Author: poetryfest

This AIR, the DEBRIS, as it falls over me –
Is it healthy – or will I retard?
Turbine-engines screeching blast deafens my words of:
“I love you, too,” as you walk past –
and couldn’t hear me.

Everyone above is going somewhere and we are below;
Gagging upon their destination’s dreams.

If only you could hear me when I’m telling you/saying,
(whistles…) – Blasted engine has prevented: you from hearing my words that “I
Love You, too.”

So let’s do this: we will meet at the rendezvous.
I’ll wear something gold. You will just be you.
And before you know it, the distance between us will be much closer.

I find myself attached to a woman in the most peculiar way. I love her, but she’s a fractal scar of a person. She’s been struck by life, but who hasn’t. There’s a quietness I love about her – sheepish to show me what she likes; what music makes her soul breathe, what hobbies make her days feel more fresh.

I like how she makes a bad week into a perfect day, and I like how her by my side is like time standing still; honey in the air.

She drives me mad, but I keep running back to her everytime we argue. When we work together…we work together. I need her and I hope she needs me.

You do things for love that feel unnatural. Money gets spent, trips are traveled, and you don’t know yourself from the man you were first meeting her.

There’s diamonds and there’s rough, and she has a lot of dirt on her…but I don’t mind cleaning.

I love how she feels in my mind, but when we’re silent with one another it’s like a tumor; swelling and cracking my skull. I need her to be a part of my station; she’s the only frequency I want to hear.

The air is warm when she’s near. Not snow, sleet or rain could make me feel differently.

I want a coat made out of her voice. I want to put her smile in my pocket.

We break up and make up and now we’re just…two hearts in limbo.

I gave her all I could, but I’ll scrape the bottom of the barrel for more. I can pull my hair out over you but I’m not tired, and it always grows back.

I love you like I can’t explain. You’re mine, like blood in my body.

I hope I don’t say things in vain, because we’re cogs. We’re designed the same.

I want you to see what I see, and not run away. Every push feels like my soul is being punched.

I need you to heal yourself, so I can be yours.

I do my part, clean shaven and law abiding. The world is scary and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m trying. I try everyday to keep calm, but you make my emotions curse themselves.

You’re torrential…but you cool me down.

You’re mine. I want you even if it all seems pitch black.

You can be cold, but even a single match can draw heat for two.

Be mine, and open the door for my eternal waiting. A rose sits in my pocket even if I am just bones now.

…nevermind…I realised my own worth.

I read it in a book,
Where we took a road trip and I
Didn’t go to school,
I was young, and daisy-fresh,
And you were not.
I was 14 and you were not.

It comes back to me in waves,
One day I’ll be in class and I’ll remember.
One day I’ll be at work and then I’ll remember.
How your hands felt,
Dark and bruised like a butcher,
You were used to tearing meat apart,
And you sure didn’t spare me,

I used to think of myself like a lamb in this allegory but
Now I know I was never that pure, that special,
I was complicit in your carnage,
Snarled my teeth with you,
Play fighting gone wrong and then
I said Stop and I said stop and I said stop and
I’ll never forgive myself for what you did to me.

the nine daughters of Zeus
who inspired Homer and Aesop
traveled from the shores of the Mediterranean
to the beaches of Malibu
to cast their screenplays to the ethos
in Hollywood.

but now, the Muses
trapped in the Getty Villa
between the rolling Pacific Palisades fire
and the pocket of the offshore wave
ponder their fates.

The smoldering brimstone
rises from Hades
consuming the city of Angels
with an appetite
of Vesuvius consuming Pompeii.

When dreams turn to stone,
the weight of slow revelation presses like iron chains,
dragging you into the marrow of loss,
where even your blood tastes of rust—
bitter, metallic, a hero blind to his own wounds.

You mourn yesterday like a ghost trapped in cracked mirrors,
splintering bones that were already broken.
A fractured heart wanders through hollow corridors,
seeking a home that time has long abandoned.

Hopeless hopes hang heavier
than the sighs of days, months, and years
collapsing like tired stars into the abyss.

You wish you had poured love
into hands that turned to dust,
left fingerprints on those now faded into silence.
Perhaps the only dream worth dreaming
is the one where the world still does not know your name—
and yet, you are still breathing.

The star, once the keeper of your whispered wishes,
flickers, wavers, pleads—
“I don’t want to die.”

If I was blue, I’d dive into the ocean,
Let the waves pull me under, lost in their motion.
If I still had you, I’d dive into your arms,
Safe from the storm, sheltered from harm.

If I wasn’t blue, I’d find the right words,
But silence is heavy, and truth goes unheard.
If you only knew how I reach for the past,
But time moves too quickly, nothing can last.

If I was blue, well, I’m already blue,
Drowning in echoes of things we once shared.
If I were you, would I fade like the tide?
Would I let go, or would I still fight?

If I was blue, I’d call out your name,
But maybe to you, I’m just part of the rain.
If I were you, I’d probably forget me too,
Like footprints in water, gone out of view.

If I was grey, I’d linger at dusk,
Caught in the quiet where memories rust.
Not black, not white, just lost in between,
A shade of the moments that never have been.

