poetry prose pyrope

Hate burns the veils of the mind
And it is better to be clear, 
Raw, open, red, burning and blind,
Rather than mothering delusions
In slime drenched halls of swollen fear. 
Anger is better than confusion. 

The street is drowning in sweet lace-
The sky unraveled at my feet, 
In clusters of belated space
Tucked into floral lives. From stone
The blossoms traced tendrils of heat.
Spring: ethereal to her bones. 

Is there a challenge life can throw me? 
Come on, dear fate- you play the cards, 
And yet, as though you barely know me, 
Present me with a soft embrace. 
They act like it’s so fucking hard
To stare the cosmos in the face.

You are a sea born from the air, 
You are the light that guides my steps, 
You are the thought I entertain- 
The sun I pocketed and kept. 
You are the secret scent of rain. 
You are epitomes of fair, 
And promptly just. My dusk and day. 
You are first daffodils of spring, 
You are the freedom of the night- 
The open dream of anything
Beneath a canvas splattered white. 
You are my smile of cliches. 

It Takes Iron to Make a Needle

I didn’t learn to plainly live
By methods of a phantom hand!
These stars are colder than my friends, 
Their light is cruel, but love will give
A sun to swallow: medicine
For stitching up forsaken ends. 

Why the sun still keeps on shining 
Is a mystery well hid
Under curtains, velvet linings
Of the clouds that dust the sky.
For the ether in my id, 
I don’t need a reason why. 

I am better for myself,
In the way that I present
Doom as time and time as health.
Seconds heal all gaping wounds.
Yet, I don’t have to repent
For my tears like a monsoon. 

I dream for sharpness, harshness:
A rose ripped between teeth. 
Some crimson is romantic, 
Some red, with venom, seethes. 

I burn for cruel exaction 
And passion breaking law. 
Complexities of ice,
At knifepoint, forced to thaw. 

I don’t allow sad dignities
To droop over my sight. 
You either choke on darkness
Or face the blades of light. 

stepping over stone and water,
left behind in leaves and dew
lies the poetry of winter- 
frozen and forlorn and true. 

lifting from a gentle slumber
blade and blossom, breath and wing
slips as lace in hope, in grace
the poetry of spring.

A lovely collab with the lovely victim-of-convenience!!!
I’m the italic text. 


I am losing so many followers for this i’m not surprised but hey please promo me so i can start making more friends „,

follow roxy!! she’s a really great social justice blogger!