Beverly.

Minor! Made with poetry & bliss Feeling so alone might as well be on the moon unraveled bittersweet angry poet Dear diary

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Melt with you 'til it all turns black Are we so in love? Are we too attached? Melt with you 'til it all turns black When you smooth it out, but it feels too flat Melt with you 'til it all turns black When you get so close and you can't go back Melt with you 'til it all turns black Melt with you 'til it just feels sad...

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

You where the flower in my hair, until the wind took you from me. But when the wind showed up again, day after day, you never did come with it.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

But it's better than begging for you to stand up for me, honeybee...

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Liturgy for a Heart That Burns in Its Own Winter.

In the twilight where blood thinks, when dawn bends like an exhausted mother over the bones of the world, I hear the clandestine heartbeat of broken things. There, where memory is a biting animal, a corridor of mirrors opens up, repeating my name until my name ceases to be mine and becomes a twisted prayer, a prayer no one wants to utter. I have seen how light commits suicide on the glass, how the wind carries away the syllables of the dead as if they were seeds that will never sprout. And yet, I walk. I walk with the stubbornness of one who knows that hope is a knife wrapped in velvet, that faith is a windowless room where the air is learned by heart. Sometimes, the sky opens like an ancient wound and lets a silence fall upon me that weighs heavier than iron. A silence that recalls the women who wept without witnesses, the men who dissolved into the shadows for fear that the world would see them tremble. That silence covers me, baptizes me, forces me to look squarely at the cruel geometry of my own thoughts. I, too, have loved with the violence of the tides, with the devotion of one who clings to a ghost because the ghost is the only thing that never leaves. I have kissed dreams, I held hands, trembling so strongly as if they were holding a secret too heavy to bear. And in every gesture, in every touch, I discovered that love is an evil beast that devours even what it tries to protect. On feverish nights, when the moon becomes a watchful eye and the world seems like a theater without actors, I sit down to talk with shadows. They tell me about destiny, of guilt inherited like a cursed jewel, of the beauty born of all the suffering just as a flower is born from manure. They tell me not to fear, that even darkness has a pulse, in that even the fall can be a home. And then I understand: there is no redemption without a fracture, no light that has not first been ash. We are ruined temples where ancient music still echoes, a melody that no one remembers but that everyone recognizes. We are pilgrims of an intimate winter, seekers of a fire that burns inward, that consumes, that purifies, that compels us to be reborn with our skin marked by the truth. Thus, in this moment that belongs to no one, I declare myself a daughter of disorder, a sister of vertigo, a lover of doubt. I declare myself a creature of a world that falls apart and reassembles itself as easily as it breathes. And as the night bends over me like a lover who knows my scars, I whisper: "If I must fall, let it be toward my own center; if I must burn, let it be in my own winter."; if I must live, let it be with the certain that even the shadow in the darkness spots in my mind can be sacred places that seep into my bones with hollow and comfort at the same time.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Listening to Fiona Apple while writing poetry in a journal is the cure to female loneliness

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

A firefly glows among the moss, and a star twinkles high above; an abyss above, and an abyss below; what, in the end, is it that ends, and what remains? In vain does thought probe and search the unfathomable, O science! Always, when we reach the end, we remain ignorant of what, in the end, comes to an end and what remains. Kneeling before the rough statue, my spirit, plunged into the infinite, perhaps blasphemous to the own bible in my head, questioning heavenand hell at once, I tremble and waver. What are we? What is death? The bell, with its echoes, answers my groans from on high, and effortlessly, tears stream fiercely down my gaunt face. What horrible suffering! You alone can see and understand it, my God. Is it true that you see them? Firefly; Mother Nature, then, merciful and compassionate, restore to my eyes the heavenly veil of beneficent faith that I have lost, and do not allow—no—me to wander aimlessly, orphaned and without support, here below through the wastelands of life, and beyond, across the plains of emptiness. Let the death knell continue to ring, and may the divine face of the Redeemer remain ever silent and impassive; let the humiliated spirit remain shrouded in shadows. Silence forever; only the organ, with its mystical tones, resounds beyond the deserted nave beneath the gloomy arch. Perhaps everything is over, except my sorrow, a double-edged dagger; everything, except the doubt that hurls us from one abyss of horror into another. The world is deserted, the heavens depopulated, the soul is sick, and sunk into the dust the sacred altar where my fervent sighs were breathed forth, shattered into a thousand pieces, my God fell into the abyss, and as I search for Him longingly, I find only the immense solitude of the void. Suddenly the angels from their lofty marble niches, looked at me sadly and a sweet voice echoed in my ear: “Poor soul, wait and weep at the feet of the Most High; but do not forget that to heaven the insolent cry of a heart bound to vile matter.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Hour after hour, day after day, between heaven and earth, which remain eternal sentinels, like a torrent plunging over a cliff, life passes by. Restore the flower’s fragrance after it has withered, from the waves that kiss the shore and, one after another, expire as they kiss it. Gather the whispers, the lamentations, and engrave their harmony on bronze plates. Times gone by, tears and laughter, dark torments, sweet lies, where did they leave their trace, where, my soul?

