I'm a Ghost in the snow.
Never finding warmth
I have no life,
I have no soul.
I'm damaged, and broken.
Nothing can fix me.
But I need you to try.
Help this Ghost.
Melt the snow.
-Dead Inside-There's nothing left of her,
She and the unborn son taken.
I held her hand
As she went unto the Fade.
I held her hand
As her body cooled.
I saw red,
Leaving me but a Shade.
I saw red,
As her blood pooled.
Vengeance is mine.
He has been sent to Hell.
I will be fine.
Before you ask, All will not be well.
Forever and Always, I am Dead.
-Wings of Blood, Wings of Steel-I stand proud and strong.
Loyal to my beliefs,
I strike at my enemies with
Unrelenting wrath and fury.
I am the vengeful hammer,
Defending my lord's land.
From without and from within.
None are spared my flashing blade
My steel gaze pierces even the most
Sturdy of souls.
Fear me, for I slay on wings of blood.
Love me, for I fly on wings of steel.
-Sanguine Haze-Walking among the sanguine graves
Statues of Angels cry blood
Can't see beyond this Crimson Haze
Cathedral ruin, Stone rubble, Broken stained glass
Rusted black gate, can it... will it open?
Oaken doors, large, engraved with demons and angels, Off it's hinges
Stone benches, Stone altar, black cloth
A stairway? Going down, getting colder
Dark air, Suffocating chill, no walls
No ceiling. Void. A landing, another iron gate
Dead end? No... Eyes, of Garnet, of Amethyst
Staring at me, watching me. Blades of bone.
A roar. Then nothingness.
-Blood Red Snow-My scars, crimson red and deep.
My eyes, cerulean blue and clear.
Despite my beauty I can not match
The beauty of blood red snow
My love for life is like that snow
A chilling fire, a burning cold.
I see a lake amongst the white trees
A lake that's waters are as red as my scars
Help me escape this beautiful, horrifying place.
Give warmth to the fires in my heart,
Before I become the Blood Red Snow.
-Angel Wings-No one knows who I am.
Not even I know who I wish to be.
Past lives, Dreams? Memories?
I smell trees, rain, the earth, blood, death..
The scent excites me, pulse racing.
I long for blood against my tongue.
I yearn for the scent of fear.
Pure, light, Your angel wings
Let me burn them to dust.
let me breathe deep your pain.
I taste your lust from here.
No rhythm, no rhyme
-Waters-Grey waters, to match a Grey sky
Grey sky, to match a Grey day
Grey day to match a Grey mood
Mourning a time spent in mine paradise
The day, mood, sky, and waters seem to mourn with me
As if, I started to cry, so too would the clouds open
to release the rain, and flood the earth
Sorrow; choking, drowning, suffocating, and mine.
As I stare into the waters.
Grey waters, to match a Grey mood.
-Spark Of Light-The daemons within my chest laugh
As they tear my soul, shred my heart
The daemons laugh as I am taken away from you
my love, my life, my happiness
I miss you, though we had just parted
All my life I've been blinded by shadows
until I got to hold you in my arms
A spark of Light...
You are my Sun, disperser of the night
I've waited my entire life to bask in your rays
All the world is waiting for the Sun
To lie here under you is all that I can do
The daemons wail as I think of you
Wail as they are denied my sorrow
You, my family, have always been
My spark of light, in the darkness
-But A Man-I am but a man.
Not a beast, nor a dragon
Man, with flaws, fears
not claws, nor fangs
A pretender, with a facade
An ego which doesn't exist
Confidence, that's not shared.
I love, as any man.
I cry, as any man
Yet I am no one.
Nameless face in a sea of faces
Faceless name in a land of names
I am but a man.
Who doesn't exist.
-Untitled-Lost in a world of doubt and deception,
Shadows block the light, until you came.
You shine light that cuts through the darkness
like a knife through flesh.
Blood seeps from the shadows
Blood tainted by darkness.
My own liquid of life...
Heal my wounds, Take away my pain.
I shall do the same for you.
My rozeta frumos.
My inger frumos.
Te iubesc, Truly with all my heart.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing:
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.