a dreamer

a dreamer 2d

apollo

lute and lyre, pluck my strings to sing your tune
let your gentle voice cascade and fill the air
your fingers strum, your talent a boon
each word flowing off your tongue like a prayer

enchanted by the divine grace of your harp
let slackened strings release a crystalline sound
your gaze pierces the mundane, like arrows it is sharp
listening to the magic of your notes, we are forever interwound

in a chariot across the sky, i look down to see you, my muse
stuck longing for you, is this my tragedy?
untouchable in your beauty, you are a vision my heart cannot deny
your radiance blinds me, my love and sorrow fuse.
to lose you to mortal means is fate’s cruel melody
for i am bound to heaven, while you on earth fly
your music soothes, yet i cannot bear this reality

i hear you now in the song of the birds, a divine epiphany
your music tugs at the strings of my sunlight heart like a bewitching symphony

a dreamer Sep 17

diagnosis of a venom breather

hands occupied with blessings can’t hold any grudges
i live vicariously through the cuts on my knuckles
i wear a vision of war, recorded tears, and crocodile scales
glass embedded in my fists, wings made of scrap metal
in the screen, imps grin
hyenas dig the flesh of innocents out of their fangs
i hate the laughter of walking bonemeal, recanting their wicked speeches
inside my eyes are shards of a righteous sword
the sun breathes beauty, beauty that can not pierce my hide
flowers in my esophagus, but thorns are only what i speak
they cut the roof of my mouth on the way out, and blood tattoos my teeth
disgust is written all over her face; she only wants flowers, petals that smell of peace and love
she bleeds nectar, and her tears are a finite resource, a tragedy
my breath is eternal
war-torn knives are all i can muster, and my scales are caked with justice
i speak to birds, and they melt, leaving only steaming flesh and shattered bones
i am a venom breather, and my cure is tasting the heart of hate

a dreamer Aug 18

a fundamentalist’s favorite pornstar

he stumbled upon her one day, a perverted revelation
drawn to her
like the devil to sin
what stood out about her
he could see divinity in the arch of her back
that her moans permeated in his mind like scripture
verses of joy
conflicted, he knew lust was something not to partake in
in the pews next to families praying for success
he finds himself praying for her love
his phone still on, still replaying the scene

after all mary magdalene was a *******
his mary was there, anointing Jesus' feet
she only existed in the screen’s glow
a place where she lived in the same breath as the church
kneeling next to the altar, piercings poking through a nun’s habit
rosary wrapped around the curve of her thigh
a shaky breath, quivering body, a heavenly grip
a little death whispers in his ear,
bound to find pleasures in anything but yourself
he ignores the voice
he’s experiencing euphoria with her
hoping his prayer lasts longer this time

a dreamer Aug 9

witches

tie a strand to a stick
my hair, dark brown
curse my name
call a sacrament to my demise
hide in the corners of my dreams
inside your blood are voices
the birds chirp hymns
a fox’s carcass covers your eyes
blood stars line your chest
a thorn, red stains
break the stick
but dont break my heart
cast a spell on me
spit into a fire
vines of your soul grip my heart
splinters in my chambers
perform rituals in my ribcage
dance upon the stars, fly to the trees
i will watch you, stained on your lips

a dreamer Jul 31

why does praying feel like begging

a prayer i would often repeat to myself as a child was-
“God, please give me the strength to face my problems”
praying was touted as this universal solution to any issue
that you could ask for anything and if God was merciful enough
and you have done good
He will grant it to you
i never felt like i was worthy to ask God for anything specific
that if i told Him i wanted this new video game coming out
my hands would melt touching my ps2 controller
because i put such a financial burden on my parents
so instead, i asked for strength
vague, but can be applied everywhere
what strength would a child need to face their problems?
that prayer stuck with me, i never ask God for anything
other than hope, something i’ve lost
what is an ant to a purported eternal light casting eternal shadows?
asking for material things, in a spiritual fashion
ironic isn't it?
prayer is encouraged
don’t ask for too much
if you ask for that one girl, who looks at you with a supernova in her eyes
and a winter’s mist in her heart, to love you back
you will be ungrateful, and smote
God isn’t a love potion, foolish of you to assume she will bring you any kind of happiness anyways
turned to dust,
inhaled into the sky
no need for strength anymore

i still repeat the prayer to this day
the problems remain, change form, grow, decay, are born anew
but the strength, i don’t think i’ve found it

a dreamer Jul 29

i think i was born guilty

babies cry when they’re born,
it's a good thing actually
counterintuitive to what we would assume
a sign they’re healthy and ready for the world
my father likes to joke and say “they cry because they realize they’re born into an evil world”
there was a seed inside of me
festering, eating away at the insides of my brain
a hoarse, childish voice admonishing me because of my guilt
any mistake i would do, amplified tenfold
the inventor of the mirror poisoned my heart
my reflection embodied the hoarse voice, and everything was my fault
a tragedy, a family attacked and robbed in their homes by intruders
why did i picture myself as the victim and the perpetrator
i think i was ****** up
at a lake as a child, i threw a rock into the empty water
a head surfaced, and the rock struck them
they still don’t know it was me
an accident really, but its like i took the rock, with droplets of blood on it
stains that even the lake can’t remove
and i swallowed it whole
cutting my insides as it resided in my stomach
my acid isn’t strong enough to disintegrate it
i cried alot as a child, so much so that i think i have no more tears left
an empty reservoir, if i could cry blood i would
just to have that same sensation again, that comfort
i didn’t believe that i was deserving of good things
my life, permeated by these thoughts
maybe i have an obsession with martyrs
everyone wants their life to mean something
maybe i want to have a cause so badly, to make up for some sin
some trouble i got into as a fetus
whatever you want to call it, bad karma, a reincarnated fascist dictator
i owe it to my soul, to my spirit, and to myself as a child
maybe i’ll sacrifice myself to destroy every mirror on earth
only in ponds would you be able to see yourself
hoarse voices are muted in water.

a dreamer Jul 28

first and last journal entry of a failed poet

if i am the pen, she is the ink
if i am a lion, she is my fangs;
she hated my metaphors
how many different ways could i write what she meant to me?
i think she got sick of being compared to the moon
or how she moves my heart like waves crashing onto rocks
there are no more words in my tongue that i can use to describe what i feel for her
she sees it as a curse
i don’t know what metaphor i could write, to ask her to come back to me
instead of writing my next magnum opus, something that could grab the attention of even the sleepiest soul
i stare at this rectangular screen, looking at the last message i sent her
a poem, not my strongest work
a last ditch effort, that if she read it, she’d jump through the screen
i’d kiss her hands, and she wouldn’t see the strain of my fingers, with words etched on my fingertips
but instead it sits there, collecting dust
like some antique, in a shop where no words live (there's another metaphor)
i left her with this
if i am the poet, you will always be the words
i think she hated my work, so the fate i resigned to her, of being my muse
maybe there was no worser fate than this
my ego sits on my forearms, and my love resides on my back
hunched, writing, crying, feeling, seething
i like to say i’m a failed poet
the person i wrote for, doesn’t think about me anymore
now my work is hollow, a facsimile of my thoughts
incoherent , rambling
if you are still reading this
i cherish and love you truly, and i wish that i was able to capture even a fraction of your smile onto paper
i like to say i’m a failed poet, i’ve run out of thoughts now