Demons are upon us
who rapes our soul with a dirty thrust
steals your innocent and turns it into lust
American horror story, watch it, it's a must.
I'm feeling poetic.
Click here to suck my status message softly.
Life is like a camera:
Just focus on what's important,
capture the good times,
develop from the negatives,
and if things don't turn out
– take another shot
Empty Hands on White Sheets
I will die on a bed that isn't familiar
on a night just before something
good would have finally happened to me.
I will hold nothing.
A hand to hold belongs to a friend
too preoccupied with surgeries and prescriptions.
His hand, mere minutes away, will close around
a beer mug or wineglass when he goes home
after the last patient leaves his office.
Even the bottle, emptied of Ambien tablets,
will slip from the sheets to nestle somewhere
I have never looked, a crevice beneath the bed.
The bottle’s cap will remain with its
declaration of 'child safe' face-up
on the dresser for nobody to decipher.
But, perhaps, it is something nobody ought to read
because even though I will die,
I will never want to fix my childish mistakes,
to surrender the comforts of drug and drink.
I think I will die on a day that is not a Saturday
because today is Saturday,
and too many drinks are had on nights like these
to sit alone and think of dying.
I will not have said or written anything
to another human being on my day of death.
My silence will be the only hint
of where and when I choose to expire.
To myself, I would have died very slowly.
To others, my death might be abrupt.
Hooks, Temperature, Time
It is best to sit sewing in the attic of a house that nobody lives in anymore. In the stillness of a space without a clock, I can patch holes, weaving silence into my clothes. The holes will be where my most animated body parts pressed outward from within: the knees, the toes, the elbows. I will sit and sew, wondering when I became this old.
This wondering, the thorns of time, the catching of years in sagging flesh, it all happens too often. It should not be that my tales are never told, their original versions escaping even from I who have lived through them, the keeper they were entrusted to. Their colors fade, their backgrounds vanish under years of sunlight until, one day, I lay dying and realize that the story has gone before it has ever been known. This is not the kind of story I can live with. Its twists are dark, ugly, assymetrical.
Being unable to live with my stories, I will perish. And, for now, I can believe that the death-mask I will wear to my grave will be the spectacles of wisdom I neglected in life. My funeral pyre will be very beautiful, but I will not know who lit that fire.
Outside, the sudden cold will hound me through my coat as sweat beads on my skin. I will recognize nothing but the night's chill. A clammy hand will encircle my wrist and I will feel warmest in the embrace of that person I do not know.
Looking Back Through the Water
December 21, 2012
A day the world is supposed to end again.
The clouds bring not fire, but rain.
The restaurant owner speaks
the same way he would
in every other pho place,
on any other day.
On the greasy table before me,
in this off-white Asian restaurant,
is some clean water
within a dirty glass.
Rivulets glisten outside on the windowpanes,
clean water falling on our dirty landscape.
I hardly heard a thing my friend told me
while we ate,
nor could I feel
the bite of raw onion.
My eyes followed the particles
in my glass,
all that remained of an unloved animal
or a forgotten plant.
Friday - May 24, 2002
I was walking in the rain the day before my birthday.
Droplets the size of peas pelted me
for two hours as I walked home,
savoring the moss-scented air,
with no umbrella hovering over me
like the gray thunderclouds,
no hood clinging to my jacket
like a thousand tiny rivers.
I watched the droplets dive into puddles,
disappearing into a natural mirror but
I knew they were still somehow there
beyond my reflection's face.
Would it be possible to remove even
a single raindrop from those puddles
and have it stay the same?
Sunday - July 23, 1994
I nearly drowned at the beach.
My arms thrashed the water as though I was
attempting to discipline the unruly sea.
A 5-year-old boy. An ageless sea.
The brown water glittered from beneath,
countless grains of sand
each sinking slower than me.
The waves kept sweeping in toward land,
yet I inched steadily further from the shore.
My head bobbed, despite my struggling,
carried easily by the riptide,
my weight and vigor devoid of meaning,
a forgotten beach ball, a fallen coconut, a loose buoy.
Each time my ears were above the water
I only heard people laughing further and further away.
It is not the erosion of the body by years but of the conscience by knowing. People only exist until they finally know they are too old to live. To mute the feel of words, simply use a hand like an umbrella repelling slanted rain. Avert your eyes from the rude blanket of sky. If it isn't seen being spoken, being made, one will not really know it with a damaging intimacy. One cannot be stupefied by its startling clarity. Their barbs, their intentions, cannot catch inside me, beneath my skin, where the scabbiest calluses hide the most delicate membranes.
