I have feebly grasped at those roses,
My fingers cut a wine red by their thorns
Until blood running readily poses
As thin gloves by my hands slow upborne
As if asking god, as if begging prayer
As if god would help a lonely bastard
Who couldn’t even fucking treat her fair
By whose careless hand fair white milk would curd.
Any rose would, its thorns like curled fangs
bare, if wretched hands seeked to pluck
its sweet flower from the branch overhangs
in Eden perfect, to the earth and muck
You a rose by any other name, a yellow rose, yet the blue sky itself nestles in the sun of your hair. My faltering hands clasp you freely, and you touch
Morning dark, shadowy mists slowly drift
not ominous, but listless, formless,
somehow lilt slightly, peacefully shifts
in anticipation of dawn’s sweet bliss.
Helping hands that take as much as give
wind like thorny roses ‘round your arms.
For only roses should in your light live
yet only roses could, that light, harm.
That morning sun that banishes the dark
and bathes the flowers in radiant glow
shining bright hues my day to mark
my sun clasped in roses white as snow.
The winter bites into my fingers, and my fatigue beats me upside the head, or maybe that’s just my face hitting the desk. I can’t tell anymore. I listen to the quick spoken Kerouac, and jazzy Hughes, with their driven beat and blues. The murky depths swirling darkly in my chest, I’m delving between divine moments of happiness and desperate hours spent trying to keep from downturns that could send me spiraling. Slippery slope sinking into swirling depths as slinking thoughts slide through my brain. My dogged mind bewildered. My legs itch, this rut I’ve worn rendered starkly, rent from the earth like a scar across its
Beautiful Handwriting by insomniacwritings, literature
Literature
Beautiful Handwriting
The slow Rhythm of rain against the glass,
the quiet scratching of your pen, timed.
Mixed with dust, the subtle scent of wet grass.
Neat little scribbles, like cherry blossoms, wind.
The tangled branches curl across the page,
unfurling, at your hand, in deep blue ink.
Your flourishes bloom flowers at every stage.
These little notes you scrawl, for thoughts to link.
While theory cannot so easily escape,
your hyacinth eyes glide to text and back.
And with agile motions in beauty you drape
that page, in little ideas that no detail lack.
Watching in silence, your hand’s subtle dance,
your slight smile, as my eyes to meet you chance.
Sitting on dew soaked cliffs of green,
the wet grass beneath my fingers,
searching through drifting mists for the stars sheen.
Though the earth is healed, the scar still lingers.
Winters bite, uprooted trees, now form
a canopy, dull earth to cushion me
as I watch the spring rain fall, drizzle warm
and carry out to that mysterious sea.
Lost in the deep workings of the world
under that fallen tree I waited
despairing, and into a ball curled
until I could see no further, till my demons sated
Suddenly summer sun cut through cold spring mists
as she, tenderly, my lips kissed…
In sleepless night, amongst the crackle of static a blank page scrolls before me, but my scrawling pen doesn’t dare to scar its sweet possibility. My mind bursts with stories yet not a scribble upon the page. Behind closed eyes, like the early rays of the sun waking too early the dear dreamer, I cannot help but see that page written upon. I want nothing more than for it to tell the story of high romance yet I fear to mar it with a poor poesy unbefitting. And I fear too that its story a sad one, that should I see I would not help but weep. Someone take this page away from me, write upon the grand tale and let me see for to know that it
The buds bloom through the mud left from winter’s passing
and the dead leaves turn to mulch and nurture new growth
becoming one with the burgeoning green.
The petals dance on summer’s hot wind as they weave
through the leaves upon a branch.
Though I thought my eyes weary and my hands worn rough
as all sense of wonder does fade like the stars at the dawn
yet my race is not run,
and these stars have yet to burn out.
Though I mourn my season of mist now passed,
and in the sweltering heat stagger,
falter and fall, I cannot rest.
Not yet, until I find that place once more.