If I was grey, I’d drift with the mist,
Soft as a whisper, too faint to resist.
Not cold, not warm, just fading away,
A ghost of the words we forgot how to say.

If I was grey, would you notice at all?
Or am I the shadow that clings to the wall?
Not here, not gone, just waiting to be,
A whisper of color you no longer see.

If I was grey, I’d blend with the sky,
Holding the storms that you left behind.
Not rain, not shine, just longing to stay,
But maybe I’ve always been fading to grey.

If I was black, I’d swallow the light,
Fold into silence, vanish from sight.
Not day, not night, just empty and vast,
A place where the echoes of love never last.

If I was black, I’d drift with the void,
A space where the heartache can’t be destroyed.
Not soft, not sharp, just endlessly deep,
A chasm where all of the lost secrets sleep.

If I was black, would you feel me at all?
A shadow behind you, too distant to call.
Not here, not gone, just pulling you in,
A whisper of absence that chills on the skin.

If I was black, I’d be the last page,
The ink that bleeds, the end of the stage.
Not love, not hate, just all that remains,
A silent heart where echoes remain.

They were all dead
Bodies found

It happened within
A blink of an eye

Lots of people, I must say

The journalists
Were busy blathering to the microphone
The police force
Would not arrive until daybreak
The relatives
Bawled like babies
The crowds
Enjoyed the showbiz

What they did not know was that
He was still there
In the people
In the riot
Staring dead-eyed
At the bloodstained dress

How did I know, after all?
Am I dead? Possibly yes.

You make a habit of loving things that are
out of reach. You choose neither tower
nor sun. Candlewax & goose feather
wings grow cracked and cold
in pitch black November night.
Your husband is a crack
dealer. Your lover
has a
wife.

You’re stranded in frozen prairies. Demeter asks
you to join her where mountains meet the sea.
Granville Island—salted caramel fudge—boba tea.
Snow burns your feet. Pomegranate seeds
get stuck in your teeth.
Mercury is in retrograde.
The stars make
you ache.

you wrote songs to our love. I was your golden one,
a muse, an angel. I floated down from heaven,
landed tip-toed, en pointe atop my marble pedestal.

I still remember
the rough edges of your voice,
the soul of it beaming through,
cinnamon simmering alto, smooth
for all its ridges.

you penned novels of this love. within their pages,
we lived a different life, far off in the distant future,
the place where I live now, without you.

maybe we lived in
a new york city brownstone,
a european villa, an island
paradise, though paradise was wherever
we found ourselves
together.

you breathed poetry for our love. each token was
a metaphor, each stolen moment a verse, each love
letter a dreamy ode to our shakespearean tragedy.

I have burned so many things—
I burned the letters.
it didn’t feel right
to throw them in the trash.
the strange ritualism of it,
the legacy of destruction
of the generations
we do our part in compounding.

in another universe, you are still writing me songs.
I am still writing you poetry. maybe you have a better
relationship with your parents. maybe we’ve both
given up drinking. or maybe I’ve forgiven myself,
forgiven you.
our midnight sighs could make me dizzy, still giddy
with the resplendence of the shiny & new.
we do not lie to each other anymore.

the songs would still be for me
instead of about me.
the stories still ours,
not spun & stretched
for the ears of a stranger.
instead,

the only one still writing the stupid poetry is me.

I was living hell,
not a metaphor, or a dream,
No this was real,
the kind that brands your bones,
a building caught on fire with no emergency exit.

Stuck in rooms that never felt like mine,
stained walls, ceilings too low,
air so thick, it filled up my lungs,
drowned me from the inside out,
shoved its fingers down my throat
until I was throwing up rage.

Sinking into corners,
pushing against walls,
always breaking things—
myself, mostly.

I wanted to claw my way out of my own skin,
crawl out,
but there was nowhere to go.

So, I smashed things,
just to watch my hands bleed.
Stuffed my mouth with pills,
chased them with liquor.

I broke people,
wore them down,
spent years running,
slamming doors.
I fought with anyone,
anywhere.

I wanted love, I did,
but love tasted like rust in my mouth,
so I bit down until I bled.
I burned bridges,
pushed people so hard they never turned back.
I ruined hands that tried to hold me,
made them regret ever reaching out.

I hated everything,
everyone.
the smell of fresh air made me sick,
the sight of people smiling—
made me want to tear my face off.

I hated Christmas lights, birthday candles,
holidays were just reminders,
I had survived another year
when I wasn’t supposed to.

I chased destruction like a maniac,
I ruined everything good,
just to see what was left underneath.

Nothing was left.
Just anger,
panic that I could never outrun.

Prisoner of my own thoughts,
fighting battles that never ended.
I was running from everything,
and running toward nothing.

I could feel the rot in my bones,
but I couldn’t stop.
I didn’t know how.

In the quiet moments—
when the fight paused,
when I stood still
and realized I wasn’t winning.
I wasn’t even fighting.
I was just falling apart,
piece by piece.
But I didn’t know how to stop.
I didn’t know how to put it back together.

So I let it burn.
I let everything burn.
Because that’s what I was made for,
to destroy,
to break,
to let everything collapse
until there was nothing left but the ashes.

And even then,
even as everything crumbled,
I didn’t know how to let go.
I just stood there,
waiting for something to end me