Wordle #48 “Insecure”

Wordle 48 Feb. 16

Alliances rarely survive shifts in altitude.
If I succeed in the culmination of our vision
Then there is sure to be a crevice
Sufficient to justify your failings.


For every plunge I was there,
The chime of reason
A bridge to vanquish insurmountable odds
Perhaps I helped too much,
A leather whip may have served
A more compassionate cue.


Once I straddled your heart,
Its only willing occupant.
I allowed for the mastication
Of my grievances, swallowing all doubt
That you might not combust under critique.
My belief, the sort that only,
A hallucination could induce.


I never left though you look for me
As one who has lost everything.
I never left and still you trundle
Futile, in your paranoid renderings
Perhaps my love is too discreet
To account for your insecurities.


I am looking at my tendency to make excuses, the strange and inevitable rifts in identity that occur in mental illness. The seeming loss of innocence. the disconnect from reality, the raging insecurities. I am not completely satisfied with this one I think it is the flow or wording.


On another note it looks like I was given the wrong form *pulls out hair*

Submission for




I reveal my secrets in jest

A theatrical wink,

A loose eyelash

A smile that does not fit my face

A smile capsized in a sea

Of sucrose and brimstone.

I might never know

This stranger of whom I speak,

This mannequin

Dressed in my valuables

Wielding my name.

I could spend my whole life

Exploring the dermis

Of this pitiful creature

Weaving my maps

Constructing my ruin

Amongst meaningless conquests

But what then

Would become of my heart?

However small,

However black,

However epic its thorns

It has a need,

A very human need

It requires a touch,

A hostage,

A moment

Without the pretense

Of shade.


Challenging day and I ran out of time for my poem

Ostensibly Numb

Natalie Shau

Natalie Shau

I need to believe

That there is something

Inside still salvageable

Some overlooked heart fragment

Still red, ripe, and pumping

Some hint of the original

So that without

Too much embellishment

I can say

I am still myself,

At least the parts

Worthy of presentation.


I thought it was okay to die,

My right to step into the war

And come out again

A hero, in a discreet box

Adorned with some flag.

A picture of you perhaps?

(The one who murders

Has the right to confiscate

My body, having emptied

The suit for deployment)


I have thwarted evolution

My component fibers

Coarse as burlap

Settle in the gut

Like a mutiny

Of bewitched caterpillars

They chew the binding

Of all my diaries

That not a letter arrives

In the order of consignment


My self-improvement efforts

Are much too clinical,

They don’t leave much space

For living, only doing

And I’ve done enough

To earn the title of Sisyphus.

A visit to the anesthesiologist

Will keep me ostensibly numb

Numb as a glacier passing

From ship to ship,

An eviscerating tower

Unalterable in its contacts


The less we know

The more encompassing

The excuse

I live to pilfer

If you possess it

Why shouldn’t I?

And if I am you

Than I’ve no reason

To acknowledge my roots

Those obscene snares

Which remind me

Of the refuse

From which I rose


No I’d rather be you

That I can remain pristine

A Goddess, infallible,

Untouchable, reduced to ash

In the eyes of unscrupulous mortals

Yes I’d rather be death

In a human disguise

Past Tense

8412052496_fd8d1ff522_bMarcela Bolivar

I haven’t the strength

To answer your request

Though I find your words

Requisite, proximate, sufficient

I would eat them if I could,

Like cherries or cancer


What color is freedom?

Every face I see is unsociably clear

I wouldn’t recognize a smile

If I held it between my teeth

Against my breasts or even if it fell

Posthumously from the ceiling light

Like a hirsute bother


What good is a smile anyways?

Can I hang my coat on it?

Will it make me beautiful?

Rich? Thin? Less formidable?

If I walk on my hands

Will I appear happier?

More sane? Less avid?


If I draw my lips, harlot red

In the shape of a bow

Will you love me as I am?

What if I cannot write

Ink being the substance

Of my selfdom

Will you declare me past tense?

And wash your face

Of my ill-advised spleen?





My ostentatious limbs churn

As if to fashion cream of air

Substance of translucency

Costumed amongst transients

I slip between reels of neon

A cunning starlet underfed

To seduce the archaeologists

Lovers of bone and ruination


Until I am thin

I shall not dress to define,

I shall not dress at all

A dimpled moon rotating stoically

In an onerous black cloak

I shall employ only enormity

To disguise, to disguise

The truth of my loneliness

Perfection is so bony,

So sharp

A pair of trousers woven

Of a solitary thread


Fine, thanks


A capricious sun begets

Adumbral voyeurs

I sleep with fear,

With inconsolable wraiths

Pinned into the lascivious corners

Of my prevaricating smile,

I am fine thank you for asking,

Never mind the culling

Of my beleaguered eyes

Cerebral expenditure only,

Rest-assured I do not cry


My daughter has been home sick this week and I haven’t been able to complete a single thought. No sleep, no delicately articulated dreams, no peace whatsoever. Sam is working on the E-book but I do hope you will consider purchasing the actual paperback. In my humble opinion poetry should be intimate, it should be held. Also the book will be available for Amazon in the future. If anyone would like to help with the marketing that would be enormously appreciated I have no idea what I am doing and I fear I am not sufficiently outgoing.  If you have published books what has worked for you?



