Tag: poems

Poetry: Suture

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My blistered fingers tremble

They cannot cling to your adulterous flesh.

Death is my coveted cradle.

While Hades sings to me my lullaby.

I spend the night stitching with black thread

I stitch my severed limbs together.

I try to revive my dead skin

The smell of burning corpses

Makes me feel intoxicated.

There’s nothing left here

Only filth and grime.

All the putrid life of the Tiber nourishes me.

Broken shadows from my past invade my dark dreams.

I fall inside the mouth of Hell

Crossing the river Styx with my sentinel.

None of this would’ve befallen me

If you hadn’t plucked my blinded eyes.

If you hadn’t polarized my mind.

If you hadn’t crucified my heart.

Now that I’m at the stake

The flames closing in to devour me.

I wonder if you consider your cruel act a mistake

Or did you murder me in your heart long before?

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken

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Poetry: Paper Monsters

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A black Sicilian veil cloaks my ashen thoughts.

He tastes like half-eaten candies,

Licorice and cinnamon.

Cobblestone streets reflect minuscule paper monsters.

My heart is filled with a fiery lava, the kind that

Explodes from Etna in the sky at night.

I’ve been waiting for his return.

I’m afraid that soon the fire in my heart

Will fade and become an ice black.

Almond blossoms adorn my bed,

His last words echo in my brain and I writhe

Restlessly….

My body aches for his touch—

I just want to break a little….

I dream of becoming a tragic heroine

A Giovanni Verga character incarnate.

This is how you draw a broken heart:

Dip your fingers in blood and don’t

Hesitate to botch the final project.

His image hovers over me like

A storm cloud in April…

Ever present but translucent

As the flesh fades to cold coal.

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Lost Girls Go Everywhere: Poetry & Prose on Amazon!

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Poetry: Apexia

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blonde long hair of smiling woman

Photo by Neemias Seara on Pexels.com

A tangerine and lavender dawn bleeds across the horizon and

I drop my hiking pack on the cold, rocky ledge.

My breath rasps cold and jagged down my throat,

Much like breathing in a piece of amethyst,

Depositing it into the quarry of my oxygen-starved lungs.

The air at this altitude is shallow, lacking nourishment,

Much like the education that inebriated me

Throughout my formulaic youth.

Every facet of my life had been fastidiously polished

With superficial pageantry and public praise.

Until I became a ghostly reflection

Of the studio lights that shone on me.

Condensation swirls from my lips now,

As if a few society’s expectations

Escapes with each exhale.

Alone at the summit,

I am sober.

There is no intoxicating high of over-proof self-worth,

Only a calm, pure proof spirit.

I sit cross-legged on the cold, rocky ledge.

Admire the bruises blossoming on my shins.

Much like purple merit badges bestowed from the mountain.

By: Erica Ruhe

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Poetry: Fire Effects

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We are of Taraxacum.

A volatile genus in duress.

Our heads disseminate, blown from our stems.

Rash thoughts ignite into words and whirl

On the wind,

Take seed in a flash of tongue and slice of eye.

In the young, loamy soils

We till fears deep.

They spring up from the ground and

Spark into being.

Fractured fragments of the whole,

Born from friction, this contempt consumes.

And it is like a wildfire.

Thick, fiery vines twist and coil.

Flowers, stoked to an angry bloom, blaze and burst,

Throwing open petals wide with the backdraft of odium.

It scorches and scars the skin of the earth.

We are barbaric in this unnatural state.

Hearts sterilized by the heat of hate.

Hearts full of bitter sap and brambled embers.

Roiling smoke stings and blinds us,

Chokes away our empathy.

This fury lashes through our humanity

Until there are only blackened sticks and

Smoking patches of ashy dirt.

The afterglow of spent, searing sentiments

Fade from the carpel.

Here, a pistil of arrogance and one of defeat,

And here, a pistil of disgust

And another of ignorant nostalgia.

Fear singes the last delicate cell walls

In a red, luminescent squall line.

And finally, fully charred,

The spent bloom wilts and crumbles.

But their fire has not left me infertile.

In this crackling, wild prairie,

There is a budding, a delicate anticipation

That the rains of my sorrows will sprout new growth.

I must germinate, cultivate

A bright breath of compassion,

Lest the world around me burn out and

Smolder into cold nothingness.

 

By: Erica Ruhe

woman in red lipstick near green plant

Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

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Poetry: Not Missed If Not Departed

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bloodgirl

The bathwater is turning scarlet red.

I wonder what you will think

when you will find me dead.

Never would’ve missed you if you hadn’t left.

Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.

But very soon you will wonder why,

you abandoned me here to die.

One of these days,

One of these days.

The scent of blood lingers in the room.

Will my death bring you possible doom?

Never would’ve been obsessed if you hadn’t left.

Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.

But very soon you will wonder why,

you abandoned me here to die.

One of these days,

One of these days.

This scalding blanket of vulnerability

Is giving me more security.

Never would’ve adored you if you hadn’t left.

Never would’ve loved you if you hadn’t said goodbye.

But very soon you will wonder why,

you abandoned me here to die.

One of these days.

One of these days,

You will miss me.

