I’ve mapped the stars through inversion

The reflection of a deadlocked pool

Superficially favoring a change of course


This love accumulating over time

Has grown exponentially more exhausting

I suffer from neither contrition nor objection

Only the unshakeable conviction

That “I” as the subject have died


So much of your heart remains uninhabited

Immaculate white rooms with no juxtaposition

We sleep with our backs facing, crepuscular eyes

Seeking truce in a bilateral quarantine


I find you in the belly of false stones

Unable to extract a single door or window

From your departure, the fireplace

Winks knowingly from across the room,

There is no heat left in her body,

Only hypotheticals

View original post




As some of you know I am in the process of editing my blog. As some of you may not know my blog is several years old and has a good deal of content, the process is time-consuming to say the least. In reading my older poems I realize how far I’ve come as a writer and how far I have to go! Many of my poems are riddled with grammatical errors and are difficult to understand. The inspiration and emotion behind the poems is genuine but they are so poorly written that much has been lost in translation. In some cases I am having to rewrite the entire poem! I am a little obsessed at the moment and have written more these last few days then I have written per my usual daily posts. That said there may be days when I reblog only. Rest-assured that despite being a reblog the poems are in many respects new! Also keep in mind that the poems I am speaking of are years old and it is very unlikely that they have even been read. When I started my blog I didn’t tag my posts. I didn’t visit other blogs, My blog was more or less an open notebook where I scribbled ideas. Most of the older work is just that doodles and ideas that I am only now shaping into a poem.



My words

Never diminish

Your insecurity

They are impotent

Divided by an ego

Set on extinction

Dismantled by a logic

That holds society

In contempt


When did your heart

Render unfit all orifice?

Forcing your voice

Through stitched lines

Your words are

Bloodied fragments

Too mangled for counsel


Do I conceal violence

In the guise of praise

Or do you hear only

Your mind’s

Grisly translations?


Am I the bearer

Of your pain

Or the unsigned savior?

I no longer know

If the victim

Or the rogue

Your Depression

Shapes us both

And beneath

Her murderous fingers

We are equally depraved


Will we lie here?

Covered in blood


The causalities

Of our

Combined insanities


Your red-rimmed eyes

A carnivore bates

Is it not fear

Devising of sadness

A presumptuous threat?


You silence me

With a dismissive wave

Is it my mind you fear?

View original post 11 more words


wallpaper cartoon fantasy girls artwork magic blood digital

This poem has been extensively revised. The content is the same but the original piece was very winded and very repetitious.



You are deception

The face behind

An occipital moon

I know you savagely

In the residue

Of a forgotten youth

Hands and hearts




I wear you

Like a noose




A breathless


To death

Choking, Choking


We tread cautiously

As though beneath

Our feet

The molten earth

Were irreparably cracked

We live in strained silence

Prisoners of war

Struggling, Struggling, Struggling

View original post


adrian bordaArt By: Adrian Borda

We as man,

Pay deference

To insensate machines

And through imitation

We as man become

That which we beseech


Atop funereal clouds

We regress

Unable to fathom

The depth

Of our earth

Scarring beneath

Of what use

Is prevention

When I live now


Such is the attitude

Of a man

Whose comprehension

Of poverty lies only

In the delay

Of a quenchless greed



Old Poem



Underneath a grim sky

Fluid with specks of dust

And the rapture of a fertile moon

I wonder will it always be thus?


My face pale and wane

My eyes dull and lifeless like a sharks

A mouth that speaks of trivial things

With a high timid voice

That understands nothing of words


The tender dialect of lovers

Will it ever move past my lips again?

Tiny shards of wisdom

That linger and endow me

With strange enchantments

Will I ever be inspired again?


My hands occupy my time with work

Daily I labor

For nothing in particular

Like a barren woman

Who tracks her ovulation

Even knowing she shall never bare any fruit

I am empty like that woman

And just as insatiable


Each night I fall into consecrated bliss

Yet even my dreams are ashen and uninspired

Silence gives me hope

With its ominous…

View original post 43 more words



The eyes

Of lost friends,

Recoil on assembly

A bony outline

Devoid of luminance

Greetings spent

Without abandonment

Conversations worn

As a mendicant’s knees

This censorious womb

Within which no life

Wrought could thrive

Births the end

Of all possibility



Painted Dragon


Revised poem



She could’ve been beautiful

But the makeup on her face

Amplified every imperfection

Made her seem unreal

Like a slipshod animation


We talked for hours

About philosophies

Too convoluted to consume

About ambitions

And the despair

That shapes realities

She would have sacrificed

Everything for the stage,

Instead, on her knees

Choking down creation


I find myself standing

On the same corner

Night after night


To the instincts

Of inhuman men

Selling pieces of my soul

For the abstractions

Of a primed syringe


We bought

An apartment together

On the lower end

No furniture or food

Only conversation,

The sustenance of fools

I remember

The hours piled upon hours

Of words so casually strewn

I remember

The weight of her shrinking skin

Defenseless beneath

The weight

Of our transient bones

I remember

Watching her fall


Into addiction

My spirit too weak

To stall the descent

View original post 260 more words



Letters cast into the sea

Return unanswered

Salty as unrequited love

There is no satisfying

A frivolous heart


Dreams held too long

Aloft, burden the courier

For whose heart

Can remain centered

On a sealed pursuit?


Each stanza looks at a different extreme