Poetic Stories

I miss my scribbles on diary so much

Blank pages are remaining as such.

The stickers I used to put on it

as decoration, faded, after I quit.

Two-three pages carrying some words

some lines, some crossed-out marks.

Dust on the cover mirrors my negligence

Sigh! there was a time it has watched my diligence.

A monster was born within me captured my soul,killed heartlessly.

A new phoneix has arisen

Now there is no fear of arson.

Rebirth will mark the roots

where the strings became so loose.

Once again the pen will write

where the friction will make sure the words ignite.

“Not that you’re an experiment. It’s just that every relationship you’ve ever had has failed you in some way. It makes me mad,” his voice rang with sincerity as my body stilled.

His words had hit a nerve so deep, I didn’t dare move.

I didn’t dare speak.

I didn’t dare breathe,

for fear that I would break,

and break,

and break.

It was the truth, what he said, people had always failed me,

and finally see

Curing every broken part of me,

Reviving all the deadest feelings,

That I had long buried,

Never thinking I could ever get saved...

©️fallencalliope

one hand opens

unclenches from around

ruined stems, like a falling

a topple of petals

a wilting of what was sown

the once sacred geometries

of unfurling

color, given form by wavelengths

watched by eyes beholden to light

unmade by dark, like us, a loss,

a regret, a word spoken,

painted in anger

shade of scorn, in time, fleeting,

callous pride, a seed descending

from its host, resentful of the soil

in which it lies

the other hand reaches, claws

at the throat, where rests a scream

or a sob, refusing to burst,

and only chokes

and only suffocates

and only speaks as an undervoice,

defiant, unformed, unbirthed,

growing into something maybe worse

Puffs of clouds over silos

Like an old man’s cigars

Craning between the farms

Green hills and rain channels

Taxing the wind as it rolls

Find that lake, gem in the corn

And feel the red-hot iron sun

Open window, tomato arm

Give it gas, the big hill climb

Where the worries go

To the watering hole

Sudden rain, pouring on

The thirsty birds scattering

Like their kids from the fuzz

Rain checked

We must

Under the grumble of thunder

@16tinyfrogs has inspired me to try contrapuntal poems and I'm kinda hooked. I have attempted to do the alt text/image description below the cut.

spattering

on unfamiliar ceramic

because men made

a fool

of the girl in me.

My head thick with

whole days

lost to lethargy,

I craved constancy— offered myself

like a dirty plate,

then cried like a child.

When I granted myself clemency,

I turned my body

from

do nothing

to

do something.

I stemmed

the effluence

of generations

that lurched

toward the bottle

in threes—

still sometimes,

I slip

on the memory

of how thrilling

Horrors lingering in my shadows, awaiting for an attack.

Anxiety.

Supercilious meat

is stuffed inside

pristine suits

and muddied tank tops.

Only the dust

is infallible.

So many people

have grafted gavels

onto their beating hearts

while screaming "peace"

into meditation halls

thinking that it will save the world

but the only thing

that can rescue us

is to shake hands

with every dirty window

and open our minds

to welcome

She wore green to meet him,

a gown sleek and shiny, emerald

silk that looked darker in the night.

Her eyes wide and wet as he moved

from behind the gnarled oak tree,

to the warped boards of the dock.

She heard his soft hullo over the

rushing water of the crossing.

"I shouldn't be here," she said.

"Not with you."

"No," he agreed. "I could ruin you."

"I'd drown in the scandal."

"Surely, my lady, I would drown

with you," his lips whispered against

the night-cooled skin of her neck.

"There are worse fates."

She yielded to him, sinking into his

flesh as she would sink into the

crossing. Her pulse thrumming in

her ears alongside the rush of water

and his heavy breath. His sting,

sharp and piercing. Then a flood

of gold warming her body.

Some months later, when she began

to show, when she floundered in the

broken glass waters of scandal, she

sent a letter to him, a plea in shaky

script, sealed with tears. Her scorpion

sent back a single sentence:

"You knew what I was."

And as his child formed inside her,

she remembered that old fable.

Frog and scorpion. Drowning together.

The scorpion, though, is born of fire

and water. He can shoot the rapids

of scandal just fine,

When the going got tough and your head hung low?

Where did they come from? Why are they here,

Lifting your hand with a champion's cheer?

So many hands that could have taken the load.

So many feet that could have walked on the road.

Where were they when needed?

Why were you not heeded,

Hello everybody!

For a year or so, I've been inspired by @two-bees-poetry to write a contrapuntal; though I've been stumped by how to finish them, in contrast to more linear works. Since my views of the United States are a bit muddied, for Independence Day, I'd figure to write something about ideals vs. reality.

A flush of desire

Today you live in my veins

All decadent

Ravishing

And enthralling

Your image flooding me

From head

To toe

Until I almost feel you

Almost taste you

Almost hear you

Inside of me

My body pulsing

With a hunger

And fire

And shimmering

Want

That cannot be safisfied

stages.

They say it

ranges from

mild

to severe.

It's a spectrum,

like many things—

with a shiny new term,

like a rinsed dish.

Yet you remain

unregenerate,

like the rest

of your generation.

Why refute

a turn

toward tenderness?

Why stay

gazing

into a scratched glass?

I cleaned up. It wasn’t

fast; it was the

last thing I wanted

to do.

But I

shaped myself

with the best of you.

If only you’d