Lost lust
Devoid of feeling.
Heart of rust
Introverted shielding.

Alone within the pink walls
I hold my baby angel arrow.
Watching as it slowly falls
Disappearing without a shadow.

Sand courses through veins
Broken glass making headway.
Never holding the intimate reins
A fey world of soft shallow gray.

Striding into a (space for two) rendezvous.
Screaming out loud: I love me too.

Shallow sunlight
Reaching grey areas.
Sporting berating frowns
And horrid, gaunt eyes.

Peeking
into black corners.
Turbulent emotions.
The stars and the sea kiss
just a footstep backward.

Noises drown.
Eyes burn.
Head smarts.

Flopping on the hamster wheel.
Resting on coffee makers.
The delicacy of energy bars served
on a silver plate.

And your body screams:
imalright.
While your hands scrabble for a handhold
on a self polished cliffside.

When you realise you're running faster than the treadmill.
It's already too late.

The miniscule presence
of a belated future.
Delayed lust.
internal loathing.

Pairs fall into
clutches of envy.
Poisoned waters
they drink in competition.

An inexplicable bond
through distrust and distaste.
A warming in duelling hearts.
A chilling within two halves.

Duos raise their spears and bows
in challenge.
Fighting for dominance
Elusively uniting souls

And they spark a heavy fight.
Neck and neck
A hefty bite
All without the price to pay.
As they grovel at each others show

Of deathly affection.

Stealthily. Love punctures the wounded
Binding like the wraps of bandages.
Understated healing properties
with a hint of fatal spice.

Poetry is a form of literature
Formed with lines and paragraphs
They say smugly
I know poetry

They call poetry an art
Like a monotonous audio,
repetition of every alliteration.
Born to repeat.

PersonificationMetaphorsDiction
They spout nonsensical meanings.
Because they know
Oh, so much about poetry
Like the poet next door does.

The words stick like glue
metres and “hidden meanings” tremble at their view.
as they view the prosed poem with confusing clarity
A concessive concussion forming in their heads

With the sesquipedalian nature of things they endure the
lies they spell with their eyes
as their mouth talks the cryptic truth

With a read of this poem
They look at the last stanza and think
In their muddled heads with a slight smirk
“It breaks the fourth wall. Nice poem.”

Dancing on tiptoes
Prancing around in the dark
Feeling. Touching.
Falling into songs of a lark.

Dovish tones
With hawkish excitement
Caught in the throes
Of devilish enlightenment.

Cries of pure ecstacy
Battles in sweet rain
A nearby fantasy
In a far far away place.

Clashing tongues
Of silver. Of knives.
A softening slate
In between lives.

A sour dream
In a fifteen carat cage
Locked in a world for two
Deep. Love. Rage.

the little ones
hiding in the
tiny shelters
of the palpating heart

they sit
in corners
of a
circular room

eating at
swarms of
undying flowers
that litters the bloodstream

a weeping
of souls
as they meet
at the overpass

drunk in the
midnight rain
of salt
and of grey moons

they pray
to an unknown
heaven
that lies intoxicated

painted a black
sculpture of misery
and torture
like da vinci’s death wish

all sit in a
pothole
filled with rain
of the wailing wind

and so
as they say
they cry

A lost plea for help.
Flatline.

falling through a sinkhole
pressured to a thousand atmospheres
thoughts and words
silenced

barriers surround them
words unable to
pierce through
engulfed in darkness

series of laughter
caught by none
to them its just
.

.
.
ripped off
my soul

drunk in the rain
the salty rain that enriches the ground
pleading for death
come quick

fabrics of time
torn and tattered
fluttering in the storms
never in their eyes

trees sway to no conclusion
with an undying resolution
screeching lightning
isolation from life.