I have feebly grasped at those roses,
My fingers cut a wine red by their thorns
Until blood running readily poses
As thin gloves by my hands slow upborne
As if asking god, as if begging prayer
As if god would help a lonely bastard
Who couldn’t even fucking treat her fair
By whose careless hand fair white milk would curd.
Any rose would, its thorns like curled fangs
bare, if wretched hands seeked to pluck
its sweet flower from the branch overhangs
in Eden perfect, to the earth and muck
You a rose by any other name, a yellow rose, yet the blue sky itself nestles in the sun of your hair. My faltering hands clasp you freely, and you touch
Morning dark, shadowy mists slowly drift
not ominous, but listless, formless,
somehow lilt slightly, peacefully shifts
in anticipation of dawn’s sweet bliss.
Helping hands that take as much as give
wind like thorny roses ‘round your arms.
For only roses should in your light live
yet only roses could, that light, harm.
That morning sun that banishes the dark
and bathes the flowers in radiant glow
shining bright hues my day to mark
my sun clasped in roses white as snow.
The winter bites into my fingers, and my fatigue beats me upside the head, or maybe that’s just my face hitting the desk. I can’t tell anymore. I listen to the quick spoken Kerouac, and jazzy Hughes, with their driven beat and blues. The murky depths swirling darkly in my chest, I’m delving between divine moments of happiness and desperate hours spent trying to keep from downturns that could send me spiraling. Slippery slope sinking into swirling depths as slinking thoughts slide through my brain. My dogged mind bewildered. My legs itch, this rut I’ve worn rendered starkly, rent from the earth like a scar across its
Beautiful Handwriting by insomniacwritings, literature
Literature
Beautiful Handwriting
The slow Rhythm of rain against the glass,
the quiet scratching of your pen, timed.
Mixed with dust, the subtle scent of wet grass.
Neat little scribbles, like cherry blossoms, wind.
The tangled branches curl across the page,
unfurling, at your hand, in deep blue ink.
Your flourishes bloom flowers at every stage.
These little notes you scrawl, for thoughts to link.
While theory cannot so easily escape,
your hyacinth eyes glide to text and back.
And with agile motions in beauty you drape
that page, in little ideas that no detail lack.
Watching in silence, your hand’s subtle dance,
your slight smile, as my eyes to meet you chance.
Sitting on dew soaked cliffs of green,
the wet grass beneath my fingers,
searching through drifting mists for the stars sheen.
Though the earth is healed, the scar still lingers.
Winters bite, uprooted trees, now form
a canopy, dull earth to cushion me
as I watch the spring rain fall, drizzle warm
and carry out to that mysterious sea.
Lost in the deep workings of the world
under that fallen tree I waited
despairing, and into a ball curled
until I could see no further, till my demons sated
Suddenly summer sun cut through cold spring mists
as she, tenderly, my lips kissed…
In sleepless night, amongst the crackle of static a blank page scrolls before me, but my scrawling pen doesn’t dare to scar its sweet possibility. My mind bursts with stories yet not a scribble upon the page. Behind closed eyes, like the early rays of the sun waking too early the dear dreamer, I cannot help but see that page written upon. I want nothing more than for it to tell the story of high romance yet I fear to mar it with a poor poesy unbefitting. And I fear too that its story a sad one, that should I see I would not help but weep. Someone take this page away from me, write upon the grand tale and let me see for to know that it
The buds bloom through the mud left from winter’s passing
and the dead leaves turn to mulch and nurture new growth
becoming one with the burgeoning green.
The petals dance on summer’s hot wind as they weave
through the leaves upon a branch.
Though I thought my eyes weary and my hands worn rough
as all sense of wonder does fade like the stars at the dawn
yet my race is not run,
and these stars have yet to burn out.
Though I mourn my season of mist now passed,
and in the sweltering heat stagger,
falter and fall, I cannot rest.
Not yet, until I find that place once more.
My mother claims the sadness,
Just isn't me.
"Supposed" to be on meds,
But here I am, chemical free.
Still standing up straight,
Despite the suicidal knee
and tonight you could've been my lover,
If I had wanted it,
To be.
