Blog Archives

Vibrant Red and Gorgeous

When the words ‘I love you’
are announced from between those lips
of yours, so vibrant red and gorgeous,
dripping with untamed passion,
I realize all the beauty in the universe
exists only at your feet, and where you stand
is the origin of much gracefulness,
which I long to travel through.

There is little left in me
to fend against the attractive qualities
of your physique and mind,
your personality, wit and charm,
being aspects of your eternal beauty
I long to hold within these arms of mine,
whilst I run my fingers through your hair.

Your voice makes love to mine,
exposing my weaknesses
every moment in which we meet,
my selfish desire to have you all to myself
being revealed so easily,
I cannot help but fault my heart
for falling so unconditionally for you.

I am no liar in love,
as I lie semi-conscious
in the endless field of desire,
bleeding on the bladed petals
of the many roses I longed to secure
for you alone. I am tempted by no other
in the harsh existence of romance,
waiting on your call like a meth addict,
awaiting his next fix.

I secretly cry when experiencing evenings alone,
needing, rather than wanting,
to have your body pressed against my own,
the lack of caution presented to me
in my younger years, scaffolding the courageous lust
I produce daily, like sweat, eagerly anticipating,
with anxiety strained limbs, the moment
I meet your Heavenly gaze once more.

With your bosom, pressed agaisnt my own,
the breath billowing through your lungs
existing similarly to mine, as we lie upon my mattress,
seething after hours of enjoyment.
Your flesh is heartier than any sun,
warming my unwavering conviction on freezing nights,
when icicles threatened to appear upon my person.
I cannot confirm if our relationship
is like the others happening right now,
but I can guarantee, I won’t regret having loved you,
even if you leave, for every memory is a banquet,
that ought to be gorged eternally.

Why the Words are Written

Fine art is a conduit of untapped beauty
many willingly risk their existence for.

So how much strain must I allow
upon my mortal life, to ensure a line
of poetry is deserving of reality,
amongst the works of other poets
orbiting around my own?

The solar system
of creativity is vast and limitless,
and how else to ensure remembrance
is cast upon the shadows presented by the words
I use, than to make certain the stain
of forgetfulness is never granted opportunity.

But to freely write this point of opinion,
barely begins to touch the truth of circumstance,
actions requiring a mandatory place,
else the promise I make myself
will be turned into transgressionary failure.

What muse, would stem the tides of bleak ambition,
in replace for tears of happiness, and make the hope
I hide inside myself, become as real as breathing?

For years, I have hidden the weakness
I am unfortunate to hold inside my chest,
but this woman of inspiration would set free
the treasures, like a wren from a cage,
and make all that I have swallowed into me
an exterior force for the ears, and if this melody
is proven accurate, then perhaps I ought to write
for the length of time she remains by my side.

In Case Tomorrow Never Arrives

Although it is excruciating to know
the honor of seeing your nude form
will not be mine tonight, I give prefererence
to seeing an attire clinging to your flesh,
your body bathed in wool and cotton
fabrics, for I know in these moments,
the mesmerizing longing I try to sweep aside,
comes not from the insatiably gripping
urge to touch you, but because of the beauty
you exude from simply being yourself.
I am immune to much it would surely seem,
but you, are certainly not one of them,
and it should be known by your heart
how I do feel, in case tomorrow never arrives.
You are a flare, struggling against
the competitive light of the sun,
but with me beside you, never will your light
cease to blossom, and its faltering sway
will be abolished, every time my fingers
wrap themselves around yours, in an embrace
unlike any ever recorded before.

Until Our Connection is Complete

There are many lessons to be learned in the lines that I produce,
the most eager, or well respected of all, being the reason
that once motivated my hand to write indecipherable images
upon the page. I write poetry for the woman my heart shall not obtain,
in the hopes these feelings shall melt, for a poem
is a non-essential piece of literature
when you already have the woman of your fantasies.

I dare myself to commit a retaliatory strike against
all that would oppress me so, with frequent wonder
in my veins: how many reincarnations must I sacrifice
to live, at least beside you, for even the most fleeting of moments?
You were never stolen away by the wind,
and due to this, I cannot accept the unacceptable
tragedy that engaged my voice, prohibiting me from wallowing
in the agony that flourishes like a field of daffodils beneath the morn.

