Author: poetryfest

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.

I turn on the news to start my day
An asteroid they say is coming our way
To turn our homes into piles of clay

I ask my dad if he’s feeling scared
but he just says he doesn’t care

“I can’t wait to see it take down Mr. Brown”
he says without a single frown
I say “But what about me? And you? And the town?”

“Not important,” he says, “that man has it coming!”
He goes back to work and starts cheerfully humming
Ignoring my plea that we start running

I step into class and tell my teacher Miss Bass
“At last” she says, “My days with that principle will finally pass.”
I say “But doesn’t this feel a little bit crass?”
She responds “you’d better not give me anymore sass!”

I tell the principle about our incoming doom
She says “About time I can put my mother in a tomb”“But it won’t just be her” I say with
gloom
She replies “Now then, don’t worry, we can’t just assume.”

Walking home I come across neighbor Ross
I ask him if he feels the same sense of loss
He says “I’m just glad it’ll crush my dang boss”

No one else in the town wants to make a mad dash
To anywhere that will be safe from the crash
So I walk into my yard and wait for the smash
The sky grows red in a great big flash
And everyone cheers as we’re turned into ashe

Deeply stricken by death,
I renounce Violence; May those who live blossom underneath
Warm sunsets that Bhumi embraces.
Sunshine kisses those brows that once creased with fear;
Goats that trembled bleat joyfully, yet never fully realize.
Lotus flowers decorate pillars resembling strength
They represent a feeling meant to propel tranquility.
No longer do I siphon subversive looks, stares,
Pitiful people who dust my feet, averse to military control.
Ashoka my mother calls me, So to them a mother summons.
I have taken the world into my orbit, I am careful that I don’t fall.
“All that we are is the result of what we have thought,”

When I begin to feel it…
I didn’t realize,
what I was feeling.
See,
in the beginning…
Surely I found myself distracted.
Crafted,
by societies…
unwritten lines.
Clearer the signs…
Deeper the cries…
No matter,
how hard one tries,
you cannot hide,
from the eye,
that always sees.
Force of nature,
will have one not to believe…
What being chosen achieves.
Deflective,
passes time.
Marinating…
and contemplative…
The signature is when life becomes reflective.
Mirrored Actions,
brought about emotions…
That’s caught…
At the best stages of your life…
Secrets…
Regrets…
Haven’t sat in thought…
When awakened…
just remember,
you weren’t supposed to know better.
But,
now that you do…
How are you going to continue to move?

There was a time long ago
Before the truth was set free.
When love had an even flow,
And fairness was not a plea.
Soon after the games and fun,
Would I have a chance to see
You were always holding a gun,
Just never pointed at me.
Others knew the arms you bore
And would run away in disgust.
Belief in your drive to fight the war
Allowed me to give you my trust.
In your times of needing backup,
I expected to receive your call.
Sadly you couldn’t pass up
The enemy between us after all.
Sometimes it was your foe.
Other days it was your love.
I always reached high and low
To fight and keep you above.
Finally the enemy suffered defeat,
And we reached the other side.
But left was a thing I couldn’t beat,
Something you were unable to hide.
The view of me without the enemy
Was the strangest sight to you.
There was in fact no remedy
To show what you always knew.
In a blink of an eye,
You began to throw many a stone.
I had thought I was your ally.
Your true self had ultimately shown.
I am no longer your crutch,
Or your shoulder to cry.
I will never do things as such
Since you couldn’t even try.
Now you beg for my grace
As if I hadn’t shown it before.
I can see it in your face,
The enemy has what you adore.
Did you forget I was your peer
When others decided to run
Holding nothing but the fear
Of the damage that could be done?
I was the one who was tough.
I didn’t want you to waste.
But now I see I wasn’t enough.
Your true love is that awful taste.
It’s time I say goodbye
For you I cannot fix.
I have slowly bled myself dry
Falling for all your tricks.
In the end I am set free
From the loyalty that was false.
The gun you drew upon me
Was the last of your faults.
I am left to repair what you broke,
Essentially mending my heart.
I won’t be left behind to choke,
Even if you fall apart.

I’m sitting in the car after work.
Why am I sitting in the car after work?
Why is the scariest thing my own driveway?
I can hear the neighbors shout from here.
I can hear how quiet it is
When I’m sitting here
Nothing going on.
I think too often I picture putting a gun to my head.
How many times do we have to write about a gun to our head?
Maybe I’d write better with a—
Funny thing, death.
I have to pick up groceries still.
I think there’s a game on
Maybe that’s why they’re yelling
I think I was made wrong
Or maybe I just got too full of myself.
Had this idea that I could be that thing.
That different thing.
That thing English majors write papers about
That thing young people idolize when they teach themselves guitar
I’d hate to ruin it
My car—
I imagine it would be tough to clean my brains off the interior
It’s not leather
It’s just brain matter—
Do I matter? Does that matter?
Whatever.
It’s getting cold in here.
I’m still singing the song my phone stopped playing
The neighbors aren’t yelling anymore
Maybe they were singing happy birthday
To you — to you —
My dog barked.
The world, crashing back, a raging wave but
It recedes.
You’re just sitting in the car home from work.
Breathe.