There are endless reflections
Of my former selves
Versions of truth
Like previous versions
Of an operating system
That no one likes to think about
What was once cutting edge
Is now outdated
From the Princess’s Prologue
Alone in her travels throughout the night
Was a lass whose skin so pure and light
Born of royal blood when snow lay fresh
Same day her father been laid to rest
Paradise has not been lost, but found again,
In time, in every sleeping second, Weathered by the grinding of sin’s teeth
We are exiled, to paradise.
I have seen the inch of skin that reeks at me
There's a place for you,
But I refuse to believe
I can forgive you
For your disgusting atrocities.
Wicked storms arise to strike the masses
The cost of doing nothing causes
Eulogy to a player piano
played only by mice.
Strings twang untuned
as little ones scurry
from A to B flat.
The dusky sonata
of wood-chip cherubs
with wormy tails.
Nestled between keys
dotted with dro...
Her blouse is livid with loose ends of string
intertwined like feasting garden-worms.
That pompous scuffed tortoise-shell button
swinging from a sagging polyester lapel.
That feathered coffee stain fr...
In the edges of darkness, a fire blazes. A masking color of orange consuming the skies. Black clouds blot out the moon and stars. It spreads farther and farther, collapsing wood and bushes, consuming ...
The withered planes of aged papyrus read like shallow pools of cryptic braille.
Alleviating the curiosity of tentative fingertips, bringing history to budding flesh.
Oil paintings with grease-splotch ...
It was his birth right, what was rightfully his, it seems His spot on the throne his father once sat upon It took more than a birth right to make him King though It was his strength, his courage
Walls coloured custard with faded silk stripes,
edges eaten into threads by starving insects.
Crying from dank,
the deafening drips of porous pipes.
Billowing drapes of drowsy ...
The colossal pillars of chipped marble
Stand together like jilted lovers,
Sharing secrets in stiffness,
With fractures of glory,
And the great richness of loss,
We may fi...
She cradled the brush twixt her fore and thumb
Where she graphed a waltz on a woven cloth;
A headland conjured with verdurous swaths
O’erlooked the ocean that miles plumbed. The painter’s hand that eb...
The flames that burn inside my heart,
Are the same as the fires that dwell in hell.
Burning me from inside out.
It hurts so bad, It burns so hot.
Why can't this hate stop?
The flames lick my hatred,
Tea bags still soaking
in chipped porcelain,
pecking at cracks,
and caressing stains
that linger in molars.
Finely ground specs,
those murky lovers
swim in slow circles,
Let me start this off by saying I am a person who doesn’t like poetry all that much. Sure, at this point in my life, I can be mature and respect poetry as a sophisticated craft of literature, but back...
It is often said that a good story is timeless, but the best literature can also provide an insight into the time and place in which it was created, specifically its values and attitudes. The period s...
What weakness is there,
Such of flesh and man,
Binding both mind and meat,
To drag senses mad.
To drive sad a heart,
And leave regret as repose.
Of truth, the world lays bare,
Many a perfect feast,
When the winding sheet of history coils
Stiffly around handrail and chimney stack,
I’ll be reminded it’s no longer enough
To write poetry, to build monuments
From toothed stanzas to the splintering eg...