Now look what you've done,
Made your unborn bubba cry.
Stole it away,
Without a batter in your eye.
Sunday morning,
You fall prostrate to his feet.
But disregard,
The scripture that he speaks.
But I get the message,
Christ how I know this ploy.
At the end of days,
I'm still just a horny little boy.
You're looking at a tied-up catastrophe,
Who's running out of chain.
You're staring at a neurosurgeon
only good at dicing up
i look for the good
in a morning like this
and find it, where i find you
in the dark, still hanging
at the edge of morning
in its sun, peeking through
and around edges,
in the groan and stir
of its beams' emergence
from the attic trunk of memory
in your breath on my skin
and the shapes we take
against the other
in the early lowlight mix
of dream convened into bodies
He who stares with compound eyes,
Your lover larva man,
He who you now idolise
Your lover larva man.
He’s done his job,
Laid down his sap
And like a fly in honey
You now are trapped
By that wriggling lover larva man,
Your squirming lover larva man.
You hang upon his every word,
No matter how verbose or how absurd.
You just want that lover larva man
To take you home into his hive
There’s a buzzing in your heart
That you can’t describe
As if a blowfly was trapped inside.
“So crack a window!
Let him out!
That lover larva man’ll
Make me scream and shout!”
He who crawls up to your bed,
Your lover larva man,
how your words stream
curling, catching
the round of your lips, rising
to the center of sky
and how i float just above
the surface of dream
when you speak
from the deep
of the sea within
my sea legs stumble
carrying an ocean of things
that i wish i could say
into the seaful of sky
swimming above us,
into the tides, trailing
each breath you return
to the night's own swell
and respiration
it's what rises within us, alive
like the water we knew
before the thin of this air,
it rises like the movement
of everything in the world
at once, remembering
a shared rhythm and sway,
a life before our anchors caught
these drifting and hungry stone masses
i love you
and the sadness
you call something else,
how you wear life
like an old coat,
three of its buttons
sewn back on
and i love you
like i take my coffee
medium dark
and strong as you
sugar kinked, knotted
as your hair
in my hands
wear me to sleep
my hand atop
your hill of hips,
you wear me close
both whole and broken,
three of my buttons
sewn back on
I try to search for some small peace of mind
But regardless of what I do, I still feel blind.
Feeling left in the dark when I'm alone
I know I can't do it all on my own.
But I don't have to since I have you
You kissed this heart and made it anew.
I don't look back anymore, but only forward instead
And even when you're gone you fill every thought in my head.
I never cared who thought the odds were against you and me
Because my heart was always locked and your love was the key.
So no matter what happens, there is one thing you need to know
I will always love you, and I will never let you go.
Straining my eyes,
I search through the fog.
Though still I am blind,
It has been so long.
I've climbed to your balcony.
I've waited in the wings.
I've wracked my mind beyond compare,
Though it's such a simple thing.
You gave me yes, you gave me no,
Yet you never made a sound.
I was so high up,
Aloft in the clouds,
But your wander glance,
Had me crashing back down.
I do not know what makes you so.
No, I don't know why it is.
The way you plague my mind with madness.
It's an endless game I cannot win.
But now I see just who you are,
Is who you've always been.
Perhaps it's me who's seen a change,
A troubled sea that flows within.
Sitting on dew soaked cliffs of green,
the wet grass beneath my fingers,
searching through drifting mists for the stars sheen.
Though the earth is healed, the scar still lingers.
Winters bite, uprooted trees, now form
a canopy, dull earth to cushion me
as I watch the spring rain fall, drizzle warm
and carry out to that mysterious sea.
Lost in the deep workings of the world
under that fallen tree I waited
despairing, and into a ball curled
until I could see no further, till my demons sated
Suddenly summer sun cut through cold spring mists
as she, tenderly, my lips kissed…
I finally finished one of my pieces that I've been meaning to for ages. I imagined it being longer but I'm pretty satisfied with the ending! :) I've put in the featured part if you want to read it. I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I did writing it...