Poetry

i am ready to start over

ive finally found clarity... this new, alien feeling, i will treat it as if is it was a fledging tree. i will be tender with its root and I will sit back and watch with unparalleled awe at what i accomplished. green-thumb, green eyes darken to a lovely amber, i am ready to start over… Continue reading i am ready to start over

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Poetry

and then you were gone…

i woke up and then you were gone- i searched high and low, beneath a waning tree, and by that boy’s house who once said he was going to marry me. maybe one day I’ll accept the truth: that a love that is honest and true scared you more than the demons whispering in my… Continue reading and then you were gone…

Poetry

stuck in the past

i think you are still stuck in the past; trapped in an endless sleep cycle of should have’s and maybe’s. it’s a treacherous thing, to fall asleep lonely; waking up facing the left side and your heart grumbling as if it’s hungry. but as of lately, instead of facing reality, you close your eyes and… Continue reading stuck in the past

Poems Based on Flowers, Poetry

buttercup

things are not what they seem; tangled roots and spirally stems, boast a bouquet of blossoms so harmless, they are scary. tread carefully, whispers the leaves, watchful and aimless, each blade of grass trembles at my mane of yellow petals and sweet- tasting rain. i am everlasting, i am forgotten in place of cheaper names,… Continue reading buttercup

Poetry

sights never heard

a lack of pain, hope, joy in the midst of a rowdy crowd, smells i’ve never tasted, sights never heard, i am empty. empty not broken; broken can be repaired, sealed off with cement, but empty, empty is a state where you try in vain to fill this hole but you lose yourself in the… Continue reading sights never heard

Poetry

Stellification

Mecca-Amirah Jackson

I declare war on the stars
who continue to plague me with
answers to questions without margins.
Do the celestial beings way up above
pity us mortals whose wings
were clipped eons ago?
downcast and reticent, I withdraw
with each phase of the moon–
my righteous anger
boiling past boiling point.
Does the moon and her cohorts
mock us as we fail to grace her presence?
Engine fuel set aflame with dinosaur waste,
Is like a garden blooming with entrenched furrows
budding with delphinium monstrosities and
reluctant pupils. A bowed head with sprinkles
of hair, pale as a cistercian moon, and encapsulated
in the arched fang of a perpetual fiend, I journey past
the mundane and the monotonous limpid flow
of Life’s derision. If I close my eyes,
will I ever forget the melancholy taste of night?
Prevail, prevail! Send my loyal soldiers
swaddled in wolf’s fur and cow dung…

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