Here is a case of give-and-take. The sky we ignore is a perpetual emptiness, a bottomless void of light that greets me daily to tell me I am full no matter how much nothingness I drink in. Things that are hollow seek to fill their emptiness. Things that are full seek to expel their contents. A snail I may never see crawls now like the mail is delivered or water boils or the days until a birthday are counted; it goes nowhere if looked at but if it isn't, speeds through an express highway in a godforsaken corner of the universe.
I like to think that the cast-iron anvil of my being falls onto another the millisecond their eyes meet mine. A heavy curse, I am someone else's responsibility when I am noticed. I like to look through or at people to share what can't be converted into sound. You know, the way a foreign language sounds sad-clown-whimsical and loses itself drunk in translation, its elegance ruined, a polished gem enthusiastically hewn by an amateur into a crude shape easier for his fat fingers to grasp. This is how I know the soul is made immobile by the weight of death: meaning is lost when entombed within the incantation of letters, the banished realm of speakable words.
Bus Trip to Yellowstone
I switched off my phone and stuffed $2000 into my pocket, more than enough cash to survive for a week. Bad reception would be my excuse when I returned home, a red suitcase filled with soiled clothing dragging behind me. Until I met the only other solitary traveler, I had been silent, reading for days and taking pictures of scenery that I would never look at again. My clumsy greeting to Alice was the only indication of what I wished to tell her about myself: I am my loneliest around familiar people and need them gone to love them. Alice bought dinner for me twice in Salt Lake City. Each time, my steak did not arrive at my desired doneness while hers was perfect. But, because I ate with her, I felt as though it didn’t matter. When I was home again, I did not often think of her. Our meeting left little in my memory, like a faint shape on a white wall where a painting or portrait used to hang. Sometimes, at school, I can hear strangers calling her name, but there are too many people with her name.
I like prose poetry and I've been starting to like it more than 'traditional' poetry. The paragraph formatting of some poems here are all intentional.
Conjuring up the past is not remembering; it is replacing.
I like your poems, they are beautiful.
Little oceans in the sky,
and stars that glisten amongst the surf,
the pinned-up waves that crash along,
of rusted purple and grey.
Quiet isles tucked away.
I enjoyed yours as well. I think everyone that posted has written terrific poems.
Colors, like words;
Sounds I can see, like thoughts;
A distinction I should have made a long time ago-
I can't even remember.
BANG BANG BANG
I mostly write dark poetry but from time to time I come up with other forms. Such as this one:
A Short Ode To Rain
I love to listen the sound of the rain
The quaint pitter patter on my window pain
A gentle spritz is all I need
to put my sleepy mind at ease
Watching the droplets stream all around
Smiling as I hear that magical sound
The resulting water pattern now a piece of art
Rain has imprinted upon my heart
Also this poem that some may find disturbing.
Walking down the street one day
was mother, Margaret, Luke and May
skipping to the corner shop
the shoes beating with a clippety clop
When mother cried out with a scream
'May keep up, stop making a scene'
while attention was on sister May
Luke wondered off to play
with his bouncy ball in his pocket
Luke began to bounce and knock it
As he noticed his mother turn the street
Luke tried to keep up with his feet
but poor Luke crossed the road with too much haste
and a car came along at a speeding pace
the driver was not paying attention
there was no way of prevention
the car hit Luke and away did speed
as poor little Luke laid and bleed
Curious May hearing such a noise
thought it was the snapping of some toys
she turned around and took a few paces
before she saw Luke and started saying her graces
A few seconds later mother was by her side
standing and looking at Luke trying to hide May's eyes
Margaret standing just behind started to scream
this must all be nothing more than a terrible dream
Quickly the paramedics came
but much too late and with the car to blame
for poor little Luke had lost his life
never will he grow and find a wife
his life was taken much too soon
all because of a speeding car that afternoon
Just came up with this after being inspired to write by everyone else's work. I'm a bit unsure if it needs the first stanza.
My heart is full of new grass,
sweet and crushed,
mixed with the scent
of last year's dead things.
I am following,
as the rain follows,
an old trail, well worn,
rivulets joining to a flood,
tearing down doubts and redoubts,
baring hidden rock.
What is old, is new
in the new sun.
And what is new is old,
roots trailing deep in the soil,
nourished by centuries.
We are reborn in the same ways,
freshened by the dawn,
eternal in our inconstancy,
with our feet in the soft earth
and our eyes on the stars.
