Sep 1, 2025
poetry is so cool until all i can ever write is connected to me or anything or anyone that has ever happened to me and then the never ending cycle or self torture through remembrance starts again
seen from Brazil
seen from Argentina
seen from Romania
seen from China
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from France
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Venezuela
seen from Brazil
seen from Egypt
seen from China
poetry is so cool until all i can ever write is connected to me or anything or anyone that has ever happened to me and then the never ending cycle or self torture through remembrance starts again
Go out with me. Let’s stroll down to Mt Annan Botanic Garden. I’ll bring the picnic blankets & a few things I know you will eat. We’ll have your favourite smoothies & just look across the pond together. I want that with you. Then we can talk like we’ve been away for years & we just met anew & fall in love again – why can’t we be that “based on true story” kind of book because in a heartbeat I would have leap to wherever you are now just for this book to exist on other people’s shelves -
D C de Oliveira | To Chloe, Nonfiction| January 26, 2023 | Thursday, 3.13pm
The Phoenix
Rising from ashes of the volcano.
Glowing hot, the flaming creature sores leaving flames trailing behind.
Majestic, beautiful the true spirit of volcanoes.
Fire is her creation, she tends to the land with it.
Though distraction follows, life begins a new.
What comforts me is even though we’re far apart, we still see the same moon and feel the same sun.
Moments I thought that I couldn't survive
With your hand in mine I'm coming alive
When I was a bruise you bandaged me up
When I was thirsty you filled up my cup
God might be fiction but angels are true
I've seen first hand they all look just like you
You are the stars that I'm counting at night
All that I've wanted, you're my heart's delight
When I am freezing you make me feel warm
You are my shelter, I'm safe from the storm
Speaking a language no one understands
A tongue made of softness, love sans demands
I am the luckiest, I am so sure
To call my own now your heart oh so pure
what poetry is and isn't are the same things, sieved through times fingers, flattened undertow, lamented and whispered amongst holy ghosts and internal hosts, withered wanton
to understand these elements of paean listen to the way the moment betrays the fingers smashing typewriter keys blindly underneath calloused fingers mourn and mumble your way through another lonely day inside your mind, torn trodden
than and only then do you find the answer to the question of what poetry is and what it isnt.
Unwritten, 4.11.23 “Eleven"
Two plus two I know, before The clock strikes you Far from view No exit queue To leave this sacred shore For you sure are sacred For you plus me Strike clock’s hands from hatred Never far ahead Piece by piece on cue, is said Before you part, share a sight to see
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