Natalia Vodianova by Peter Lindbergh

Something is missing in the pit of my stomach. I feel the charcoal staircase rupturing, then filling in the cracks of the blank moon. Devastation. Delusion. I see my blue arms extended to the poles of molestation, a sudden resolution of black and white vintage movies. My kitchen sink evaporates somewhere. Devastation.

The monotony of this body screams till my black walls fall, a sunken truth in this concoction of empty bowls and folded curtain stretches. Elasticity. The hands are empty, crooked, decayed.

Oh yes, there is an eclipse appearing on my black braids, swinging swiftly like my lips did once to lick that butter kiss. Appearances and traits are cellophane clinging to my white forehead. The lights appear bound, seized. Stagnate.

I pray and pray to wither the molten frames and fragments. Catharsis. Purification.

The cheek tint once filled the blue sky, the blue water, with sheets of pure cotton. Fidelity loops sinking onto the carvings of my feet. Parachuting in the snow. That was then.

For now, I see the mockery of time sitting onto my sharp laps, like a reservoir or a womb, gazing as I decay and fall and shatter and shatter into ashes.



Like fresh breaths and cinnamon aroma
I wrapped your almond curve of palms,
preserving it into my oceanic eyes
Monsoon lilies. Iterative Petrichors.
I swallowed your words,an Orion of kisses

Only to know you will chop the slices of apple,
bit by bit
Smudging the sweetness, smudging the rhythms,
smudging my dreams.



    A death star dissects my white bare skin

    And lanterns of judgments evolve like the zombies of oblivious sand

    The peppermint of the next hour circulate in my iris,

    Unconsolidated reverie of prayers,

    asking the same coherent word.

    Promises, a fallen star, destruction

    all are in symmetry if one leaves other stays

    Inch by inch I grow old, I see old music swaying on my freckled palms

    Day by day, something occurs.

    Numbness, lust, numbness. A prostitute cries and seduce.

    I revolve around your milky lie, willing and wishing.

    Thistles and apple grow across my ceilings, and the moment is a serenity.

    I count my blood day and night, counting back and forth

    to detect a sacrosanct lie, to detect a dead emotion

    Illusions, Temple-bells, deaths, births, Bible verse,

    I savour the ink and spray a molecule of each on my strawberry neck,

    flavours and index of fortune float in the melancholic ebb.

    The winter winds throw tantrums and my ex-lovers burn in disgust,

    burning half lit cigarettes onto my fallen dying lips, making my body into ash.

    Chopping and chopping the undone mistakes,

    Probing into fathoms of undissolved wax of recurring spindle collision.

    ©My Valiant Soul

    Scissors and Thorns

    image credits- Pinterest

    Penumbra, walls of construction, destruction
    black coherent cathartic squalid eyes
    numb crooked vertebrae floating
    in the liquid air, my body becomes a coffin.
    Enfeeble basket of black roses resides in my cracking eyes.

    I take a pause, and visit the old creaking house,
    haunted and mahogany drooling
    over my burning piquant skin,
    I feel a co-existence between
    the supernatural and the living
    Dents of loose threads of hope
    circulate, biting my skin, biting my tongue,
    biting my amorphous vapours of sick solitude.

    I want to weep today, scarring my acidic eye
    the hypocrisy, the swollen balls of abhorrence scar me.
    I am a vexatious taboo.
    How is sustenance a need?
    Even the sky dies at night.
    I evaporate, disintegrate, amalgamate
    only to be a broken piece of an elongated lie.

    ©My Valiant Soul

    Things I crave



    Serge Ivanoff
    image credits- Pinterest


    I sit beneath this concave moonlit and put my ink on my naked body tonight.
    I count the loses and the victories I have had, the outnumbered lips of kisses and the bottles of venom. I draw a map to the moon, I draw stars to my breasts.
    I crave the branches of this grapevine romancing with the blueberries.
    I crave my frosty lips sucking the zeal out of the chilled beer.

    This place, this soft breeze benedicts the wisdom. It teaches about multiplication and deduction. A topology of human indeed is dust. The slick fingers often do not regenerate and the countless stars are only to make your skin sullen and eyes full of baked memories. Winters are the unsaid words from your beautiful carbon mouth. Thousands of Aurora skin glitter around your geometrical waist.

    I crave the poetry of your eyes. I crave the potion, religion, purity from your skin. I crave words. I crave flowers dancing on a hillside.
    I crave horrendous veracity from your writings.

    The world shall seem mystical, where the peacocks might sing the 80’s song. Hilarious gloomy nights often teach you the truth of your life. “Nothing is forever”

    I crave the smell of daffodils. I crave the sultry nights of desiccated romance from my veins and the continuous burning smell of my cigars.
    I crave wisdom, I crave wilderness.

