Here is some
poetry I wrote from July – December 2011. The themes here range from unrequited
love, death, sex and homosexuality to stereotypes, societal expectations, gender
roles and self-hatred.
Death
That Azrael grim
lured me to bed.
I spread my body
and I was severed.
The bloody petals
of my rose, my
core,
were cut wide
open,
all his to bore.
His touch stopped
my blood
He let me sleep
And I would have
forever
By that Azrael
grim
That Azrael grim
promised the
empyrean.
Instead I can’t
wake
from this Stygian sin.
Left Eye
My heart-strings
are worn
By my left eye
No voice to carry
them
No such glimpse
tonight
My left eye
carries love
Down my riverine
bend
It swims in the
deep
Such depth I’ll
never know
There was one
glimpse
But it has
departed
My love retracted
As the sun sank down
New Breed
A new breed is
among us
Born with cold in
their eyes
Built with firm,
cream flesh
A new breed to
peel it off
A new way to be
alive!
All the heartbeats
subside
Sex is just the
answer
But love is never
asked
With pretentious
veneers
Inside, yolk runs
clear
I run from the new
breed
I have to weed
them out
Their bitter claws
Hacking into me
That generation
Dwelling into cold
I forgive them
Statuesque bodies
Grotesque beings
I forgive them
I take salvage on
my pedestal
I‘ll spend my time bettering myself
Perdition
My life, a lump of
clay,
I’m made to be
constrained
I can only wait
for night
To dream some
colour
To dream autonomy
Unbound,
unrestricted
One day, fate will
advance
I carry death’s
notice
It is pinned to my
forehead
My birthright is a
curse
To wrench me into
darkness
To force me into
perdition
Eternal damnation
My poisonous blood
It pumps the lust
Homogenous
In the human race
My defective heart
It screams for
love
Homosexuals
For millennia
Period
The scarlet moon's
tears
are pulled by the
tide,
to drip down her
cheek
and turn into the
sky.
When the dark
swallows up
the bright crimson
pearl
the dawn breaks an
egg,
turned gold is the
world.
And I can’t look
away
from the humble
allures.
A great vibrant
canvas,
broken landscape’s
cure.
The scarlet moon's
tears
don’t fall from
her eyes.
They drip down her
cheeks,
as we watch on the
sly.
When the dark
swallows up
the bright crimson
gore,
the dawn breaks an
egg,
turned out are her
pores.
And I can’t look
away,
from her body
impure.
A dark, vibrant
canvas;
a broken landscape’s lure.
The Ocean
She was a writer,
her ink was the
ocean.
Words were like
waves,
grammar was
high-tide.
And her hand was
the rip,
ebbing from the
truth.
Her hand was the
rip
ebbing from the
truth.
She was a writer,
her wrist became
cold.
White bitter as
salt,
she drowned in the
deep.
But her hand was
the rip,
ebbing from the
truth.
She got caught in
the rip,
as it ebbed into
truth.
A life sentence, that
sea of hers.
Life sentence, that sea of hers.
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