Why does fate mock me so with its cruel hand,
leading me astray, for I have longed, so greedily,
to have you to myself, but never is the beauty
of this occurrence unlocked to me,
rather, the gateway is banished beyond my reach,
thus, I am left behind.

I cannot help but internalize every moment beneath the dim twilight
that never ceases in its astounding blight, which ought to be
so legendary by now. Never has a pain existed quite like this,
and awakening from this failed rapture, to drink bliss
instead of agony from the oil well I have inadvertently tapped,
would give me pause to consider astounding happiness.

Divine phosphorescence exudes from the pores of my heart,
struck by the fiery hand of longing and temptation.
You’re a courier, at least I wish you were, transporting these fair feelings of mine
towards your soul, bewildering me always
with your magnificence. Every good memory I own
took place around you, and if you were a flower,
you would be a rose, your thorns cutting into me
with every touch, ensnaring me like barbed wire,
until our connection is complete.

A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/bH46vKqZLts Thanks for reading!

The Reason Why I Breathe

Here I stand, in the midst of a maelstrom,
for I’m a poet. I don’t get paid, I get ignored.
The images I produce in exchange for feelings,
have the littlest affect on those I long to care for most.
This fact is one that should have already been absorbed
into my bloodstream, after all, I was not born for happy endings.
I was however born to love. I have been blessed
with several opportunities, but none
have ever eventuated into everlasting circumstances.

There was a time, I opened up my mouth
to speak with a beautiful stranger,
but I did not say a word; not a cry, not a whisper,
not a sound; the silhouette of silent ambiance
deafening my hopeful dreams.
Instead of terraforming my confidence
into a state of leadership, I retreated into myself,
wishing for vain circumstances that would not arrive.

I am many things, and alone is one of them;
the apex of my existence, without chance of ever leaving.
In your eyes however, I witness the potential for a future,
and I cannot help but fight secure
the beauty of this paradise. It is in my mind
that I propose the incidents which lead toward our meeting,
concurring on the day I celebrate my birth.
On days before this one, and all those that come after,
I carry with me the unspoilt desire to obtain a kiss,
my arms however trembling like a tumbleweed in the wind
at the thought of touching you, whilst I writhe
before your eyes like an ant, beneath your magnifying glass,
burning not only from the outside in, but from the inside out.

Beneath your luminous tranquility my heart has prospered,
and though the light of purest nature warms my skin,
you are the embers of the ignition fluid in my soul,
warming my insides. You are the sun in my sky,
serenading me wholeheartedly with your light.
No words would be needed from my lips to convey such feeling,
for the rhythm of my heart when pressed against your ear,
announces all that which words could barely comprehend.

In a hundred years, or more, the warmth of your hands
in mine shall remain like volcanic ash dribbling across my fingers.
There will be no pain, and no conflict the two of us
cannot resolve, for as long as we have each other,
no obstacle, however large, could dare oppose
the heroism of my eternal desire, to live harmoniously at your side.
I would wish for any words exchanged between us
to resonate inside your heart, like the chorus
of an outstanding symphony, the never ending echo
reducing all will power you ever had agaisnt romance,
to enlighten you with the honesty of my emotive announcement:

I cannot image living my life without you. I would wish
to receive a response, both positive and pure,
for every soul deserves to have their heart acknowledged.
When the world has forgotten that I even am alive,
my only wish is for you to kindly remind my life
why I am still breathing, and why, I will breathe again tomorrow.

Eclipse

Forgive me,
if my lips find yours,
for this puckered flesh
of mine, searches
for a continuously
kissable romance.

Mirror my heart
with your good beauty,
and please
eclipse my soul;
burn my retina
of all foul thoughts
and leave only room
for compassionate intent
towards both you
and your smile.

Make certain
I never regret
these moments vast,
and even when your hair
does not brush against mine,
and your hands
are absent for me to hold,
a part of you
beats within my decisions,
and I am always happier
for this.

Despite any distance
that may come between
these depths of emotions,
the sun shines
upon the both of us,
and in it, our energy
is transferred across
the light, shot like an arrow
into our chests,
for never are we truly far away.

