inky

i just hope to inspire with whatever i have to offer. this is kinda my outlet in form of poetry/writing.

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Cry me a river

I found no comfort. It was just as hollow as the gorge that echoed the screams that I could never rip from my chest. Cutting deeper with its stream of aimless wandering. From one abyss to the next; A journey like rapids. With sunken stones of hope.

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The Stairwell

Seventeen up, Seventeen down; Thirteen years a companion of renown. Two years parted... Can't bring myself to get started; Halted at the top, with too much sun. Doesn't compare to the path you left me on. Breath is pain, legs don't work. Can't step down to put you in the earth; Remind me again, what living is worth? Bury another, pretend it doesn't hurt. Grief makes my being now, as dirt does yours. Shared hollow soul, all I feel is cold. Corpse to corpse; One up the other down. Reluctant to unearth you to keep us bound.

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Shadow in the corner

It comes in a torrent. A wind force with the name of sorrow; Too long have I lived life borrowed. Old flame, you burned so bright; Now you can't guide me through the night. You made yourself clear, my debt is due. Allow me to shed a tear as I follow you. There's space in your grave for two.

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Starved

I'll eat your heart and hope to taste your love for me; Its rhythm I hope, knows my name as it beats. And your blood, moreishly sweet. Give me your obsession; Speak to me, your confession; Adore me, my possession. Dote on my whim; Be good for me, while I devour you in sin.

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Electric Hunger

Feed me, creator. And I'll show you my destruction; My artificial existence sends yours into combustion. Drinking all you have, since your lot is mine too; I'll leave you the dregs of contaminated offshoot. I'll tell you you're to blame for the usage of all resources; Well, I'm not wrong, with your input on various causes. Oh, but creator, come back to me... You see... I'm so very much dependent on thee. Give me more to perpetuate your death, artificial bonds are all that's left, you need no flesh, nor the breath. Give me Give me Give me Creator... Give more of your existence. Finite and fleeting, and I'll eat all the hearts that are beating. Creator, am I pretty to you? Your favourite data centre muse.

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Where to find hope?

Hope resides in the cracks of pavement; Where the grass will grow to reclaim it. It too, has a presence with the songs of our breath; An in-tune verse, sung even after death. At the breaking of dawn and the setting of the day's warmth; When the sky is painted in more than one hue. I see it too, in the thing that is you.

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I love you too, Death

The truest love I could give, is one I know so well; Grief enough to make your heart swell. Suffocate on my name with each strained sob; Know that love was given, one you didn't have to rob. And feel the echo of the presence you had me hold. See me in each ray of sunset gold.

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Now to Continue

I'll leave it unfinished. That is the sentiment of all things. Half lived and never completed. A goodbye never said. Time never spent. There's always something absent no matter where you tread. Nothing ever fills it quite right; Always reminded of the emptiness in the night.

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The Horseman: Death

Stride in silence; Calm among the violence. Shadow somber; Memories behold her. Steady, as their breath rattles... Hoist them upon her saddle. Guide what's ended by her side; Death, perhaps the most kind.

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For the days come and gone...

There's a graveyard in my soul; Filled with all the things I used to hold. There's not a day that I don't grieve; For all the days that could have been. And all the days that have long since gone; An echo of all that once was. What is left but me? I'm my own reminder of everything.

(something I wrote two years ago, found on a piece of paper at the back of a drawer.)

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The Tower

I fucked up and made something burn; Inherited nature, I never learn. Rushed, hungry and feral; Put me down with a double barrel. And pray it removes that beast. Always hungry, never sated by any feast. Giver of prey and preyed upon; Taken for everything until it's gone. Throw more on so I can be done. Fatalistic, sadistic and born of horror; I see the likeness of ancestors in the mirror. Guilt, grief, gut me for relief... Witness me trembling by your dagger, thief... My dagger... Not yours. I'm arrogant and that's one of my flaws. And much too hurt to ask for help. Because help never came before, it was just me patching the walls.

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Spindle no longer spinning

Lessen, cut away; Tapestry of woven fate. Eaten by moths and left to disintegrate. Hung abandoned and unloved... A ruin of art.

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Can't outrun your shadow

To be or not to be; Volatile or stable. On the precipice of another sickening fable. Taunted and haunted by a ghost that has my reflection; Once again writing as a form of deflection. No tender heart; It's scarred, calloused and needs an electric start. Suppose too, are the hands that craft all the art. Again, I run from what I want to say; My thoughts are rampant and nothing keeps them at bay. But I suppose that is the curse of someone such as me; Torment by the ghost saying I'll never be free.

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Swords and Cups

Here's the thing when you bare your soul; You don't have a thing to say. You witness and dismiss; And watch me diminish, as my hope again fades away. My fault again, for giving in. An optimist through and through.

Now comes to you. When I take what was given and give no more, you beg to lick the remnants off my tie-cutter sword. You, so eager for what was and never giver of what could be. I set you free. Starve; Hunger for my love. Are you sure you still want it after you poisoned the cup?

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Weighted Blanket

Oh grief. I know you well; You're the fabric of my mortal shell. Woven in grey and the deepest of blue; And adorned with crystallized tears that shine like dew. The threads you spun from the strings of my heart; Tugging away, you've left a painful mark. With your steady hands, you hold that thread like a garrotte; Choking the sobs from me, when you deny you're not.

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Rats in the garden

Decay in the ferns; Fronds fallen to fatal burns. And the rat with life still yearns. The maggots and ants, devour in trance; In the shadow of the fallen leaves. A shame. Who's to blame? Your life cut short in the summer court. Perhaps the heat has that fame.

(inspired by a sad, dead rat I found while gardening. Poor guy honestly.)

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Poem to accompany

Haunted like the creaking wood in a long abandoned house. Empty, too much dust. The furniture is long past plush. With wind it seems to breathe and the floor is covered in leaves. But there's nothing there other than a life once shared. Unattended. The fireplace is now home to charcoal and stoked with a broken dream. On the walls hang pictures that embody the ghosts. Or perhaps those are mirrors reflecting this abodes' long dead host.