Blemished (NaPoMo 5)

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~~

my limbs fold in
itself,
merging together
to form a self-carved
stone;
atop pebbles
thrown at me,
as I tried to crawl
through abyss of
echoing conflicts.

time swayed
relentlessly
forming monochrome
in a heartbeat;
yet,
I remained as a stigma
amidst stipples.

~~

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Aplomb (NaPoMo 4)

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sleep…
gentle wind
upon battered eyelashes
whispered;

and I heeded,
murmuring sad tales
in the afterglow
of a storm-
that ripped  me
into branches of poetry;
flowered
with petals of semblance
between
fragility and agility.

I knew not how to wake
from the fragrance
within.

 

 

Spurious (NaPoMo 2)

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smoldering solitude
between the distance
of my winged eyes,
creates hazardous aura-
as I paint
charcoal stains
down my chin
to this cheap sequenced dress.

the tequila swab
did nothing to stop
the birds
from rupturing my ribcages.

I end up
open palmed
in the solitude of
a distorted imagery.

Chimera (NaPoMo 1)

 

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I barely notice
the heaving grey clouds
in between my pictorial
representation-
of silver monasteries,
sitting shoulder to shoulder
in pride;
waiting for heaven
to click a flash
and capture them all in one
big fake picture.

and l, I smile…
waiting for the meadows to
invigorate me

Woman

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intuition
catastrophic reverberation
falling syllables
moving highways

her words are lost
and
found in hurricanes,

her silence deepens
the moment
her heart withdraws

you may not realize
how hard she tries
to remain in the shadows
and not let her scars shine

you may not understand
how hard her lips quiver
how fast her fingers move
to take down the traitorous tears

grace
lipsticks stains
more
mac contour

love
left out loud
hate
halted in the right signs

you have to look
the right way
to see her inner shine

you have to capture
the right angle
to see her perfect smile

she is a woman
a warrior
a girl

she is a lady
a sweetheart
a girl

she is woman
a weak bud
strong stem

she is me
and her
and us
it’s I
if you don’t mind…

Look me in the eye…

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I have forgotten
the hang of writing poetry
as I master my craft
in silencing vowels from breaking out
and taming restless hurricanes in my eyes.

the crumbs dripping from my fingers
form a trail behind my
lethargic pen,
crafting shapes on stained papers,
and the leftover residue
mocks my game
as I crawl behind ellipses.

black petals sprouts
between the cracks in similes,
but I stop at no cost
plastering fake metaphors
at every distinguished rest stops
to mask miseries.

and if yet you are unable to decipher
the depth in the folds of my stare
that ricochet on empty barrels;
you simply speak words
that holds no feelings,
since my words have stopped forming sentences
to ears that hold a smile
behind compassion.