#mpoetry

[chnqin]

and lonely eons had passed

[freakybuggy]

[sapphirera]

i only realized after the dust had settled, and the armor been battered, that truth is a perception: merely an honest-to-god account of what we witness. and so we are always liars, engaging in shouting matches, pointed fingers drawn like swords, knuckles pressed unkindly to our brow as we turn away from each other's gaze, damsels in distress waiting for the other to yield.

who’s telling the truth? / m.m

[katharsii-blog]

i take my tea with three lumps of cyanide-sugar for past present and future for they all mix and mingle and bleed into a singularity that i cannot describe. the wild milk curdles. the teapot is sterling silver hidden and covered by the aged beauty of patina and the cup is just as old, caked and cracked along the rim, stained with the ghosts of red lipstick. it is an antiquated beauty innocuous but full of promise used but neglected purposeful but uninteresting. and the teacup is just as important but it is battered with old stains. the hands that scoop the three lumps of cyanide-sugar are shaking and manicured and smell of nag champa and ivory soap, the second finger encircled by a rose gold ring; belong to the tightrope walker without her place in a circus. the first lump gives itself up to the boiling water and dissolves; its poisoned sweetness plays out the peace in the intolerance of the past of falsehood friendships of history muddy and murky and foggy of imperishable loneliness and a ersatz sense of belonging and the second lump is packed too tight and must be attacked with a spoon to get it to unfurl and melt into the tea. the hardness of the hearts around me shuttered up and unwilling to give in to my words my awkward mannerisms my clawing and twisting soul for i am too afraid of - too mean to come clean. the third lump falls apart before i can loft it onto my spoon and now i am ladling thousands of possibilities into my tea; will it rhyme with my past will i reek of pride, stink so strongly i am uninhabitable and repulse everyone? will i find myself in my own cocoon of fake widows weeds, weeping for a fake relationship that i will never ever have? (for you to like me,) will i find my stride, fit into a niche with smiling eyes and rosy skin and find friends and perfect merriment? there are too many crystals too many possibilities; they are all repeats they are all life...; the sweetness of the poison is pleasant and i accept it (because i must); its saccharine facades belie harsh truths and coldness, hollowed out emptiness. the sugar-poison (LIFE) forces its way through my veins, creating a desolate wasteland of my body and my soul. the blood bleeds black, runs red and i do not know how to feel.

τσαγιέρα // TEAPOT (m.t. 13/02/18)

[chnqin]

[freakybuggy]

untitled stream of consciousness poem

[freakybuggy]

The Death Card Only Means Change 

[freakybuggy]