Pointed & Ready

It’s an emptiness.
But is it really?
There’s an ache that exists, and you can be surrounded by amazing organisms and still feel it.

That ache.

That terrible, awful, remembering ache.

It feel like you’re drowning in the midst of an oxygen bubble.
Which doesn’t make sense; is the water imaginary? Is it all in my head?
No, couldn’t be.

Because even if I’m not drowning, no one’s popped the bubble just to see.


– Back to the writing wheel, yet again. ~ M


NPWM Thirty: Lost In Translation

– Based upon the poem Hora Tras Hora, Día Tras Día by Rosalía de Castro. Gracias to two years of Spanish I actually partially know what the poem means; but the NPWM prompt said to listen to how the words are said and the rhythm, and “translate” in your own way.
Hour after hour, day after day,
I’m eternally swallowed,
By tormenting waves that wish,
Oh they wish,
To quench my flame.
However, they cannot be rid of thorns,
Thorns left on the flowers of my crown,
People speak such whispers,
Saying thorns should never be grown.
Don’t blame the flower, for never being worn.
But sometimes the thorns prick me,
I’m left with tattered skin and tears of crimson.
Agh! Why must it always be,
The prettiest things take my heart away from me?

NPWM Twenty-Five: Neat Little-Box

Something about your hidden kindness,
Makes up for the brisk cold of the surface of your hands.
You have wild blue eyes,
always willing to tell a story,
Always willing to be the star.
Your wafting brown hair,
Matches the inner whimsical being that comes out when you’re content.
You believe yourself a failure, always needing to do better,
But truly in my heart, there is no one greater.
You have your heart kept in a neat little box,
It has decorations, of blacks and blues
Pretty enough so the outside unawares don’t want to peak in.
I’ve always seen past the colors, to that inner layer,
Where that pulsing violet hue is awaiting.

Something about your tiny little box,
Will always, forever have,
A piece of my heart.

NaPoWriMo Seventeen: Bliss

There once laid jubilant flowers in my garden,
They laid content in their green escapades.

There once were blissful birds,
Humming the tunes of natures call.

There once were merry breezes,
Who sung the song of leaves contempt.

The delighted outside world seemed one worth living for,
Not a disturbed crimson mushroom could toil my day.

There was a time when the mushroom seemed to corrode the surroundings.
It called for attention, begged for affection.
Sometimes the brightest things are not all they seem.

NaPoWriMo Four: Wolves End

In the month of June.
My hairs stand up at Great pace,
A chilly breeze Blows.

In the month of June,
The ground beneath me Rumbles,
Growling rapidly.

In the month of June,
The sky lays overhead, Bright red,
Asking for my Death.

In the month of June,
My yellow Eyes see it all,
The world is Breaking.

In the month of June,
When there is no more Life here,
My howls are Undone.

In the month of June,
Where everything had Purpose,

Where the World did end.

NaPoWriMo Three: Irish

The Culture soars beneath my Wings,
The Breathy wails of Music soar through the air,
The Talk of the Town makes it’s way through the Day.
A mix of Sweets, a mix of Salt,
Who knew such a Small place provides the Rhythm of Camelot.
A Restless maiden tells her Fables,
Old men Repeat her long Forgotten tails.
An underrated Culture stood in my Midst,
Perhaps it’s time to clear the Mist.

NaPoWriMo One: Things I Hear

Leaves rustle Today,
Birds Chirp in my window Pane,
The Sounds of Today.

The Wind whistles through,
The Branches are Hollow now,
The Breeze lasts all day.

Cactus plants Lay here,
Where my Window-sill is Clear,
Rainy Days are Here.

I Hear planes Overhead,
The Jets Fuel the Summer days,
Sunny Days are Here.

At Last, Night is here,
Crimson Bugs come out to Play,
Just One more year Here.