How have you been all?
Even though I write my poetry and words and keep on doing so many various projects to help the writing community and people in general
why is there a sudden urge to relax a lot? I agree I need to take a pause. I believe in slow yet productive growth but somehow my mind is getting tired to easily due to all the works I am managing and no its not the stress that I have. It's something else.
Anyway, I wrote a short poem about how I feel.
The air burns,
with a punctured sniff.
the breeze sits on my chest
counting my eyelids, backwards
and the body swells up
without a notion of cold blossoms.
The air petrifies my nail,
the tears stink, often.
It's the forehead,
it's the arm
or is it my lips that hallucinates?
A cobweb, so brutal on my chin
blooming like a flower.
What do I call it now?
The season of spring or a particle of dust.
I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.
I announce I am rather happy
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic
But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.
Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.
blank as a curve
blank as a quiet sky
blank as a hawk
blank a curvature on apex
blank as a haunted corridor.
blank as a fallen sky
blank as a single eye
blank as a numb wound.
Do you see such patterns of absolute pauses?
You are as blank as a naked word
baffled each day by air’s uncertainity.
Pain surrounds my tongue in different ways
through a concave tesseract, if you understand.
Pain separates my body from my head
for my head would then splinter,
circling through bare-skinned hands.
My limbs cry each night thinking of dried grief,
the air is not religious.
A needle pointing south and a needle pointing at my mulberry sigh.
Pain divides my grief often
Division like hatching death like a stone,
the wet color on the edge of the skirt.
In the wrinkle of my face (that I assume)
a shadow sets like a drunkard, a drunkard thick & erected.
i tell myself to eliminate this pain,
the ways are simple.
You run, you absorb, you disappear
or you sit and talk to the empty noise of your room.
The ways are symbiotic,
like the palette of my old vintage books,
the ways are nasty too.
A haystack of doomed earth sits on my elbow.
I say this is my pain, maybe or bigger.
I do not know my griefs, my despair thoroughly
and so I walk to a death Institue in my sleeping hours at night.
I perform an operation there
with the struggle of my warm body.
A warm mess.
I bow my head and think “the weather won’t get me”.
I shall stay safe here.
A frequent dancing step of memory
so unique and feverish,
an operation of melodious thunderstorms
circulating/ watching a gluey stare
What is that white noise?
A stare, a semantic of laughter.
A cacophony of strange chemicals.
The molten rhythm of steroid heart.
I am blue today, dark blue.
nothing that remains inside excites me,
I am too numb,
with a shred of melted saint touch still wobbling,
Nothing that sits here stays.
A nullified happening of life.
a soft satin kiss
it happened before and it happened today,
i lay on the sides of my kitchen sink
thinking the arrival and departure of my husband,
arrival of his velvet mouth that utters a chain of lantern.
he is adorable, like the moon.
he has his own mood, often.
the purgatory of life resides in this cobweb.
things ascend and descend in a ghoulish manner.
a blue-knitted shawl on the cold chest.
things around me pamper me,
this lone time also pampers me,
i walk and create art in the garden,
in am vacant – small, terrace with broken chipped walls,
something happened there maybe.
a spectral wire of corrosive shade and memory.
a twitch that shakes me.
often i am speechless,
the kind of attack when your fingers
won’t fit in your mouth.
eyes shut and small.
that’s another kind of suicide.
mondays and Tuesdays are my favorites,
i watch my body decaying until Sunday comes,
and i am a piece of supine tied at the block of a tree.
so i am alive,
i cling to the nakedness of moment like a toddler to a mother.
the sky to apathetic rain,
the embalming breeze to the leaves…
something rhetoric and oblivious.
at the end of the day,
i weep, laugh, take pause, clap and sip it all.
my eye behaves in a torrential tobacco sniff.
you would burn in waters,
if you could feel my skin now.
smudged dose of love, insipid flaky fingers
this arm hurts now from resurrecting my soul,
streams of rivers lynching my soft neck.
i long for love and loneliness altogether
cleaved moon dripping honey on pale skin.
you kept me breaking, like twings and forests.
sliced ounce of crooked lemon zest, burning.
it kept me hurting yet alive, you see.
i could feel the faulty facets
leaking sideways of my languid arms.
topsy turvy my tongue, this moment.
i am moth, sucking glaze from marigold,
camouflaging dust & bitter taste of you, perhaps.
this is me, this is survival now.
swallowing all that I see.
a starlight stuck to my mind, to my elongated staircase neck, atom meeting atom. a whirlpool of petals and memories, clasped between my chin, a thin map stitched there. the map of insanity, cities squirming. a doused eye of temperature unstable, this eye, a tenuous, watery limpid eye. it sees autumn, winters and spring like nothing mattered at all.
” I am terrified by the dark thing that sleeps in me”- Sylvia Plath
Cluttered, torrential nights of stone sinking throat,a huge titanic of this time,
my sheets turning into white ghost,
a ghost of you,
my words that were never said.
You, the lantern of chipped nights,
A mesh of annihilation.
You come and perch on my dreams, like satan a missing subsisting eye or a lip. Time kills me before you make me dark, dark as my old rusty windowsill,
with a dying flaky dream.
this thing inhuman wraps my skin of lemon peels
my skin of words and reverie.
my darling skin…
( continuous screams of inexplicable pain, now/)