My Cellar.

Girls and boys I love them both and keep them in my cellar,

One and two and twenty ploys I keep under surrender.

One day a man came to my door so I pluck a girl and tell her

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t show him your bruised and battered feet, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

So the girl greets the man in a solemn kind of way, she curtsies slow, they talk, he goes and at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The next day, the man came back to visit to see the girl again

But I dumped her body somewhere, I don’t remember where, so I grab a boy and whisper

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t speak for your voice is hoarse and bleak, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

And so the boy waves to the man, he grinned at him, he shook his hand, and after tea that gentleman went on his merry way

And at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The following day, that cursed man came back to speak with the boy

But I left him alone to starve and die somewhere far from this home

With no one left I can present to him cleanly (for rest of them had turned quite greenly), I came to the door with a coy and just grin, welcoming him quite sweetly

The man, however, did not react the way he once did as he swiftly passed my figure, through the door he wandered in and asked where were my children

“Oh them?” I ask, quite cheerfully spoken

“They are but away. Have gone away to their Uncle’s home and shall be back again some day,”

“That is quite a shame,” the man said low, shaking his head uneven,

He blocked the door, but right before, brandished a knife quite cunning

“Tis’ a shame your children aren’t here to see what I shall do to you, sweet.

Tis’ a shame they won’t know what to say when you are completely gone,”

I blinked with surprise, astonishment in my eyes, while my lips curled into a sneer,

“Do what you please, but when I die, you must abide to these rules as well, my sweet,”

He nodded stiffly and listened closely as I leaned in close and said,

“Don’t tell them what I hide beneath, don’t touch my steps with your filthy feet, don’t tell them what I hide beneath, or else,” I glared,

“I shall make you pay,”

And so he pressed the knife against my throat, both firm and very bold

A squelch, a squeal, a thrashing moment before everything went cold

He dragged my body messily across the polished marble floors,

He dragged my body and then he dropped me,

Right past the cellar door.

—-

And to this day, I must say, and all I know concurs

at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

Late August, Early Harvest

Of the bounds of silver branches waned
           And the flocks of who calls glory
                      To the empty, beckoned second tough
                                 Of days and weeks gone morning
                                      Why rushing winds do seldom come
                                                 To brush the ears gone blooming
                                                            And wipe with farce their gentle wars
                                                            Of hands so cruelly combing
                                                  To gather in my arms this years’ fruitful
                                                  harvest coming
                                 And count the number of months gone weary from
                                 waiting for her humming
                           Why rushing breeze do seldom past
                   And why flocks of glories steady
           To settle down on her evening gown
Of silver branches, peeled and ready

Apocalyptic

Gently, I loved you under pale sunlight and disaster strikes
Crimson arrows shot from angry god’s bows streak in the reflection of your eyes
As I bring myself gently down onto you
Watching as your eyes flutter like hummingbirds’ wings for a split second
Before a stellar meteorite crashes down, crashing onto your lips
I seek refuge in the warmth of your mouth, in the palms of your hand as our estranged bodies become a little too familiar
with one another
Earth rumbles with a hunger, a growl from your throat,
then breaks into crannies, biting into the niches of your neck
My vocal chords are strummed like a harp by the dirt-sullied winds and soothed still by your calloused fingertips
And as the world falls out of orbit, I fall onto your chest, exhausted but content, the constellations of your sleepy smile draw me in to gaze at you more closely
For the universe has grown into a rush of cold
And we wrap into one another to keep warm until we finally crash
Back into the familiarity of our bed.

Aftermath of A God’s World

You’re warm like summer and silky as cream

Slipping past my fingertips

As I raise you above your planet

And spill you back to whence you came

You are the sand that caresses my palms

And I feel every grain

I value every creature, every child that is mine

From the empty-eyed doe to the bow legged goat

Lovingly, I whisper life into their lungs and light into their minds

Bite me all you like, I shall never harm you

But bring destruction upon yourselves, that is when I cannot save you

You are hot like the summer and white as sour milk

The pearly bones of your existence slip past my fingertips

As you are risen above your planet

And crushed inside my palm

And spilled back to whence you came


This is a re-post from my Instagram. I felt that all poetry should eventually find its way back home to here, no matter where they are first birthed.

Mindless Drabbles

Why can’t feeling be bought at the gas station

Amnesia sold in bottled plastic,

Emptiness poured in soup cans,

Empathy packed in air-tight bags,

With shrink wrap seals

And alarm-rigged boxes

But trauma is free to those that don’t want it

I’m Growing Up

What’s it like to grow up?

Do you notice it like the way you notice the bags under your eyes when you first wake up? Is it like a killer migraine after a night of being drugged up? Fucked up?

Or is it like a germinating seed, just sown 1/4 ” deep, blooming on the night of a midsummer’s eve? 

Is it beautiful? Does it feel good? Does the world make more sense now? 

Does it hurt? Did it always hurt or did it hurt when you finally decided to grow up? 

Do you choose if you grow up or not? 

Can you stop it from happening? Should you stop it from happening?

I think it’s like a beauty trend. The next hot seller, fresh out the market, the most popular thing to wear during summer. And we obsess like there’s no tomorrow, grabbing greedily at something we don’t even understand. We think we do, but we don’t. 

No one can comprehend the responsibility of growing up. No one can take the responsibility of compensating all the petty white lies, heart breaks and heart aches, migraines, and empty promises. The cold stares, being unawares, hollow kisses, and negligence. No gift of money or proud compelling or acceptance can heal what has been severed and mangled. 

And you ask me, ‘”What should I do?”‘

I cannot give you an answer to your question, unfortunately. Because what you asked is something a “grown up” should already know what to do.

how i lost her with love letters

My heart goes still as the walls of my temple crumble, as my knees buckle beneath me

I can still feel my sight blurring, my lips trembling, 

a burning 500 degrees that spreads across the face like a hay fever, a wild fire.

I remember the stiffest of nods and straightest of faces, ignorance painted over my mouth and eyes so thick enough to give me lead poisoning.

I can’t stand to hear her voice in my head, 

it drives me mad with a pleasure to see her die, a desire to see her break down and cry

to see the mascara smudge into her eyeballs and blood veins webbing towards her pupils

to slather and scramble her insides with my bare hands, her organs mixed up puzzle pieces I wave across the floor as messily as I can.

But she is in one piece, alive and healthy, hated by few and loved by many. 

I wish I could say I never loved her, that I never worshipped her beauty and envied her tongue,

but that is all a lie.

Because in the end, even if I crave her blood, I crave her attention much, much more.

I Told Him.

I told him

I don’t believe in happy endings,

I don’t believe in joy,

But he laughed and said

I was being silly

Because he sees me smile so often

I rolled my eyes and looked at him straight,

My eyes boring into his own,
And what he saw made his grin drop

And so he left me alone.

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

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