Category: Poetry

You’ll find the poems I write here.

Peach

Peaches are tasty as fuck.

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Shadows linger and playfully sway along the sidewalks,
I stare at them while eating my peach.

What a specific fruit to be eating,
And what a specific day to be clearing,
My mind with the company of shadows.

Peaches are tasty I must say,
But the horror that is looming and oozing about
Is rather something ominous without a shred of doubt.

The shadows are there, and I feel them close,
I consume my peach rather swiftly,
I detect the anomalies within the air
And all of a sudden, my peach falls, descending quickly
Right down towards the ground.

It’s a shame I have to admit
That my peach is gone and will never exist,
It was a special peach, I loved it.
What a chagrin it is,
And I plead you never experience this.

Darn you shadows
Unlawfully floating about.
You linger through and through
With all this clout…

But what about my peach I say! That’s important too.
Everything is a clout chaser nowadays,
Even you shadows, even you…

Wrinkles

Wonderful experience.

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Her wrinkles shine,

with every frown she takes.

An older woman they said,

but make no mistake,

like fine wine,

wrinkles full of life.

Face full of living,

glistening and shining,

marks of an existence,

time spent on the surface,

without any resistance,

I approach her.

I stare down into her soul,

and her into mine,

youth and age,

bundled up into a shrine,

beams erupting from the glares,

as we continue to stare,

down the rabbit hole.

I will never forget her frowns,

her sighs,

and especially her wrinkles.

Rain

The rain is nice — sometimes.

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Whispering gently into my ear,

your words brought me satisfaction.

I pondered day in and day out

about what they might mean.

Satisfaction wasn’t enough,

and no matter how rough

the situation was,

I lingered upon the threads of the promises made.

I have only but memories of utterances you rained down upon me.

They kept me safe.

Even when the airwaves strike my face,

and grace of rain hails down from space,

all I can see,

feel,

and touch,

are the words of unholy contentment.

A pure delight.

Isolation

Isolation is not fun.

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Surrounded by white giant walls that always seem to be there,

I feel safe.

There’s also my closet, face first towards me, that stares me down to sleep, every single night.

The brownish color of the wood always manages to keep me sheltered, and safe from harm,

But the horror is always looming, and the comfort isn’t always around, and the beautiful color won’t be there to always hold my arm.

This makes me realize that I’m all alone, and it is pretty sad, but I try to stay positive, and I never get mad.

However the loneliness gets intense, and it tangles me in its web of isolation.

It’s okay though, I can always reminsice of the older times, where I had a hint or a notion, of longing to belong to someone, anyone.

I don’t feel safe, and I don’t think I will be for long.

All I can do is hope for a chime, signaling enough passage of time, to a point where I won’t be all alone.

I wish it is not something set in stone.

Isolation kills.

Imagination

Having a strong imagination sucks sometimes.

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It’s always a whisper how she passes through slowly.

She looks at me, every single time, clawing and crawling towards the surface of comfort, surely, but again slowly.

I see her, gazing and staring at what could be, at what will never be. It’s disappointing sometimes, but life usually is.

I know sometimes that I should’ve tried harder, or maybe pushed further, but talking is easy and doing isn’t breezy.

She approaches me, gets close, and all of a sudden I realize how my imagination is just the frustration, of a man so willing to imagine.

She never really knew I was there, and I don’t find that not one bit rare. You know, all I ever wanted from a stare, was something I thought could be there.

Yet again, I was wrong.

My imagination never ceases to play tricks on me, and that’s alright. At least I can still imagine, which is fair, but life sometimes is truly fucking unfair.

Fool

Some things will never change.

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The dripping stains I see them clear,
with every passing wave,
I stay still and feel,
the tears falling onto my shirt.
They plummet with a heaviness unseen,
unwitnessed and unfelt before.
Like the rain in October,
slightly felt and clearly seen.

With the foolishness of a fool
I tread heavily into maze,
full of despair and agony,
burning like indistinguishable fuel.
My heart clasped with a cumbersome
ashamed feeling of a daze.
I feel sick in my stomach
as I never fail to amaze,
the belligerent fool in me.

The same mistakes over and over again.
I get disgusted with myself sometimes,
from the pathetic, finicky heart of mine,
that never seems to give me any time,
to process things,
and tread with refrain.

I fall in love too easily,
and I will always remain a fool.
Someone please help me,
to find the fucking cure.

The Day I Knew It Will Never Be (First Poem I Wrote).

Memories.

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WHOA what a throwback. I was digging around through the books I own, and out fell a piece of paper written on it the first poem I ever wrote. I remember I was maybe in the tenth grade, and it was about a girl, and let’s just say, things were quite messy. This poem made me realize that writing and expressing yourself, no matter the outcome, can be truly therapeutic. 

 

The day I knew it will never be,
Jasmine, I thought she would set me free.
My heart beating faster, waiting for a reply…
It was devastating, I vowed never again to try.

Overwhelmed with emotions I almost died,
never anticipating such a wry.
The girl you loved and dreamed about, day and night
never shared the same love for you,
what a surprise.

Tears filled up my eyes, my heart was broken,
every expectation turned out to be
a hallucination.
I was madly, insanely, deeply in love
and I linger…
But it will never be.

Knowing it will never be, I wait for the night,
hoping to see her in my dreams,
hoping it will turn into reality.
The night is a long way away,
and day dreams are stale, obsolete.
I dream…
But I knew it will never be.

Jasmine, I know you’ll be happy someday.
You’ll shine in the sky for your lover one day…
But why not shine for me, Jasmine?

Oh yeah I forgot.

It will never be.

 

 

Skulls and Bones.

Poor children.

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Children laying down,
broken, exposed and frail beyond comprehension.

Shadows strike within the glass,
reflecting the reflections of the tiny,
fragile souls,
up towards the sky.

They lay,
defeated, consumed
lost in the mystery of deception,
haunted beings,
screaming with no perception
of what happens next.

Locked and bound
to their everlasting demise.
The only memory left of them,
the one reflected towards the heavens,
where heaven is nowhere to be reached.

Their hands tangled into one another,
with the footsteps getting closer,
they pray to the heavens.

They pray to the only thing that can save them,
yet the prey,
the prey devours them inside the house of heaven.
The Children shrieking their confessions,
shouting at the haunted curse,
that took their childhood away.

The curse approaches them,
noises made like the sound of skulls
rattling and signaling,
the voices of a null, beast-like,
and unforgiving savage.

The clock is ticking
and the Children pray,
as the prey gets closer.

 

Skulls and bones.

Everywhere.

Spring

I hate this time of year.

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The spring is ending,
bending all in it’s way.
Summer on the horizon
with disappointment and regret,
with failure stacked up,
like an organized stack of hay
embedded within my being.

The sorrow, the sorrow,
nothing can be said about it.
It hits while you’re on your way,
towards nothing.

That’s the effect of springtime on me.
I’m going towards the unknown,
or better yet,
the unknown is chasing me.

Fuck you spring,
I sincerely mean that.

Circles

Round and round she goes.

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I could hear the noise
coming from a near distance.

Frantic breathing,
sweat trickling down her forehead,
whirling and running
into a synchronous of perfection.

Hopes and fears,
and realizations of a life lost,
with nothing dear,
a hefty price and cost.

The screaming and the circles,
all what’s left now.

The only perfection she managed,
a soul abused and damaged,
was the spirals she forged as she wept,
the cries she shouted with neglect.