hooked to a promise of existence, no matter how clammy and cold and shaky. she has to be there.
shame she's a paramour by crimsonletters, literature
Literature
shame she's a paramour
the hardest thing to do has always been to love this self desperately, i reason out to the body that scars are like little notes left behind and would read: here you are, dear should be this vessel for whatever you dream to be except i just collect every entry like unrequited love letters from an admirer across the seas— salt-scented, crashing and waning, and downright dripping as the bottles they sailed in quickly shattered in contact with the skin there are times when i'd plead to the mind to reply in arduous sympathy but i just keep spilling ink over such tender words until the will blackens and in the bleak of it all, a new one is hurled in virginal white and crisp paper—thin lines of prose that sometimes appear bright red as if to highlight an all-consuming sentiment: LOVE ME
amid bleached overgrowth and abandoned curls, i saw a strand of white hair that threw me for a loop and in initial denial, i gathered it was just my worsening eyes and mind games firing from a different route so i picked it off like i do in my nervous habits and out, it came with a violent twitch like lightning— jagged laughter boomed thereafter; i'm left singed with the sudden abnormality of my time being funny how i never thought i'd get pass my twenties rage and mellow out like silver lining in yellowed locks
if things go south think of it as short-time luck as at least you were aroused with a stroke of harm straying away from clothed risks you thought to give a try and as you are: aching take note of your skin rubbed raw and blistered from all the things you don't want to sound then if you wound up in a bad place shift and consider yourself devout— maybe this will even it all out but then again you already knew this is just the same case of lust and unbridled self hate you ought to give a fuck
i'm finding comfort in honeyed light you once sought and soaked in in all of your days—a slight tinge of sun in your fur—and i thought it funny that you were named after the moon (did you know you now commune with the cats in our neighborhood?) you lay rest in a lush nook so you have a clear view of the skies, be it night or day—and i'll always be there by your side just as you did in all of your lunar phases life is in bloom all around us, darling dog, and i hope you continue to shine your soft, moony light in mine even as you lounge in your eternal sun spot.
Mildred is a sea snail but she lives buried deep in the shifting sand. It keeps her grounded, she jokes — only because she is scared of her load pulling her down in the weightlessness of the ocean. Used to the coarseness of little, tiny pieces of glass and quartz, Mildred sits in her shell and waits in the dark because, sometimes, they reflect the slightest glint of light. That is enough for her to know there is something out there. Then, what? Mildred doesn't care but still, the thought of another day passing comforts her profoundly. One day, the tide has sunk and many creatures are left on the beach. Some are disoriented while others try to navigate towards safety. A crab, covered entirely with wet sand, somehow finds Mildred as it digs through the beach. "Sorry," the crab hurriedly apologizes, "I didn't mean to bother you." Mildred tries to chuckle to make it seem like a trivial thing. "It's okay," she says. "You can burrow next to me." The crab swipes off the sand on each
i've always feared this moment when i'm something i thought i'd never be but here i am, a filler for spaces left unoccupied by the child that's supposed to change the world— anyway, i digress since i am therefore, i must. because there are days of light and warmth, i feel alive and forgiving like there's hope— what there is though is love, bitter and searing hot but something i cannot throw out. it bares me scars i have to live with and to live—I try a lot.
honeysuckle, tangerine— i can't place the colour of your tinted cheeks but they do remind me of lunar phases, waxing crescent pits i came to anticipate when we used to dominate the sensation of heat from within. colour me in like your glittery eyelids; solidify my place on your earth toned lips.
it's as if i was blinded by grey, glinting preciously at times or even a sore to the eyes and frankly, i cannot decide which is which but it does make me wonder about the what ifs since it is not black and white but a defeat to what is definite
my god is in the faces of people i love i see her even in not-so-distant strangers who remind me to slow down and notice the little things in life—the sun hitting your face, the little wind playing with his hair, a cup of coffee as company. i worship my god in ways i only know: breathe in; let the pain wash over me and welcome the tears like old friends i fought against in my younger years. i worship her in the dark as she knows it does not matter. my god—she is indifferent but there like pinkies hooked to a promise of existence, no matter how clammy and cold and shaky. she has to be there.
