Synesthesia Specialist

I won’t really go by any other name, and that’s also not my real name. I don’t know, I’d rather keep stuff anonymous.

Search #poetry for all my actual poems and no reposts.

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I enjoy writing a lot, and I welcome you to read all my poetry and share some of your thoughts on it with me, as I love writing sneaky references or ambiguity in my poems that are rewarded by a thorough reading. Though, since I have nothing like a beta reader, I can’t always tell if it will land. Still, please give it a try.

Ever see a plane, soaring the sky

And think of how magical it was to first set in flight?

Be it a baby bird, born just yesterday,

Or the brothers that made wings for human life

Now its airbuses, and every one can touch those clouds

Cruising at steady speed to reach somewhere else

They look for a lover, for the first time,

They go for a wedding, in a pack

They escape their country, in looks,

Up high, of new ventures in new lands,

They travel silently, in a tiny arrow

Leaving water ripples of the sky

Though I aspire to inspire, I can’t compete

The curves I was blessed with are but bleak,

Amorphous chalk doodles of mother earth,

Of its mighty mountains and valleys.

We sprinkle with our fingers words of “beauty”

And “art”, but given human thought,

And yet the most magical of perfumes,

Or the most dedicated choice of attire,

Will never inspire on the man I love

The same way he is when nature has sunny makeup

In the midst of a sunset,

To create new worlds with words,

To paint our paths intertwined,

Or to graze the subject of its sculpture

Sages say you should spend your time wisely

I have a tree to cut, and I should spend my time,

Instead of cutting,

By sharpening a metal axe I bought at discount.

Cluttering up my thoughts, a limestone, I roll the pedal

To shave away deviant atoms, sparking slowly

Heck, to think this axe I thought so lowly

Can turn into wood chopping finest test.

It ended in one single swoop.

Another came in, and I chopped again.

Another morning came, and I chopped again,

But the edge had creases,

so its roll again,

its limestone,

its mornings and nights and dawns,

its doing it faster every time,

Its noticing my arms to widen

Alongside the shape of the tree logs to cut.

My name is now Woodchopper.

I used to be another, but, heck,

Now I am realized, I realized

So whatever the sage meant, though I wonder,

Your heartbeat is playful

A black cat, almost silent, irregular

My heart cant be faithful

For I terror for when you trip up

For how do I know you will keep living

Your next four lives

I have only one, feline eyes,

And I want to spend it with you,

So can you guess the twist of knife

that happens

the moment you say the same to me?

I will have this life of yours, and yet

Let’s celebrate their death

For why would we force a cloudy weather

When the sun will come out tomorrow as well

Make ashes confetti, make gray a full color

Is it a shoddy home or a homely spirit

That allows for thunder to break our lights

And its all dark, hot water runs

Only in my flimsy veins, that is,

And the rain has ruined my phone

So I went out, and my eyes got used to the dimness

And I saw everyone out, my warm friends

To make my now soaked clothing’s weight

Nothing but a blanket against evil

I looked up at the soaking rain,

And I just closed my eyes, to let it have me

So for a moment, even if silly,

I used to mostly get cleaned up by my human

Though, granted, that was also who got dirt on me

I remember it had a time of the day, it’s 1 PM

Then sticky strands, or fluffy white rocks would appear

I would get lightly scratched and they would disappear

After, I don’t know, maybe half an hour, though,

Sometimes it took longer as the human laughed

Or cried, or left it cold.

I didn’t quite enjoy the inconsistencies, however.

After perhaps a couple months my human would set me up

At odder times, other times like 2PM, and leave me in a pool

Dirty and disgusting, sometimes till next day.

Sometimes, half the white rocks would stay there,

And get into the mouth of an off smelling black void.

I am waiting today, once again. Today It was long laces.

They turned stiff with time, like a personal vendetta

Against it.

Red brush strokes on my body, too, they got tatted on myself.

It’s been a week now.

I cant hear no laughs, no cries, and I am cold

Today the mold grew on my tattoos to replace them

With scenic white and evergreen.

And I would miss the touch of the human

When it dried me up, when it was on time.

Today, it’s so monotone.

There's no change.

And yet,

Usually, it starts with a building up of ink

That makes a bubble, its signature sheen

All until it fades away comfortable in a sheet

Of paper that melted with it, now clean

All without reflection, just pure black

Then, this needle of creativity scratches

Its surface expertly, with barely any resistance

It slides through, it curves it

The ink swells up

It makes for the gothic landscape

Of little doodles, hearts and plants

It makes for the shadows in the mind

Of the artist

Crazy question to ask. Funnily enough, I don't "fear" what humanity can do. I am plenty trusting people will continue existing and not like, end themselves, which is probably the main concern most people would have.

I saw myself, picture bare, naked, in the mirror

Those eyes were lost and had a cross over them,

Like someone went missing, like two black puddles

Among the white grass and red bloodshot rivers

Of its little lit off light-bulbs

Half closed curtains, and yet the sun was livid

Laughing when it showed my face so crystal clear

That tidbit or other, of grey micro-expressions,

Yet I told myself no, this isn’t depression

It’s hatred for you, me, and this puddle of tears

I won’t be the same

I swear, I’ll remember this face, mirror

And it will look at me back later,

When the nights cease to please me in silence

Mother told me nature is good

The natural formulae of these geometric walls

They spotlight my mind, I’m a deer

And my dear friends are the same, let me steer

The wheel of the feeling of real

When it swirls tempting with the thoughts in my nails

Then my hair too, turning to pale, frizzy hale

It’s a barn and I smell the horse shit

From a mile, a dime away

More than that, there is here

And here is there

And here and there I see a manic hare

With swirly eyes, the mad hatter

Made its crooked teeth the same

As their stepped on duck-beak

And the treat they hand me, a treat

What luck, cheek’s are turned for a second slap

to reality, to blackness, to childhood memories

to fears that mean nothing for us

and me, and us,

and you and I,

and so…