Author: poetryfest

Matilda was the witch’s new apprentice,
Rosamel looked for someone whose soul was atramentous.
She lived in Brittleberg forest gathering fungi,
Hurring about, the witch’s hour was nigh.
Without enchantment nor permission did they speak,
Matilda told them off, the girl was not meek.
They told a tale of the moon, who hated those cats,
They feared the moon would not come back.
By eve the next day, she had caught those felines,
and into the cauldron as she did the lupines.
This was an act the witch did not sanction,
She warned that her deeds were akin to abaction.
They argued as Rosamel put horses in the stable,
The girl fumed; compromise was not on the table.
“Know this young apprentice,” the witch warned,
“An impulsive witch will not be mourned.
Abstain from heeding unsolicited fears,
Or one day you may harm someone’s beloved dears.”

Oh fox, oh hare, oh bird
Rest now, animals of the Earth
Playing, amoung the leaves
Rats, and bees, and fish
hiding in the sage green leaf
Looking towards its kingdom
the great lion, king of the jungle
Standing proudly, but empty
stuffed with cotton,
but as it stands proudly
its reign does not end.

he curse has always been there, deep inside my being
I’ve always been good at hiding it, keeping it from fleeing
But then she came along, my dearest Red
And now, the thought of her fills my mind with dread
Not fear of her but the fear of her safety
I’m afraid of what I would do to her. I can’t ever be too hasty
The thought of hurting her shakes me to my core
And I’m frightened by the thought of her being covered in her crimson gore
My little Red means the world to me, her presence calms me
Though it also ignites the monster inside; the creature she can’t see
Everything about her drives me and the beast insane
Her fiery hair, her silver eyes, even the freckles on her skin does something to me that I can’t explain
Her voice is like honey. So smooth, sweet, and leaves you wanting more
And God, her laughter is one of the many things I adore
Her scent of all is as intoxicating as her eyes
Like Lillies and ambrosia, and apple pies
I don’t know what it is or even why she has this effect on me
But what I do know is that I want her more than anything…but I can’t help but flee
I know well enough that if I let it free she would surely perish
That the wolf inside would tear apart the one person I strongly cherish
Is she a dream? Or is she for real?
Oh what I would give to hear her pleasure-filled squeal
To have her writhing under my frame and begging for more
And to feel her clawing my back and cry out like my own perfect whore
I wish to taste her apple colored lips and her tender sun-kissed skin
Would she feel like a dream? Or like a deadly sin
It doesn’t even have to be the full moon to feel that monster trying to come out
Making me growl and snarl. And let out a frustration-filled shout
Holding her hand as we walk along the road
Her tiny, soft hand. Fingers plump and round
I wish to kiss every single finger and make my way up to her lips
To look her in those beautiful eyes, my hands on her hips
I want just one moment of tenderness without that beast trying to escape
So instead I just stand and watch her pick flowers; in her crimson cape
They say that even a man whos pure of heart can still change into a wolf at night
When the wolfsbane blooms and the full moon is bright
Whoever said that was right. All they said was true
Because whenever it does come out, it’s her it will pursue
And when I’m away from her it only gets worse!
And the lingering memories of her figure and scent can’t keep containing the curse
Nights filled with lustful dreams have me growling and tearing everything apart
From my thirst for her very presence, and the loneliness of my heart
But no matter how much I want to have her and claim her as mine
I can’t bring myself to do such a thing; all for this ravenous canine!
She may be a woman, yes, but there’s still a hint of innocence in her still
A fair dame with the heart of a maiden. As lovely as the Daffodil
Her eyes hold a hint of innocent wonder and she still dances happily in the rain
Yet she also holds pure desire in those eyes. Something that still invades my brain
All I can do though is protect her from those who carry ill will
To play and use her, for the pleasure and the thrill
So when she asks me to accompany her on her walk to her grandmother’s house
I will hold her close and securely from those that wish to remove her blouse
I know she feels the same as I do, those feelings of the purest love
But I can’t let her know the monstrous lust that inside I shove
And yet even when I try to run and gently move her away
I can’t help but lean into the kiss; so sweet it makes my figure sway
I feel my teeth and claws grow sharp as blades
As we both share our passionate kiss there in the forest shades
She sees me change yet she doesn’t run away in fear
Instead, she lets me take her into my arms and hold her near
My darling Red is so small compared to my monstrous frame
And so queer we are together, the Wolf and his firey Dame
She can bring both the good and the ugly out of me
And as I let the wolf out, she refuses to flee

I have never trusted the ways in which
people hold others
So closely.

I always feared I would be smothered
under the weight of affection
or responsibility.
Some sacrifice I never thought I could make.

But, in the end
I was the one who clawed at my ribs
every night,
gasping for air in the dark,

So depraved.

My feet would walk me to your door.

I worried over the lines in your face
How they deepen and shrug
mapping a chart across your brow.

A constellation of time passed,
a consolation for times to come.

I carved some of them there
right there
where your mouth goes askew.

