Poetry

I've written a bunch of poems, but I just do it for fun.

So this is basically a small collection of my poems that I think are decent.

Please note: Some of these poems may be unsettling. I don't write anything graphic, but some themes could still be triggering.

Here's a list of TW: death, violence, emotional distress, grief

Rising Sun

Will it be the end of me if I accept defeat?

Sword and shield, chipped and dropped; abandoned to the ground.
The armour, it weighed me; I finally unsheathe.
And for the final time, I’ll lick between the cracks of my jagged lips,
Momentarily moist, then dry again against the morning cold of this dreaded wind.

Oh, my iron heart, I hold you, busted, in my arms!
An embrace that lasts a little while but hates to overstay.
Even then, as I recall when I used to cradle you –
Impurity was always there, waiting for a hit.
But even so, I longed to be wrong –
To be the soldier from my dreams,
Withstanding the imminent fall.

And yet, in my final, rigid stance, I can’t help but relish the warmth
Of the rising sun on this muted, crumbling day.

...

Kicked. Dropped. Moved by the wind.
Knocked. Tossed. Showered by rain.
Found. Washed. Brought back to someone.
Kissed. Cared. In the palms of your skin.
Kept. Longed. Hid right in your things.
Found. Inspected. Cherished again.
Gushed. Placed. Into the pot.
Flower. New. It grows, and it grows.
Dirt. Dust. All over me falls.
Brush. Stroke. Your hand cleans me all.
Eyes. Watch. And watch, and they watch.
A stone like me is so tenderly loved.

...

fallen stars, wished upon by scripted faces;
was a meaning found?
i crossed the rain, the sun, and rainbows,
but those stars?
they are avoidant
as i tiptoe around what moonlight claimed.
did it rob me of my dreams?
if I cannot subject to the night craze;
cocooned in fear with my only life.
from my garden path,
even then I stare at window frames
instead of the darkest view.
and so i hate them deeply,
those tiny glorified orbs hiding in the sky.

Birthday

And I’d think of you when the sky gets dark,
Trace you by the edge of my hand,
Fake your touch back to me.
And I’d save the last piece of my cake for you,
If I’d known you’d come,
Even if the candles burned out by now.
And I’d leave your shoes perfectly still,
Knowing it bugs you,
The unshuffled way you left them then.
And I’d write you a letter,
Asking for you to come back,
Though I know you couldn’t.

Instinct

You’re my rabbit in the snow,
Hopping up and down,
Hiding in the burrowed hole.
So I chase the wild
In the scent you left,
A trail of an unbidden haste.
In precaution of your squeak,
With the sweetest agony of distance,
A permanent gaze, it must seek.
When I reach you, I’ll taste,
In the idea of sampling you,
Uncovering the truth.

Will you curse me then,
Under the cold of your paws,
Under the beat of your body?
Will I spare you then,
If my mind rewires,
If my teeth fall out?

The sun is bleak on you
As I weave the trail of red on white,
My jaw jammed in victory.

...

A person:
No reflection or voice.
Just a shadow, haunting,
And stuttering whispers inside the walls.
It feeds on the noise,
Craving laughter the most.
Melting when
Smiles would tug
Like small beaming suns.
But for itself,
It assigns no role;
No joy,
Or even parts to be loved for.
With hollow skin,
And thick flickering lights
Hidden inside,
It’s not really a welcome sight.

TW: Death

The End

One night, you’ll find a corpse sitting on the sofa.
In his eyes, you’ll see a broken spirit, almost gone.
By the right side of his hand, the TV remote is barely gripped.
In front of him, a quiet song will play.
When you ask the corpse why he left,
The tale he will tell is of the boy that he once was:
“When I believed my mother used to love me,
I was gifted with a vision of a future me, smiling back at me.
But it didn’t happen like this,
I grew up to be somebody else,
An empty vase that has no flowers.”
Then the corpse won’t speak again,
Drifts away to somewhere else;
You hope where peace will cradle him.