Poetry
Tribute / T.S. Eliot and on living in unreal cities
I once again find myself drawn to "The Waste Land"—though this isn’t about just the one poem, not really—where so much of the old world exists in motifs in a tattered landscape.
Poetry / Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Poetry / Reminiscent
I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding
POETRY / Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
Poetry / Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
Poetry / The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
POETRY / Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.
Reader Submission / My Home
The trust you gain takes time.
T.S. Eliot and on living in unreal cities
I once again find myself drawn to "The Waste Land"—though this isn’t about just the one poem, not really—where so much of the old world exists in motifs in a tattered landscape.
Silent screams
Let us raise our voices, let us be heard, / Justice for the dead, let their voices be stirred
Reminiscent
I remember the wallowing hole inside of my chest, / hollow and bleeding
Not everyone looks at the sky with the same weighted heart
Once, I believed there was a crown on my head. The heart was brimming with life and light Brimming with boundless force to surpass any spread. Among the crowd, I was always one
Prompts
The pavements are hotter in winter, the rain never wets the asphalt and I never tell you to do anything else other than “be”.
The colour of revolution is red
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
Love, when you’re an adrenaline junky
And in spite of knowing this/ In spite of the absurdity of it all/ You let yourself fall
Pandemic Nocturne 1: December Dirge
Ask me not of Grief. For I have been burnt by its friendly fire with blood and bits of oozing mortal flesh spun flaky and ashen by its biting cold breath.
Fathers and Daughters and Unmailed Letters
Perhaps father was never taught to love.
Parting
While I fear whom you’ll become once you hear me, once you leave me.
