#halfdeadpoet

[half-deadpoet]

An empty bed

Is a nightmare

For every reason it used be

reversed

It is bygone

A memory

A reminder

Do not remind me.

[half-deadpoetsquared]

As a fellow secret-haver, tell me yours! Just so you can tell someone, because from experience I know sometimes you want to talk about it with someone but you can’t tell anyone so you don’t really know what to do haha! Or just tell me for fun!

[half-deadpoet]

A Letter to No One; An Ode to Time

When a church is abandoned, when it is overgrown with gnarled branches and nightshade and cypress, when the marbled statues and the hand painted sceneries chip and fade, do the walls remember? Do they creak and groan, whispering tales of what once filled them, even when no ears remain to listen?

Do those who used to live inside the warmth of its hardwood floors, who once found comfort in its embrace, recall all the joy they felt, oh so many years ago, or do they lament what time has done to it? Do they think of the bitter winds that swept through it, that lead to its disarray? Do they mourn its long dead future?

Do the corridors realize they are haunted by the fragments and shadows of those who loved it enough to stay, in some way? Does it know that its broken beams and peeling drywall make up the flesh and bone of those who can’t quite bear to leave it behind? That somewhere, a rotting arch lives among something’s marrow, that its hymns are etched in another’s veins?

When echos, old and weary, try to whisper under the ever-building dust, does the sediment know to reminisce? Does it care to?

Does a church bell try to ring through its withered halls, as a call to those who used to hum its tune?

[half-deadpoet]

The Wolf, The Raven, The Cat

Wild, wild wolf. Teeth sharp as fangs, coated in blood. Growl, fierce and loud. To scare, for fun, in fear. Reason melts away. Violence seeps into the soul, taking joy in it.

Clever, clever raven. Take the shiniest things. The valuables. Smarts prevail. Soar and fly and hide. Running away is easier in the sky. 

Lucky, lucky cat. Death cannot catch what lives nine lives. Fate favors felines. Stare the reaper down, know many lives are left. Fur and skin will feel another day of the sun’s warmth. 

Return home, to the den. Now lone, no comfort of others. Only the blood. It is peaceful and eerie and odd. The nest is long lost, whereabouts erased from the mind. Even that can be forgotten, replaced with only the feeling of rushing away. There is no stop. But those that shine are comforting even still. Death may not get soul or flesh, but fate’s favoritism is not always a blessing. Gone are favorites of those in the time of old. But the one untouched by the reaper remains, having witnessed all. The sun’s warmth does not comfort the guilty soul as the night breeze and stars do.

[half-deadpoet]

I am no poet, but perhaps one day, I will be.

I never made an introductory post when I started, but I will now.

I’m half-deadpoet, and this is my writing blog. I used to write prose poetry, to try and revive some of my urge to write.

Much of my old work was created with real experiences and feelings mixed with fiction, but I am trying to move away from the fiction side of it all. That was more there to mask myself, anyways.

I am more than happy to receive criticism if you have any, be it the constructive kind, as I am always looking to improve my work.

I also do enjoy talking to people, so replies and asks, but most especially asks, mean the world to me.

Thank you for reading all this, and sticking around, whether new or old.

I felt like adding a picture to the end of this, just for fun. This is what I look like!

[half-deadpoet]

It is no where near anything remotely real, but I’m starting to think about where I want my poetry to go and what I want it to be about. A new era for my poems, so to speak. Running away, open fields, adventure, freedom. Just because someone makes their own choices doesn’t mean they are truly free, and they want to change that. That’s the protagonist’s new feelings. As usual, I’m sure it will be based somewhat in me. It may be in a week or in five months. But I want to start again. I wrote about sapphic yearning before, but my writing is switching to a different type of yearning, a longing for freedom.

[half-deadpoet]

Empty Space

When you used to sleep over, we would stay up all night, neither of us remembering when we went to sleep, despite us always waking up blurry eyed in the morning. At the start, I would always set up an air mattress for you, but you never used it. Not once. No, you always wiggled your way into my full bed, refusing to leave when I tried to kick you out. My attempts were always half-hearted, though. We talked about everything and nothing. Gossip, a new show one of us forced the other to watch, anything. I pretended I would fall asleep easily, to hear what you would say to me, testing to see if I really was asleep. You almost never noticed I wasn’t. You don’t sleep over anymore. Some nights, I think I hear. your laughter, you whispering something to me. I turn around, starting to reply. All I see is a void, emptiness in a space where only joy and light used to be. No hand pulling me in for affection. One that would stay in mine through the night, long after consciousness. No smile, telling me to stay up, that the night has barely begun. A smaller one on your face, even in sleep. One that made me happy, too. Some nights, I wake up reaching my hand out to where you used to be. I expect to find you, but I grab air. I expect to inhale the scent of your detergent. Spruce, like a forest on a cloudy day. Comforting and familiar. Instead, I smell dust. I miss the feeling for your green silk pajamas. Their feeling is almost a distant memory now. When you used to sleep over, we would stay up all night. Now, I stay up, staring at the empty space next me.

Sorry it's been a while since I've posted. I got some motivation, though! Still trying to find my writing style, but I really like the way I wrote Memories. I don't want to just copy and paste that format, though so I'm trying to figure it out.

[half-deadpoet]

I think, for the most part, I am over her. I want to write more, I throughly enjoy my poetry writing. Well, they aren’t quite poems, but it is poetry like. I’m not sure what I’ll write from now on, but I hope I will. Maybe I’ll like her again, or someone new. But I think I am over her, aside from the occasional flutter of the heart.