Author's Note: I recently found my collection of poetry and thought I would share it with you. Warning: Written when the writer was obviously not in her proper mind. I will also be writing a little background story to the story.
East Meets South, Fire Meets Air
The sheets are our waves,
The ceiling, our sky,
and the bed is our earth
lay with me, sweetness, within these forgotten
confines
where everything is nothing,
and nothing is everything.
Between sheets,
entwined bodies:
outside, it is an illusion, whilst within,
the idiots of the world
crumble spineless
against our love.
I took a self-study workshop in writing from a book called Writing the Waves sometime in 2010. It was an amazing way to force those creative juices out, and this is one of the stuff I came up with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I lie in gutters,
my stomach rumbling,
like the beat of the drums-
like the beat of the hands
upon my empty head, and my empty head
upon the pavement-
like my head upon the pavement,
beneath the endless night,
and the endless beat-
-of the hand upon my head,
my head upon my bed,
the deadened body in my bed –
like my body on the road,
my bed that is the road,
the body sleeps upon my bed-
sleeping in the beat
of the never ending night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Late Days of July
The gaping hole
from which unmerciful Fate ripped
my heart from,
bleeds,
silently weeps -
a contrast to bitter
unshed tears
which the traitorous midnight
coaxed from my
fragile will.
And images of butterfly persist
across the purple heaven,
blotting shadow
against these lonely clouds,
above the silver sea
and the shore,
where the remnants
of our promise
remain unfulfilled wishes
upon the sand.
From this pen, a ballad,
a spell of elegy
to elegant, unyielding
passionate
discord.
My emptiness seeks
your touch of fire
and ice,
My hands grasping
deathly winds
for the sound of your voice.
My pain lies dormant,
the calm before the unforgiving storm...
And my love, it lies forgotten.
Of course, a poetry collection I come up with would not be complete without a heartbreak poem. This one was written sometime in 2007.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A
Stream of Consciousness
The insignificant murmur and
the subtle growl
of empty stomachs puncture
the otherwise sleepy silence.
A cacophony of shameless noise
accompanies my suppressed longing
to empty my turned guts
upon the chapped wooden floor.
Licking lips and twiddling hands,
pen darting across dirty paper.
Time crawls like ants slowly burning
under a summer sun,
upon walls which scream of captured,
unrefined art.
An artist loses himself in his
brightly colored world,
perhaps inspired by Dali’s melted clocks
upon withered trees.
Music blares, enclosed by the
ears,
a soft protest to the lazy seconds.
Conversations flutter like disgruntled faeries
across an imbroglio of a universe
of searing heat, and numbing cold.
Until everything cease, like the drone
of a fly swatted by bittersweet
death.
Dismissed.
Once upon a time during class, I got bored.
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