Adrian Borda

Was it a lust for pomegranates

That spirited you away?

Had I been forbidden

Would I now be in possession

Of that evasive fetish, love?

Can we ever own

What we cannot forgive?

Tenderness is pain

So I stand aloof as you pass

Into the arms of a darker man


You left without a presaging aura

Passion and denial do not coincide

We grow only so much

As our respective cocoons accede

And I have become so very small

The void deeper now than my content

I know why you left

I know why I let you

And I know, even though it kills me,

That I’d do it again


I am insular you are free

My limited view of heaven

Could never hold you intact

While you’re with him

Never think of me

I’ve spent my whole life

In games of comparison

Think of me only,

When empty


A fictional poem about a man with deep/paralyzing insecurities. I am listening to some ultra sad love songs. I have writer’s block which I’ve tried to fight with chocolate and sad music not sure that I succeeded. I also wrote a poem for Curious Flowers called Moirai


Surreal-Photography-by-Cristina-Venedict-02Cristina Venedict

If I were a Goddess

I wouldn’t have the heart

To unmake you

I’ve used too much stardust

In the construction of our lives

To concede mortality


I watch you paddle out to sea

A one man boat scavenging

That which is now foreign


If only loneliness were

Synonymous with freedom

Then we’d pass effervescently

From one life into the next

A self-perpetuating orgasm


I have never wanted for anything

As I have wanted for your presence

That we should exist intentionally

But you wish only to grace me

In the conditionals of happiness


The misanthropic flames

Of your cauterized heart

Resonant within my haunted attire

If I were real and you plausible

Perhaps we would indulge

A sycophantic majority

But we are too wild

For equestrian brutality

Too intrinsically motivated

To take what has not been

Sincerely given


Again the pain made it difficult to pin down my thoughts so sorry if this is lacking or incoherent. At Curious Flowers I posted a tutorial on how I find the photos for my blog I get asked a lot and I finally sat down and analyzed myself haha


BW5I ride the darker course

No pebbles attest my path

There is only the debris

Of capsized meteors

Cauterizing the soles

Of my wounded dreams


I walk on the bones

Of revolutionaries

And though my heart

Has a taste for blood

My hands remain

Modestly perched

Between my ribs


In the absence of aptitude

There is expenditure

I place these briny poems

Face down in rows

The pursuit of genius

Necessitates sacrifice


I am experiencing a lot self-doubt lately and I think that’s why I haven’t felt like writing as much

Becoming ID


I’ve got one hand flexed

Around the stem of a fertile pen

The other unscrewing

My cardiac valve

If I expose my blood

To the elements

Will I rust?

Tetanus immobilizing

My swaying limbs


Resolute or intransigent?

Will I flinch when reaping

Stark white monosyllables

From a verminous subconscious

Or will I burgeon as the Taoist

Spirit ripened through exposure?


My falling voice

Creates no ripples

Without witness

Do these despairing stanzas

Animate the way

They were intended?


Only foolish men

Need the comfort

Of vanity

Genius is complete

On creation


Here I stand

In pieces

A foolish man

Whispering to a crowd

Narcissism inverted

But equally self-obsessed


Of my flesh

These poems wear

The same cloak of invisibility

That I have worn,

Heedless of season

An impious hibernation

Silencing dissent

Fearful eyes adjust the margins

That I may continue unabated

To rest

Mediocrity, aborting



My treasonous heart

Goads my pen

Tap, tap, tap

An illithid stripping


From an onerous womb (mind)

An illithid stalking

Psionic walls

Emotional constructs

That lust not for revelation

But preservation


Confession, imminent

Vital to the integrity

Of my scaffolding

I must allay these burdens

Or abandon altogether

The wind


There is very little left

Of my super ego

I am becoming ID

Impulse over procedure

Viscera over vision

Semaphore over soliloquy

Mascara black, my words

Run on inquisition

Any closer and will both

Go mad


This poem is about my writing process I often start out very reserved, locked up, rigid, disconnected from my feelings, insecure I worry what others think, what I think about myself which isn’t good (this isn’t always the case but I am writing daily now and inspiration varies), I edit out things that are too personal. I end up with a few very tense lines and then I get to business hacking down all those barriers, barriers that my extreme shyness reconstructs daily. I eventually get to the vulnerable, juicy center and that is what I try to give you guys. By the time I get to the core I rarely care what anyone thinks because at that point it is all about the writing.  Writing is cathartic for me because I tend to be very very inhibited normally and I feel like myself when I write. The reason it sounds like multiple poems simultaneously is because that is actually how I write, several poems in the same breath all running together sometimes of a similar theme sometimes of very contrary themes.  I will invariably use all the poem but maybe not at the same time if it doesn’t fit together sensibly. This time I left it because I wanted to show you the untamed version lol

Illithid if you haven’t heard of one.