Practice

In stalled exhaling vents
Of stagnant airs ment
To shred transparent sheets,
The host stuffed of fleets
Of encumbered flaking ink
Seeks parchment to sink
The same release it once
Sailed in currents of parses.
Which end will a steward
Choose to push towards,
Which armour? Dipped in gold polished,
Patinaed bronze rusting, or cold
Dusted metals collected for smelting,
Reforged in translucent discarded molting’s.
Fluttering molds of castings casted away
From irregular seams. An array
Of clouds drift slowly in redundancies.
Stifled inhalations of repugnancies
Halt the motions of exploration
Of facing disfigured formations
In installments
In lineaments
Of practice.

I Shouldn’t Have Read

Seriously, how,
Was she able to spew words
So, beautifully, next
To each other to describe
The feeling of each
Emotion.

At every turn
There she stood
Radiating in her cosmic glory.
Billows of nebulaic clouds
Shrouds her mysteriously;
Touching almost, if not, every aching rumination,
Mixing flavored words to such delectable perfection.

I shouldn’t have read her writing
Again.

#Regret

Her

Long after the force of recall
Fades
It lays embedded in the banks
Of the subconscious.

The mother has withered away
But her eggs
Spawn infant remnants
Of her DNA.
Occasionally found in excrements
After consumption.

Too small to notice
But upon closer observation
You see
Them squirm
In the crevices
Of shit.

I wish
I never
Read
Her
Poetry.

But I would not have
Grown to love
Writing
As much as I do
If I had never met her.

Probably

His Words

Everytime he pushed me
Off the cliffs of sanity
He’d be there to catch me
Before I shattered.

This time
I’m lost in desperation
As stark realisations
Creep out of my esophagus,
They linger in my lungs,
As I feel pressure,
Build in my cheeks,
Behind my eye lids,
Then it burns.

Then I dream
Of that fantasy parallel
Where he would have had an opinion
On the things I’ve written.
What would he have thought
About my progress
As a writer.

Though
We had not personally
Exchanged a word
Prior

Still, his words
Live in my own.

A Jewel

A scale filled with grains of truth
Tip from one side
To another.
Balance is achieved
After subsequently accumulated
Evidence piles on each side.

But this scale
Has an observer
That has desires
He wants one side
To tip over the other.

Another tiny eroded seashell
A miniscule piece of quartz
The observer
In a frantic frenzy
Manically inspects
Each grain
Hoping to find
A unicorn.

Fully Understand

The idea of having someone watch
While they fully understand
What it is
That is going on
Frightens me.

Face them.
Face those fears.
I tell myself.
But I can’t seem to do it.

This is the best I can do
This is the only way
I know how to
Have peace of mind
So that he doesn’t have to see
That lost girl
Stuck in never ending time.

It stops me from writing freely
Isn’t that enough reason to leave
Or am I supposed to freeze
Even though it feels like
Something is coming after me.