poetry

The voice

Have you ever washed your face like a duck?
standing infront of the mirror, that speaks an insane story about you?
a swamp of retractable wounds.
It’s not about the dirt I carry,
this emptiness sits and gawks at me, like a mother.

I often watch the pattern of breakouts on my cheeks.
Is this how I shall die, slowly like a mole?
Ah, even the moon often casts a pneumonic sound on chest,
and the heaviness is inexplicable.
Salmon- skinned my arms, speaks a tale of afternoon,
a silver silhouette tale of remorse.
the day when I evaporated and never came back.
I am afraid though of my shadow,
afraid of my own body organs.
These lips may slip like Thames
and eyes can be dissolved, mortified.

/ Nobody in this room knows survival/
words are winter to these humans.
They are cold, obliterate.

Today, I do not care.
I do not care for petrified unction.

In hummus, fingers dipped in maniac voice
and mind speaking something demonic,
I might be hopeless as they say.
Call me elastic, a warped box.

Yes,I lack moisture.
A tune to drink and fly.
That’s the voice of a woman.
A clinging kryptonite photo frame.


poetry

My Poetry is Dark

 

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Tonight, I shall rip my mind
bifurcating like thin veins
for I see hot wax resting
on my body,
for I am lips and lips of shooting fire
tonight, I shall cry
and vomit my parched pain
like shattered poppies
lying in the coffin
for dark is my home
dark is my poetry
the inside of poetry is me,
and I am dark as Satan’s eye.

©My Valiant Soul


poetry

Dark-deep-cage.

I hear screech in my abdominal muscle

Lurking deep in my vanity of thoughts

My pillow talks the tales of absorbed tears

The white cover unravelling the bites, the thorns of forlorn chants

The crooked walls of my space shall direct the cave in my eyes

Deep, dark, lost all at once

My tongue feels the pinch as wound inflicted on a tree

I know the cuts, mincing of cherry tomato

Plucking of leaves, trimming the bush

Removing filth, shaking dust

Piling the dead flowers

Even if they wish to dip into the brutality of a numb cracked flooring of a dead house.

And I lie there, tongue-tied,

Stroking arrows of horror, the array of thunderbolts uptight on my white thighs

Watching it turn blue, darker blue and absurdly

All black.

poetry

A faded star

 

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Ventilation bursts my shout outside the hole

the frontal lobe of pain puts the pain on

the clamour  my dark pink lipstick

the soil declining to wake me up

Tug of war.

A lie in my pharynx.

the knuckles of my hand

like the cover of a coconut from my backyard

Hard yet soft

Veracity lies in the mouth of wise old man

I hear, the squawk, tearing off the beetle leaf

in the innermost layer of my earlobe

the faint smell of roses striking  off

the underlying scintillating pieces of star

Explosions I hear,

Darkening the repetitions, sketching my  faded outline

with the black soil, no fertility I apprehend.