Keep them
Please, keep them.

surely on this night the snow looks like
ballerinas spinning across a dim stage / behind
me the bed was an iceberg of a swan until you
came you knocked and swept the wings of
your coat around me / now you remove your
tie and top hat shadows of damp lingering as I
linger at the pane content to gaze at a reflection
and yet / and yet you are here messing up
the bed in a haste constructed by routine / surely
this shining night with stars and snow should
not be melted away by friction-filled limbs / I
would like to kiss you to stop you for you will
not stay / still / off in the night cold little ballet slippers
twirling disappearing beneath dark vespertine sheets

Even though they wield their hate like a blade,
carving us out of their vision,
even though their stones shatter windows
and ricochet off the walls of our bodies,
even though their eyes strip us bare,
turning love into something they dare to despise—
we still stand.

Even though they pen laws to chain us,
build prisons disguised as sanctuaries,
and whisper sermons that crack like whips,
even though they try to legislate
the pulse of our hearts,
the bend of our hands,
the fire in our lips—

We make love anyway.

In the quiet rebellion of a breath
against bare skin,
in the sacred heat of bodies refusing to break,
in every kiss that says,
“You cannot take this from us.”

We make love anyway,
because love,
even here,
even now,
is untouchable

i’m intoxicated from the pills & the wine & his company;
so i lavish myself with the floor, drinking in his scent
as he tries to pry me from the hardwood. he kisses me
on the head while laughing, which sends me into a rant
about how much i love him. when i say i’ll marry him,
he agrees. but because he’s standing me up under the
water & leaning against the shower glass, he doesn’t
take me seriously. i tell him i’ll remember everything,
wondering if he’ll think it all drunken nonsense.

In this relentless chaos of the void,
where the struggle to live
becomes a harder choice,
despite the disappointment,
amidst the dissonant noise,
I still try to mend the pieces
as my world slowly destroys.

What should I call myself?
A person of perpetual failure,
or a loser mired in defeated thoughts?
Or a shadow lost in its own despair,
haunted by hope’s endless noughts.

Being stuck in these throes of absurdity,
every passing moment feels like a curse;
a boundless loop, where eventually
everything grows worse.
Do I call it hope that keeps me alive?
Or is it the responsibility and the pain
that keeps me from passing by?
Should I cling to the hope
that’s merely a disguise?
An endless futility,
where dreams compromise.

For what is life if not
an inevitable march towards the end;
where every moment seems ephemeral,
like sand slipping through our hands?
Yet, why does one choose Jōhatsu—
to efface their life’s disgrace;
eventually vanishing into the murk,
leaving without a trace?
It is not the pain but
the weight of failure they face;
the transient life that compels them –
to erase their own place.

Within this endless void, a question persists:
“Will tomorrow be better?”
I used to ask, hoping in a future fair;
a brighter life, where troubles would be rare.
Or
“Will tomorrow be any better?”
I sigh, worn out by this nightmare;
as this uncertain life
is now far beyond repair.

I’m still stuck with the ashes of my past,
which decease my burning future;
as I unfold the memories into the present,
i feel that the end is near.
Even if all this goes in vain,
What more am I left to lose?
As the more I try to know,
the less I wish to live or choose.
So there I stood watching
everything fall apart,
as life crumbles in silence
like broken glass.
And that’s when I knew,
I was never enough
And my heart, it shattered,
drowning in its bluff.

In this boundless expanse a question seeks;
• “Am I finally free?”
I asked as a kid, when I used to sprint through the open fields;
Or
• “Am I finally free?”
now i whisper as I suicide, moments before my spirit yields ⚰.

One morning, I watched a girl gluing leaves on a tree outside the old man’s house. The tree, he’d said, should never be bare. The tree, whose leaves had withered and fallen, scattered across the garden’s floor like a golden veil soon after his passing. She heard it crying at night from her bedroom window. Its voice far away, yet it would enter her dreams and disrupt her sleep. Enough so that she wanted to make it feel whole again, comforted and loved. I wondered what the old man meant. If someone must care for the tree, ensuring its branches were always filled with leaves, or did he mean nature would do its part? A marcescent, in which the tree would sustain its leafiness from season to season, never shedding through years of new growth. His tree, a favorite home for the white crown sparrows, yellow rumpled warblers, and house finches to savor a safe landing during a winter’s rain. The girl sang as she stood in a skirt of leaves, picking up each one by its finger-like stem and carefully gluing it back to the crown of the tree. She waved the glue like a maestro conducting her song, the long, thin paintbrush dropping excess below— ants and debris coated with a thin film of stickiness in a coverlet of pearl film beside her feet. I worried about the fallen leaves being too brittle, dried out, and lifeless. If they’d crumble and drift through the air like tiny particles of death despite the girl’s efforts. This might have been her whole life’s story; it was that noble of a gesture. I didn’t want to tell her how futile it was, that soon, the tree would be empty again. But The girl could sleep while the tree paused its tears, showing gratitude for her kindness, knowing it was the best she could do―though soon she heard it, weeping again. So, she glued a picture of the old man on her window, a drawing she’d made one afternoon while he was admiring his tree. And the tree stopped its tears and became hearty and full of foliage, and the girl
was able to finally sleep―and somewhere in a faraway place, the old man was grateful that his life, even in death, made a difference.