Dejection (NaPoMo 6)

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for the last decade
of my screams,
I have forgotten the hang
of how words
can echo back
to the ossuary-
wherein lies my battered self;
bleeding wet cacophony
on the gravestones
of my suicidal whims…

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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

When my fears died inside my screams.

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the winged imagery
on my fragile eyes
that have seen worst storm
than my recent smoky synopsis,
died at the right curve
where my crinkles
could never reach
to romance.

yet, I tried to powder
too many lines
worth mentioning on my forehead
to make it look weak,
with fewer metaphors-
to grandeur the already dead soliloquy;

but the color on my lips
take the audience away,
the bright show stopper
arch into a killer smile
that have mastered the
skill of creating an enigma
enclosed in marble stilettos

I have walked in angles
that doesn’t bend to solve
an equation
and now that I have resumed
walking after the crash
in metered sonnets,
I have ever since raised the number
of rhinestones
on my jacket;
each a tattoo of violent hurricane
I tamed.

I am sick of building snow castles only to be deflated by your venomous words.

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supposedly the air get punctured
with your wild initiations
of ridiculous jokes;
I will take flight against the final layer of oxygen
to deprive of you that luxury.

since the more, your words slash my skin,
the more I am unable to recuperate
from the deadly mystery
that has surrounded me like a plague.

I can’t request you enough
to not torture me like this,
but the more I say,
the more you laugh at the absurdity;
since your likes have only savored
it’s own venom
that’s sweet to your own mouth.

I am not fit to disentangle
you from my ribcage
but I am sure I can if I am strong enough
to discard you from my lungs;
but somewhere inside
the compassionate me
cries at the possible exertion,

and I wonder… why can’t you see…

The breathing sculpture.

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There she stands in the outer edge corner, shadowed by her comrades, laughing at the joke that was displayed like a medusa head about her pot bellied expression of witless dreams and stained memories that lost its luster with too many sweets.

Once everyone turns to encore the moving articles around them, a tiny colorless melody drips from her eyes that have met and seen many intricate colored metaphors for her lifetime to suck her dry.  She wipes it away without disturbing the graceful black stroke that has outlined her mirror; with the color of her soul.

And she stands, with her hands crossed and legs slightly titled like a moon unsure of how he should come out for the party tonight. Her dress hangs loose and the stretched her already curved impression making her hard to breathe as the hues in front of her laugh; choking her to death.

She dances in the bathroom mirror, squeezing arrhythmic steps into her overloaded heart and the beat just jarred the cacophony even further.

Yet, with her renewed makeup and strength; she rises like a phoenix with a smile to kill soldiers in their best armor. Yet, when alone in the sanctuary of her confinements, she lost all her lustrous rhinestones to the sky who cried with her that night.

Everyone admired the starry skies.

Somehow I miss the spark.

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the dancing orbs in front of me

sing a song, in the rain,

I hear the rat a tap

that resonates through my brain

 

why do I feel like the morning is so far away

when the moon has only come.

 

oh its right,

I have not had my night time caffeine,

that makes me sane

even with my bloodshot eyes.

 

the scandalous moon light

break through the torrent of my saved tears,

and when I find the stars-

I am too late into the abysmal song…

too wasted to even smile

when the moon comes shaking her hands with me.

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I am so drunk with boredom and this is… just at the moment write. laugh with me or say I am foolish but don’t come preaching me I am wrong and worse 🙂 Let’s be friends in praising each other’s weirdness 😉