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

From the blue sea, the transparent waves as they softly murmur over the sand, rolling to my feet, temptingly kissing and seeking me out. Restless, they lick the edge of my sole, gracefully flinging their snowy foam at me, and I think they are calling me, drawing me toward their damp halls. But when, eager, I wish to follow them across the liquid plain, my foot sinks into the transparent water and they mock me. And they flee, leaving me on the shore to the earthly, endless struggle, just as on the sad shores of life, fortune, fickle, abandoned me.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Memories of a seafoam camellia

Every star, its diamond, every cloud, a white plume; sadly the moon marches on. Ahead it marches, clearing valleys, meadows, mountains, rivers, where the day is fading away. The day is gone, and dark night descends, descends, little by little, over mountains of greenery. Of greenery and foliage, dotted with little springs beneath the shade of the boughs. Of the boughs where the little chirping birds sing, who rise with the dawn. Who fall asleep with the night so the crickets can sing, who appear with the shadows.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

They say that plants do not speak, nor fountains, nor birds, nor the breeze with its whispers, nor the stars with their brilliance, they say so, but it is not true, for whenever I pass by, they murmur and exclaim: There goes the crazy girl daydreaming. Of the eternal spring of life and the fields, and very soon, very soon, her hair will grow even longer, like rapunzel, and she sees, trembling, frozen, the frost covering the meadow. There are long hairs on on my head, there is frost on the meadows, yet I continue dreaming, poor, incurable sleepwalker, of the eternal spring of my life that is fading, and the everlasting freshness of the fields and souls, though the former wither and the latter burn. Stars and fountains and flowers, do not whisper of my dreams, for without them, how could I admire you, or how could I live without them?

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

I was born when plants are born, in the month of flowers I was born, at a gentle dawn, at a dawn in March. That's why they call me a wildflower, but the one with the sad smile, with thorns for everyone, especially for you.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

After you left and burnt the house down, you tried to convince me that it was I who was holding the matches. I didn't call you by any other name. I let you know I knew the nature of your called so "heart" , that it was evil, and that convinced me that darkness was real, that monsters pretend they don't know what they are. I go on trips with my friends to the beach who don’t know that I’m crazy. I can do that, I can do everything. Even ruin you. Because my bedroom is a sacred place now that there are children at the end of my bed, telling me stories about the friends that they pretend to hate, that they will make up with later. And there are fresh cut flowers that represent the grief and pain I grew myself on, still put in those old vases from the yard of 1956 all across the room, in a darkness not even an open window can remediate. And the longer I stay here the more I am sure. But the more I step into turning thoughts and memories into poetry, the less I will fall into thinking the scars you left me, phisically and mentally. The more I step into my poetry, the less I will fall into grief again. The less I will fall into pain, the more I step into my poetry, the less I will fall into bed, in pain, going for another dreadful nightmare I'll never wake up from.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

I don’t want to sell by telling my stories to anyone anymore, stop pushing me Some stories aren’t meant to be sold Some words aren’t meant to be told

I want to leave them underneath the nightstand to be forgotten or remembered should my thoughts come upon them in the middle of the night after a long beach day. But you don't understand me

You see, I’m a real poet! My life is my poetry, my words, my thoughts, they are my legacy! My thoughts are about nothing, and beautiful, and for free

You see, the things that can’t be bought can’t be evaluated, and that makes them beyond human reach. Untouchable, safe, otherworldy, Unable to be deciphered or metabolized.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

May my eyes always stay level to the horizon May they never gaze as high as heaven, to ask why May I never go where angels fear to tread So as to have to ask for answers in the sky The whys in this lifetime I've found are inconsequential Compared to the magic of the nowness the solution to most

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

It's pouring, the trees are getting greener before my eyes, I am almost afraid of the intensity of this happiness, nature has always given us the comfort others haven't while grieving. Do we really think it's necessary to do all of this? To torture each other, and never forgive while going with our guilt to the grave when it is not even needed? By any means, I just know she will be here for me, the wise, always listener, but never answering Moon.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

Melancholy were the only sounds on a winter's night.

[bloomingalmondcupcake]

So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the silver blue of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever. I walk, talking to the moon, to the neutral impersonal force that does not hear, but honestly and merely accepts my being. And does not let me down, ever.