    ©My Valiant Soul


    Dark- Tea-Tales

    Related image
    image credits- Mary Cassatt

    Come sit, have a cup of the black tea, I prepared.
    The story is long for your forlorn heart would claim the pain in a moment or two.
    The chain I talk today, oh, sorrow is diabolical.
    So frugal, barbarous.
    The inside of my heart left the colonies of fairy dust as if.
    As I cross my wrist, hear the crackle of the bone.

    The crackle of my solitude.
    lit in my eyes,
    the burning glaze you see,
    the dilapidating music you hear,
    come sit, have another cup of the black tea.
    The ruckus runs through my dry skin, joining dots on my skin,
    creating shambles like a dead corpse
    creating paradox.
    The arms extend late nights to grab a bottle of comfort, you see?
    The comfort — a meadow, oh, the sweet meadow.
    Peace like the ravishing Orchids, white nature.
    Yes, the soft feather stating, gorgeous wings, infinite joyous tales to discover.
    Oh, you finished the tea, wish a refill?
    For this soul can say the darkest of the chronicles,
    like the flowing wishful, the evergreen Ganges.

    ©My Valiant Soul


    If I were a shadow.

    Through the slices of segmented desire
    Where the circumference of my peevish skin expands,
    I inhale into the tiny molecules that flourish these numb walls,
    Mending a crack,
    With a mist of romance,
    Point of lust, point of dainty smell of you.
    I walk through the ruptures of placcid walls enunciating your presence,
    And I peel the rim of this cucumber time zone
    Where my legs fall in the abyss of surreal moments of you,
    Like clicking of needles, rainwater puddle upon my iris,
    Now beaming
    As if I were a shadow of your dream.
    A dream worth swallowing the darkness,
    Just to produce the moon’s composure, a debonair companion.





    Image result for artists emotional paintings
    image credits- Pinterest


    Beyond this cracking wall, in the horizon of that empty dusk,
    I walk in the blues of protrusion of my floral cheeks
    my mind scratched, my heart stabbed
    A partition of a falling star and constellation of stars
    a Meraki of a paper boat, if you know
    I walk in unknown thorns, small, oval, sweet and bitter
    if bitterly waves reside in this moment, I shall conjure my body
    with naked dust
    And that dust will still hurt my iris,
    for my eyes has seen the deep red scar

    © My Valiant Soul

    Burning Lamps


    image credits- Pinterest


    Tonight, I have smoked my favourite cigarettes
    with curtains drifted apart, I sit here with a glass of my taste
    And as this lamp burn, I burn like the melting wax
    And I begin to bleed, I bleed on my paper with hot wax on my cold skin
    Tonight, the moon is drunk too, the stars are churning my pain
    they see me collapsing, they see me drowning
    My pen sees it too. It scribbles my inner verses like wounds
    scorching like the Thar dessert
    My fingers still write, my mouth spits vexatious taste
    A taste of my forlorn tale.
    I burn my pen, I burn my pen
    I slit the paper, then fold it again
    only to make a paper again,
    And with this clandestine night, I have my companion.
    So I burn along with this burning lamp.

    ©My Valiant Soul


    Dark howl

    I am no summer breeze. Neither I am a warm blanket to provide that yearning, surreal warmth.
    My own soul is shivering, heart sees cracks here and there, Irrevocable my tears are on this pillow.
    Fierce, ghost-like shadows perching on my knee joints,
    It hurts. It hurts my paradise dreams.
    And you say I am ignorant about the moon and its dark howl.

    For I am a Woman.

    Tan suave y lleno de arte con pequeños olores esparcidos que captas de pronto durando un segundo. Three Rivers Deep (book series).
    image credits-Pinterest

     I am a protrusion of rose,
    hiding the black spot of the moon in my valour
    that rises white dandelions on your skin.
    My finger bones creak my virtues,
    giving a red shade to the once grey shadow
    for I am a Woman, invincible like mammoth stars,
    I seek, I wander through the rim of sidewalks
    conjuring in roles only unspeakable of.
    I walk, I swim, I conquer, I am a swollen mass of expectations
    I carve sunflowers, lavender on my forehead,
    a thorn indeed wrapped in the interiors of my lips,
    my sun-baked lips,
    still the succulent lips
    oh! My lips.
    And then my heart speaks a language of ripe fruits,
    yellow pages, white pages all inside
    burning a canopy of emotions
    Decaying, nurturing, flourishing.
    for I am a woman, invincible like mammoth stars.


    The black petals
    On my backbone
    Fluttering mysteries
    Like stupefied
    Vintage buildings
    Resemble your devouring thoughts,
    That cling to
    My mouth
    My backbone
    My forehead
    My cheekbones and
    My heart
    In a insepid mundane pattern
    Of a dead leaf.