My Poetry
Write on a doctorate level so F.Scott Fitzgerald
This is it, a no-win situation where the arrows pierce beneath my skin and make amends as a shoulder claws through grit.
My own imagination a result of my infatuation that was truly discovered as my mind is truly distorted and it remains a hardship to find peace.
The same way this article has turned into something you fail to understand is the same way that I felt when the lights fell through me on that stormy winter evening.
With what unusual baroque-filled scenery Cel was inviting me into, I am a madman in a mad no-man’s land for nomads.
Piece me up together and find me in distress as I hate the way your hate-filled anguish rushes through your human skin.
Understand me to numb myself with more coffee and cream as the days numb me to death as a garden filled with rose petals rigmaroles itself from underneath my mother’s skin.
Alright, I get it, the numbers were carved in wood, an illustration of the words that I think not yet spoken but speak aloud as governing principles hate to eat me.
I am black, like the ground beneath the shadow, the window pane peeking into the bright night, the bulbless cave of surrounding sheer melanin and acute philosophical dental.
My pen is an immersion in the seat I sat on, pulling all-nighters, trying to catch up; a financial status that was way beyond what I came from is now putrid.
Sit down and let the sea shores hate to whale or wail, I write because I want to, Sunday mornings bear me witness and the heart of God that owns me is a remnant of the sickness that stole and behold, the call of my mother, a ring-tone with a picture of my dad in the photo as he smiled at me in a wedding suit.
Is it worth it? I dream about the day she will hold my hand as we walk in the park, her long blonde hair, a wise man once said, let it be, for it comes when it becomes a mirror of your attachment; she should be able to see the heart and be real with you.
How can two worlds hate each other like that? My demise is an ill-discovery of the time I behold her again in a blue hoodie, looking good. I lose my senses, but I get back again when I know now that I should bear me witness, be clear, or be square.
My poetry
Your words were beautifully painted, raw too. Thank you for sharing.
I could really feel the intensity in this piece. It feels like everything is moving so fast, like you’re trying to make sense of everything as it’s happening. That moment with your mum and the photo of your dad… it slowed everything down.
I really liked your painting too. The expression feels like it’s holding things in, especially around the mouth and eyes. And the Superman sign… it almost feels like someone who’s meant to be strong, but is carrying something underneath.
You let a lot come through here… and it took courage to share this. Keep going 💛