shame she's a paramour by crimsonletters, literature
Literature
shame she's a paramour
the hardest thing to do has always been to love this self desperately, i reason out to the body that scars are like little notes left behind and would read: here you are, dear should be this vessel for whatever you dream to be except i just collect every entry like unrequited love letters from an admirer across the seas— salt-scented, crashing and waning, and downright dripping as the bottles they sailed in quickly shattered in contact with the skin there are times when i'd plead to the mind to reply in arduous sympathy but i just keep spilling ink over such tender words until the will blackens and in the bleak of it all, a new one is hurled in virginal white and crisp paper—thin lines of prose that sometimes appear bright red as if to highlight an all-consuming sentiment: LOVE ME
amid bleached overgrowth and abandoned curls, i saw a strand of white hair that threw me for a loop and in initial denial, i gathered it was just my worsening eyes and mind games firing from a different route so i picked it off like i do in my nervous habits and out, it came with a violent twitch like lightning— jagged laughter boomed thereafter; i'm left singed with the sudden abnormality of my time being funny how i never thought i'd get pass my twenties rage and mellow out like silver lining in yellowed locks
if things go south think of it as short-time luck as at least you were aroused with a stroke of harm straying away from clothed risks you thought to give a try and as you are: aching take note of your skin rubbed raw and blistered from all the things you don't want to sound then if you wound up in a bad place shift and consider yourself devout— maybe this will even it all out but then again you already knew this is just the same case of lust and unbridled self hate you ought to give a fuck
i'm finding comfort in honeyed light you once sought and soaked in in all of your days—a slight tinge of sun in your fur—and i thought it funny that you were named after the moon (did you know you now commune with the cats in our neighborhood?) you lay rest in a lush nook so you have a clear view of the skies, be it night or day—and i'll always be there by your side just as you did in all of your lunar phases life is in bloom all around us, darling dog, and i hope you continue to shine your soft, moony light in mine even as you lounge in your eternal sun spot.
Mildred is a sea snail but she lives buried deep in the shifting sand. It keeps her grounded, she jokes — only because she is scared of her load pulling her down in the weightlessness of the ocean. Used to the coarseness of little, tiny pieces of glass and quartz, Mildred sits in her shell and waits in the dark because, sometimes, they reflect the slightest glint of light. That is enough for her to know there is something out there. Then, what? Mildred doesn't care but still, the thought of another day passing comforts her profoundly. One day, the tide has sunk and many creatures are left on the beach. Some are disoriented while others try to navigate towards safety. A crab, covered entirely with wet sand, somehow finds Mildred as it digs through the beach. "Sorry," the crab hurriedly apologizes, "I didn't mean to bother you." Mildred tries to chuckle to make it seem like a trivial thing. "It's okay," she says. "You can burrow next to me." The crab swipes off the sand on each
i've always feared this moment when i'm something i thought i'd never be but here i am, a filler for spaces left unoccupied by the child that's supposed to change the world— anyway, i digress since i am therefore, i must. because there are days of light and warmth, i feel alive and forgiving like there's hope— what there is though is love, bitter and searing hot but something i cannot throw out. it bares me scars i have to live with and to live—I try a lot.
honeysuckle, tangerine— i can't place the colour of your tinted cheeks but they do remind me of lunar phases, waxing crescent pits i came to anticipate when we used to dominate the sensation of heat from within. colour me in like your glittery eyelids; solidify my place on your earth toned lips.
it's as if i was blinded by grey, glinting preciously at times or even a sore to the eyes and frankly, i cannot decide which is which but it does make me wonder about the what ifs since it is not black and white but a defeat to what is definite
No one believes in ghosts I said -
no sweet wisps lingering
in the breath between dusk and dawn.
No fragile thinlings pulling at the doors
or making the curtains shimmy
with an uncle’s last breath.
They do not balk at flowers -
lilies and hibiscus clawing the corners,
or ungathered words that spill under doorframes.