***

Did you enjoy this poem? You can find this poem and many others in Bleed Like Me: Poems for the Broken

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Book Review: Life of the Party: Poems by Olivia Gatwood

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life

I’m a good girl, bad girl, dream girl, sad girl

Release Date: August 20, 2019

Order on Amazon

Publisher: Dial Press

Price: $11.90 (paperback)

Plot Summary:

Lauded for the power of her writing and having attracted an online fan base of millions for her extraordinary spoken-word performances, Olivia Gatwood now weaves together her own coming-of-age with an investigation into our culture’s romanticization of violence against women. At times blistering and riotous, at times soulful and exuberant, Life of the Party explores the boundary between what is real and what is imagined in a life saturated with fear. Gatwood asks, How does a girl grow into a woman in a world racked by violence? Where is the line between perpetrator and victim? In precise, searing language, she illustrates how what happens to our bodies can make us who we are.

Grade: A

Review:

Gatewood’s poetry collection is part memoir and partly inspired by True Crime. In each poem, she explores the meaning of becoming a woman and how men react to this sudden change from girlhood to womanhood. She also has an obsession with mistrusting men and believing that a man is going to kill her. Although, to be honest, what woman hasn’t thought about being killed by a man before? With the way True Crime depicts young girls and women always being victims of rape and murder, it’s no wonder that we grow up with this incessant paranoia. Her fear is very relatable if you’re a woman living pretty much anywhere in the world. Men abusing and killing women is a worldwide crisis and one that has only worsened over the years.

“Maybe I am tired
of hearing people talk about the murder
of girls like it is both beautiful
and out of the ordinary.”
-My Grandmother Asks Why I Don’t Trust Men

Gatewood explores the dark realms of her fears and tries to give voice to them through her poignant poetry. These poems are honest, raw, and sometimes quite dark. I recommend this book for all you that prefer your poetry to have a certain edge to is, but if you’re easily triggered then this collection won’t be for you.

*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Dial Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!

olivia

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Poetry: Mourning Glorie

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bed

Photo courtesy of parisapartment.wordpress.com

These frigid sheets mourn your soul.

This barren bed cries your name.

There’s nothing left of you in me.

You tore every particle that belonged

To you away.

This pale white pillow misses the weight of your head.

These useless rose petals wait to fall upon you.

Loneliness wraps its icy claws around me.

Devouring me without mercy.

You’re no longer here to cling to.

You’re no longer here to move closer to.

This bed never seemed so vast—so endless—

Without you—it’s infinite.

I hide beneath the covers but still no warmth I feel.

This room is in eternal winter

Ever since you left.

These fragile sheets yearn for your body.

This immense bed bleeds your essence.

I’m waiting here for you.

I shall always remain here—

Waiting for your return.

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Poetry: Broken Doll

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broken doll

Love has treated me
Like a toddler treats
Its toy.
That’s why my hair is tangled
and my limbs are broken.

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Poetry: A Haiku for all the Boys I’ve Kissed

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kissing3

1.
You taste of ashen
smoke. I swallowed bright colored
pills. You were danger.

2.
The snow kissed my hair
You kissed my lips, magically
winter melted, now.

3.
You deserve more
than seventeen syllables
my beautiful love.

4.
In a dressing room
You stole a kiss, tore my
dress, and forgot her.

5.
Before you kissed my
lips, you kissed my nose, and I
fell for you so hard.

6.
Drowning in your lust,
The rain clung to my hair like
your skin clung to mine.

7.
He murmured, “Your bloke
is wrong. All you ever needed
is a man like me.”

8.
Your kiss was deadly,
oxygen escaped like a
thief, in the cold night.

9.
Fire, you burned me through
until there was nothing left
But naked white bones.

10.
Dressed as a doting
nurse, I pushed you against the
wall and claimed you as mine.

11.
Berlin is icy
on my bare limbs, please don’t let
go. I just want you.

12.
A cozy hotel
is where I dropped my dress, and
my bestfriend title.

13.
Give back my records,
Your calloused fingers tugged my
hair, the night sparked flames.

14.
You used to hate me.
But your tongue worshiped every
part of me, for days.

15.
We passed each other,
Pulled me in a soft embrace.
It cut me in two.

16.
Music, two a.m.
You so young, and I so wise.
I stole your CDs.

17.
Your music captured
me. I stumbled into you
and inhaled the stars.

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Poetry: Crashing Stars

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stars

I was crashing stars before I met you,

Somehow it didn’t seem so self-destructive.

The rock star raped me of my heart,

Not many know that of me.

There’s a cut on the inside of my lip.

It’s like a wet passionate kiss that didn’t exist

But that still managed to fill my mouth with blood.

Your darkness is like the nocturne sky,

Beautiful and mesmerizing.

Enigmatic in its magic.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

And it felt quite sublime.

But your beauty gave me hope of

Perfect skies that parade paprika comets.

My past seems so distant whenever

Your beauty graces my eyes.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

But now I’m only gathering debris.

You’re a canvas of perfection,

From your azure eyes that sparkle with youth

To your candid complexion that’s pristine.

Not like me. I hide scars.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

It was a deadly pastime.

I was losing sense of time.

I’m heading towards a dying star.

But you fill me up with hope

That there’s still beauty in this world.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

It almost caused my demise.

It’s like a wet passionate kiss that never was

But that I can still taste the blood from

The cut it caused.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

And I thought I felt alright.

Until the stars robbed me of my beauty,

They were envious of my light.

Now your beauty radiates the light

I no longer possess.

And maybe, if I stand just close enough

To you, I’ll be able to regain

The light that you emanate.

I was crashing stars before I met you.

I was a dying star before I met you,

But your gentle beauty has filled me up with hope.

Now I’m on a rocket heading towards the brightest light.

By: Azzurra Nox