A Tale of Longing

The star that fell a few nights before,
bathed in the cruelest malice, promised
you to me upon its rays of glistening,
temperate light, only to corrupt my senses
with its scandalous deceit, and scold
the marrow of my bones to the epicenter
of a heart, bludgeoned and broken
and worn, and now deceased.
Despite differences in culture, race
and religious ideology, by evening,
we stand beneath the fall of moonlight,
but by day, the sun stretches its warm glaze
upon the tendrils of our flesh,
and when pain crushes and saddens
the emotions buried beneath the surface,
we, all of us, can inevitably break
the same. I stand before this page
without a blessed thought, having broken
like a weather beaten branch, caught
in the updraft of a rain storm cascading
across my external organs, for you,
young lady, are the ache in my chest
when absent from my vision,
and despite the knowledge, gifted to me
in sacrificial blood, tied together
in a bow of hair belonging to the damsel
I shall never hope to groom, I can dream
like anyone else. I can imagine to myself
a night in which you tentatively remove
your articles of clothing, which fall
gently to the surface of the ground
like the peel of an orange, while I stand,
torn between serenading my eyes
with the sight of your blossoming fluidity,
admiring every voluptuous curvature
of your vibrant flesh, or standing watch,
eyes elsewhere, acquiring the stance
of a provisionally lone guardian,
longing, for all that I do now.

Livid Lunacy

A learned lunacy juggles
with the template of the self,
examining its imperfections
with a glazed look of contemplation.
Those few who have forfeited
existence, now isolated
on an uncharted archipelago,
with me at the stern of the corvette
navigating the inland passages
towards the bastard destination.
Schemed into the offices
of unfair dismissal, I have longed
for great workmanship,
but am instead granted
hard labor at the expense
of my grovelling frame.
Is this a deliberate ploy
to keep me out of their classless
empire perhaps? To have me run
amok across halfwit desires,
or is this a life bequeathed
by my soul upon myself
until the true destination is revealed?

I am not entirely sure what I am illustrating in this poem. A couple of lines came to me, and when writing, the rest simply fell into place. Thanks for reading!

A Crushingly Timeless Passion

I was told once it is okay to cry,
but when the fluid fell
from the aqueducts around my irises,
I was met with scorn and discontent
for showering those few socialities
around me with the weeping
of pained emotion. Criminalistic
circumstances were the charges
brought forth upon my broken passions,
scattered like an unsolved jigsaw
around the foundations of a life
left floundering in the endless atmosphere
of failed accomplishment
when the crippling strike was struck,
like a deal of vile occurrence
behind the veil of life, I wailed
with an intense suffering, who slips
into the empty void between us
and touches the timeless entity
that is our combined affection,
attempting to dare shatter
that which we have so cautiously
and frequently built upon? There was no response
to these few words, left unheeded,
and before I could announce
an outburst of like intensity, I found myself
spluttering beneath the weight of failure
and a doubt I could never escape from.

Life’s Grateful Announcement

It is not always one is touched
by the flare of feelings vast,
and quite unending, and to encapsulate,
that which has bloomed so astonishingly
with a word, or few, is a hope
I cannot have, nor grasp.
Not all things, or people, of great unimaginable beauty,
may be named or written,
and with a breath, so fleeting,
I bid acceptance of the fate
that graces me, and yet I look away,
wishing I could prove myself a writer,
and capture the poetry of my environments.

I am grateful for my life,
even if it is but a moment,
however, much like a cup of coffee,
all must be devoured, and all must eventually conclude.
I do not wish to write of how I die,
but, if you may honor me, I would summarise
how I did live, from occasions of much mature love,
where oxygen was fewer on passion filled nights
of highs greater still than ecstasy, sweat pouring
across my face like the run off from a waterfall,
to the lowest points of my existence,
when the touch of absence was filled
by graceless depressing sorrow, consuming
my every whim and need until even a step forward
felt like an unending sprint.

But am I in the moments that I have listed here,
or are occurrences little more than items
on a shelf to remember me by? Who is this person
that writes this less than fabled tale, and who
shall I be tomorrow, or the day after,
when words of my time upon this Earth
are not presented onto those few readerships
who place an ear to this aching voice of mine,
hoarse from so much writing, and listen
ever so closely to what I dare announce?