Recurrence

Excrusius

 

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


 

 

 

 

 

 

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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


 

My skin has another skin

 

Image result for sad paintings
image credits- Suzan Neellis

 

 

I am anxious like the painting of Mona Lisa

Curated with my own jitters,

There is a platter of loss, rumbling loud inside

where the web of splinters corrode my skin

And you may see my second skin,

for pain is the language of skin.

The mouth of a cave is that invincible spot of the moon

so, the mouth resides inside my blood.

Where the droolings of grey skies touch my bare shoulder

screeching. ( the inside is the rupture of seeds, with no desire of flowers)

Total Darkness. Cold distilled blue.

Yet, the poetry of inside soul speaks an

array of hopeful rainbows.

© 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,
blazing
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.

Scars

 

 

 

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.