Time is a great flood
and I want myself
and the earth -
all bejeweled with dew,
in one moment only,
to be absolute and true.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
I have several sets of works, here are the links to my poetry and to my songs:
Here is a link to a silly short story (and will eventually have other posts with anime/manga/video game reviews and such):
Here is a link to a MATURE Content Story that I am working on (Not finished):
well that's all of my works for now, I hope you like and enjoy my writing, any helpful criticism and such will be appreciated, and will help motivate me to write more
Justice Runs In Crimson Rivers...
The Coffee Machine
What is darkness of the night but barren light?
Darker yet is the blackness of the simmer
Of Cocoa beans that sit in bags, aging in, aging out.
The steaming water that boils over the machine,
Fragrant tears that drip, drip, drip,
Dark as coal,
Heavy, and bitter as the cold night.
A dash of nutty vanilla; or is it mocha?
Meaningless matters when we sip, sip, sip.
We feel the rousing of the sleepy soul
From every hint of the scalding heat.
Dreary and long is the road,
And heavy is the burden of the load.
They call it the trial of the finals.
It is the rite of passage,
The baptism of fire learning youths struggle towards.
The gaze of the morning light does no welcome.
When Apollo rides forth on his burning chariot,
The great endeavor is rewarded.
The defeated lay fallen; asleep,
Trudging through the muck of careless bliss.
The rest, beaten and tired
Steadfast yet weary;
Unto your hands our waking will, we bestow,
O humble coffee machine.
Put a cap on, and bam, you got yourself a funny man.
Whispers travelled the corridors
anxiety filled the air,
and there in the corner she lay
as fine as a porcelain
with skin as cold as ice.
Nobody dared to approach
but anyone could see,
the pills that lay nestled
within the palm of her hand.
And in the midst of all the tension
the silence seemed to overwhelm,
those who looked on wanted to run
they wanted to forget
because there in the corner she lay
as fine as a porcelain,
with a smile as serene as the clouds.
Sunlight comes shining through the window.
Someone shouts my name outside the door.
I groggily get up.
I brush my teeth.
And start my day with breakfast.
The same old thing, everyday.
The same old tasks, everyday.
Some people find it boring.
Others seek to escape.
Others wish for excitement.
I watch the news, and see some get their wish.
Once I envied them.
But now I am wiser.
Now I see how they might wish again.
How they wish for the normal that I and many others take for granted.
I write stories because I love to.
It does hurt to see those stale eyes pale.
Those eyes that shone in bedside tales.
And tragically, the heart bellows to see, his warmth
tied so narrowly. Aye, the king no eye will see,
Except for who that one will be,
‘til he is dead. But those hidden tons
of ridden lead, tarried over on a sleepless night,
will forever hold the strings of a nation tight.
I wrote this poem last year after I started to feel things in my relationship fall apart. Things didn't work out, but I remember how I felt, and this poem still holds true for me.
What am I supposed to do
When my heart that beats for you
Feels this distance and begins to break at the struggle?
My breath is caught in my lungs,
Fire like the stars, the light from the skies,
Burning deep within my chest.
Your kisses are sweet relief;
The soft rain in the eye of the storm.
Calming to the bones, cold liquid courage,
And my feet can leave this floor,
Lost in you…
Sweet dreams my darling,
For even if tonight we are apart, the moon is our hope,
Our reflection to the Earth, the sun, the seas.
Moving with this tide, as all things do flow,
We find each other again, across a world so set in its ways.
My love burns for you, my love,
As do the coals that light this cold night,
Turning this wood into delicate ash.
We are caught in this breeze; caught in the rush
Of the moon, the skies and my heart
That does beat for you…
I think I need more asian friends :/
- by me, Olive Bassey
Girls are sugar and spice and everything nice, so bite me.
I LOVE ANIME POEM
roses are red
pikachus are yellow
watching anime on my bed,
thinkin Near or Mello?
Goku is anime's ionic hero
Naruto is a spirited young fellow.
School days gets a zero!
For which i can not say
however higurashi slays more in 1 day.
Luffy has me smiling
while harhuhi's debt is piling
in which Ichigo is still scowling...
i suck at poems
this is true...
but believe i am an anime fan
just like u.
without L the world would just be a word
I can see the golden stars while they Light up the night sky
made my choice and I say the past goodbye
But you would stay in my heart forever and always
even we have separate too fast our ways
I think it was the right time to say you goodbye
and now I'm ready for a new start, ready to learn how to fly
People come and go on our Path
a true friend shall always come back
that friend will stay in our heart and my head
Yesterday it was making me sad but I know tomorrow
that tears can fade and will give me a smile instead of sorrow
Written by me; Madelyn
I'm back from vacation, it was very nice