My poetry is my religion.
restlessness spits the wall of death in hunger & pain. my body rotates like a disc surrendered sound of music. tip toed stigma, a struggle each day insects sound screeches, this wooden brain, or an empty space of lovemaking. call it anything. say it names, zig-zag platonic voids plastic belly button games. sick voice of head. call it anything. a flower holds the world, its a silhouette speaking of a grave. ____________________________________ ©Mvs
Tropical horizons of numb walls,
Wherein lies my dead mind, impotent veins.
Inside of my skins bursts, spelling the blank point
where there is no moss, where there is no sapphire
Sustenance to soliloquy dreams dipped in blank paints
Who am I?
A corpse of redundant hopes, a pool of mosquitoes, tortoise eye.
Stammering lips gather a thorn, to poke my swollen window,
who shall remember? Who shall smother?
It’s all blank.
©My Valiant Soul
Rubbing my fragile hands over my soiled neck,
I felt a vibration from the crooked radio’s tune
The twirls of flaccid rays and patterns of black and white
always speak the sweet dazzling truth.
My mouth says the violent words as my eyes perch on illusion.
This world makes me sick and sick till my heart spills
collision, evaporation, disappearance.
I am a convex tube of dying lotus,
sinking on the ebb of dark air. I am dark, yet beautiful.
Palpitations of bleeding words, conjure my virgin existence.
I hear your cactus voice, deciphering and churning my own blessings
I am sick today. I am no one today for my poetry even rests today.
©My Valiant Soul
I sit here absorbing my own vault tears, sobbing the dirt that was under my blanket. Moist blankets and roses crawl like an uncanny mist all over my face and crack me here on my nostrils, on my thighs that now lie like a drunk teenager amidst the forbidden land, a forest. Earlier this morning, I made myself a cup of coffee thinking how to cope up the last day’s bruises and to survive once again, but darn to my coffee. The taste is still peculiar and hideous.
I sit in the sunshine later to enhance my beautiful body like a golden shimmer and to hide the darkness, back to back I chant Sylvia’s Plath “ you do not do, you do not do” and sync its voice with my unheard screams. I gaze at this perforated Universe, trying to understand the images real and the ones still haunting me. I think of my mother, I think of my sister, I think of my Husband, my eyes still lost between the latent lights and the iniquity of unheard footsteps kicking inside my mind.
I am a quark, motionless and Vintage sulking the gravity of your eyes and iterating its resonance in my mind again and again. Thumping. Striking. I fight and flap as I hear your murmurings dropping like a dirt on my vermilion hair strands. You know how I wanted to kill your sibling, Time. desiccating its thunder and burying the dark blood veins into a pit of abstract mannequins. Oh, time…you are a Devil perhaps.
©MVS
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
I have selfish bruises on my white index finger, Quisling pack of cigarettes yet my favourite lover, I have pain carved around my parched mouth, Thorns and roses bloom in my inner thigh I have seen death with open eye An extension of chewed electrons of despair assiduous diamond of shaved flower, This moment is death, this moment is an Odious ball of catharsis. ©My Valiant Soul
In the alcoholic eyes of mine,
I choked on your divine name
knitting dreams of your dreary arms
I kissed my own grave.
Sordid, papable walks confine me now
Cold hemisphere, stifle my pharynx.
What more I desire from the bleeding roses of lost hope?
I am back in my own dirt now.
Clustered and a parasite of cries.
©My Valiant Soul
choke the cool breeze into my harsh reality
for I belong to the bricks of the wall
the screech of my language, wrapped in the tongue of anatomy
producing dark curtains, throttling small rooms
the lines of my palms remain a false alarm
haywire sky, haywire mind
I could hear my slow breaths now disappearing like the cold drizzle
insomnia.
Insensate, dead.
Lost in the murky woods, cutting my own throat
chopping my own sanguine state
chop, chop, chop, chop
And then lying as dark, pale, dust.
-MYVALIANTSOUL
Tongues of slacking fingers turn
the yellow pages of the book.
Between letters lies space, space of empty bowl
the shadow, the lamp, the oil,
without sunset, the vessel and substance.
Dried petals of last night’s flower
forgot the meadow of my mouth.
The breeze did not speak my name.
lost in the trivial oblivion
Even the sunset refused to caress my soul.
©My Valiant Soul
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.