But sometimes late at night
I feel the pinch of air -
the scent of ashes dancing in the garden
where she once held court
and the mirrors going dark.
a.
silent, 'neath
surface turbulent,
and aware
of the shipwreck;
an impossible grace
that flickers within eyes
panicked.
b.
she blacked out before she hit the water,
thrown violently overboard by the tempest.
submerged for some seconds before
a gravity reversed, dragging her body
to shore.
c.
where they meet,
eyes locked with flushed cheeks.
she can't believe this bright angelic scene.
silk hand on her throat, she does not scream,
she hopes her thanks radiates
to this being.
d.
myth lips glide closer to her,
humans are such strong reflections
when not armed; belligerent shapes
of water asking for more, for god,
for mercy.
e.
for this pass
last breaths from the hearse by gliitchlord, literature
Literature
last breaths from the hearse
groan out a year, too long to log proper; what a copper-veined god corpse is offered us. healing not possible, non-potable tears in torrents. the abhorrence of the common man, lest be damned the chorus. speak back to us, sickly dais, strung out weakly; mouth the prayers of a calendar cursed. i will die, but you first.
i. if i could take you up in paradise, up above my love, would we see what we're made of? ii. i think, therefore the world spins? you're telling me these endorphins and this warmth in my chest are my own design? who taught me how to ache for the divine? iii. can a dream be satisfied? iv. if i confide in you— let flood my selfish undeserving feelings, if i prove and reprove my dealings with the devil, if i'm truthful— then what are you? it is not my dream to be a sound, especially if i drown. v. out of sight, out of my life, outside of twilight and finite space i might be. vi. vying to keep the curtains lit; i think, therefore the record spins with no clue of the end of it. the repetition is elegant. vii. the repetition is the elephant in the room. you're telling me that you dont feel the same and that this warmth in my chest must also wane? who died and made you god? viii. can a life be satisfied? ix. if only all of my precious plans would come true, my love, could
You remind me of the moon,
he plays games with me too.
He appears and vanishes then, appears again.
He's a beam of something, interrupting my sleep,
Leaving me to forever count sheep.
Crushing Dark and Seeds of Light - Two Collections by BlackBowfin, journal
Crushing Dark and Seeds of Light - Two Collections
Welcome to this Lit Community Block Party Poetry Feature!
We all write for the same/different reasons, just as dark & light both move in very nebulous same/different ways. I put this feature together with two categories in mind: dark and light. As I selected the pieces, re-reading them, I noticed that many could have just as easily been sorted into the other pile... depending on my current mood or the type of day I was having.
Just as a painful ache reminds you that you're alive, a bright hopeful spark can remind you how few and far between they occur. I find comfort in the sense of familiarity I find in darker aching poetry, but als
neither theists nor atheists CAN know by alapip, literature
Literature
neither theists nor atheists CAN know
[the story as perhaps believed by some]
satisfied - He wiped His hands
He shrugged - He strode away
good or bad results - no fault
not His - no more He'll say
just one explosive word - just one
"Evolve!" - His uttered rubric
so began expanding morphing
space - the cosmic fabric
molecules from atoms form
exploding into elements
gravity and light - and dark
and time - allowing all of THIS
as eon's trial came self-aware
new mind supposed a quest of Him
long gone and doing other things
as if He'd never even been?
contriving reasons more than cause
evolving nuance - asking "why?"
that He ever truly was
our grasping need before WE die
all tim
From Where the Sun Sits by BlackBowfin, literature
Literature
From Where the Sun Sits
there are no people left here
and i realize
how off-center from true
our clock spindles turn
how there's no division of time
even remotely, ever-enough
to convey a day
from where the sun sits
and i have to wonder
if beneficent stars
form their own networks
of social celestial tribes
joking that each cultivates
the next great innovator
while the other nurtures
a next wave of mass destruction
and to what they've seen
and all the times they've seen it
i ask, just how far behind the curve
our leanings toward genocide
position us
and their patient silence
hangs only warm light
between our void and our being
where its quiet answer finds us
th