What is my greed for permanence or to be forever drunk on borrowed dreams. Day is a sobering reality. My master’s hands are hard and swift and She allows me only this: to blaze bright and quick as the most exquisite of roses. And to Love(you)is to burn.

All I know is that deep down inside you must want it, amidst all the turmoil and strife. Heed the exhortation to live that is a song beneath everything; Survive the lashings of the night. Cast your eyes beyond the flail marks on your wrists, and drink the sap of the morning. Drink hungrily from its giving hands. Pain is the process by which you are forged, to add your own beautiful voice to the light.

Heavy are the words that get stuck in my mouth. But I want to say them to you, To pour them lovingly at your roots, to see them bloom like flowers from your pores, Knowing how I myself once needed them. But they are Horror stories of silence. Even as the years fall like razors through the trees, I tread again those cobbled streets, where the black birds weep for the absent masses of Derelict men. We play under the watchful gaze of the paternal moon and trees that, in lieu of a million quiet-war-stolen-fathers, stand like genial sentries along the side of the roads, down the sewer filled lanes, along the broken bottle crowned high walls that separate the rich from the poor, the scum from the chosen, the orphans from the clothed, the stuffed from the swollen bellied having only God to ask for more. How empty and bitter blows the gale in these beleaguered homes. Sublime nights I dreamt to be away from it all. But I come back to this need in the pit of my gut, in the pleading of your eyes, in my own Legacy of silence.

Charm Was

She was a melange of cigarettes and perfume and illicit men and late nights squeezing life out of intoxicating substances and long morning reckoning showers and how those nights add years though somewhere still in there was a heart like the sun that would slowly creep up on you.

The Last Supper

Alone, I am the softly strummed guitar in this pinkest of dusks. There’s poetry in solitude. Beautifully adrift, I taste the wine of the lonesome leaves, the quivering dreams, and set my eyes to dine on the thin sliver of the elegant moon. And ‘fore this darkness bigger than me, I await the pending doom. The night will again make me new.


On this moist morning, when the robust sun is yet to fully open his eyes, the hues of dreams still saturate everything: crocuses, hostas, and ferns; irises, lilacs and marigolds; Yonder bridges graffitied with defiance and love. From this oasis in this hard city you will hear: squealing brakes around the corner. Maybe it’s your bellowing ship; you’re not quite sure…Though How soft and warm and just the right shape to fit in your hands. But Life gifts you what it wants and never ever exactly what you will.

And the trees, knighted by the golden sun, roused me. I gently put my feet upon the soil, and all that was before me would be the splendour of a glorious morning. But, here, in a rapturous chorus of ruffles, they asked of me: What is the difference between being indifferent and eternally sleeping, where no music, or smiles, or bird songs that spangle the skies, or dawn filled with beautiful aches wake your heart? All I could think of were your arms.

ToDay is beautiful only in the darkness from which she comes. And Night is most beautiful in the backdrop to the stars. I see the shades of beauty in the blackness behind the light, in the sadness cloaked in smiling eyes, in the gentle kindness sowed by war-torn hands. In the howling storms she is a swaying yet standing tree; and her wisdom is born of the rain-filled skies and the fertile silent darkness of the soil.

Dear friends,

For the past few months I have been constantly harassed across my Twitter, Tumblr, and Wordpress accounts by an obviously delusional person who pops up under various guises that have included ghettoangel, skoobygirl, poemntears, raineygirl99, and now thebitch765.

I do not know this person. However, she contends through a daily barrage of comments to my Wordpress posts that I am somehow the reincarnation of someone with whom she was once involved.

I have blocked her from following my accounts and have reported her to Tumblr and Wordpress for harassment. Other than that I have largely ignored her.

However, she has taken to attacking several people here on Tumblr whom I can only assume she imagines to be involved with me, whether this is from my reblogging or hearting of their posts I do not know.

I apologise to all those whom I may have unwittingly caused the stress of interacting with this person.

Furthermore, I would encourage those attacked by her to block her, promptly report her to Tumblr for harassment, and minimize all interactions with her. Also, I would suggest that should anyone here know her that he/she encourage her to seek psychiatric treatment.

Thank you.



Each key pressed, each note now
Messes with my heart rate so
Blurry visions of home

Of a lush green Neem tree
A white-washed house
And rows and rows of marigold

How we must capture eternity
In a small confined compartment
But make ourselves larger than the whole

Still, so very still, my heart beats now
Shrinking me slowly into
The bulbul in the guava tree
The rain-drops and the honey bee
The undulating waves of the sea
The faded picture of you and me.

The Hidden Pond

I came Upon a hidden pond, where naked my Arches fit perfectly the roundness of the land. The Grass was still wet with the night. From the water, memories and Ghostly mist would rise. Another time. Still the Smoke from harvested canefields drifted all the way there to my eyes.

The Armistice

It was a barely perceptible nod, but in it I saw peace and love to you and yours. I was ashamed, for I wish my own eyes were hands holding unto him flowers or doves or at least the kindness of a mirror.

B.M.U - You Will Know

I’m digging down
Planting a maze of roots
So I can’t ever be torn from
Ever again

The arteries that fuel
This non existent thing
Called life
Must be double knotted
So confused with souls and centres
Of gravity
That I’m eternally locked here

This is, the only me
A scatter of electricity
A spark
A breath of mist
Burning off in the sun

No one will ever remember me
Even though this person I am
Is the only one

Like Mary
From 1561
Digging in the field
Her parents dead and her left unwed
Owing and never paying
Til the day she dropped—
No one’s world unbalanced or rocked
Just another unknown carcass on the ground

I don’t remember Mary
But I know
She was there
Doing what we all do
Living and dying
One by one
Another death
Without any dirges sung

…Home is where
Your bones rot away

—Eventide (via ariaeventide)

(Source: itziarverria)