Beyond it, moving through the cosmos unbounded,
Test it with a few vinegar phrases, but those wounds have been healed now for ages,
what’s your motive anyhow? we’re just strangers with a familiar sense of each other’s coding,
How much progress occurs by way of quiet judgement?
Fuck it. We’re all hypocrites, but try to feel it,
Can’t relate? Well that’s alright,
just sit steady while the angel launches.
(talk to me) so cheap all it takes is some stimulating conversation.
Listen in intently and you might just lure out secrets I didn’t even know existed.
Is it love if you find yourself falling every fifteen seconds? Is is real,
does it matter if you both can feel it?
To be frank, can’t quite relate to my peers (never could),
and I don’t expect to be understood by the many anymore, just leaving this behind for the few,
the bleeding hearts of the future to try to decipher,
on a cold night, when the wind howls and they’re searching for signs that they aren’t completely alone,
that the sadness isn’t forever,
that the void won’t devour them whole.
Sprawled out on a mountainside, shrouded in leaves and half-severed vines, I confess to be a wild thing, but you do not hear me.
Spill my blood to write fresh poems that defy rhyme and meter, each word alive, dripping with fervor, but you never read me.
Shouting/marching/fighting for compassion ’til my throat is dry, legs are weak, mind grows fatigued, yet you fail to see me.
In the soft glow of the afternoon, I sing a sad refrain, but the meaning is lost while the melody remains, so you do not feel me.
Still onward I careen, hopes unfettered, dreams undisturbed, for I learned long ago not to bury my soul in any single place or person.
Sad songs soothe me, whether summer days spent soaking in the sun, or winters shut up indoors enveloped in a good book, warm blankets, hot tea,
My soul only knows despair with short intervals of joy.
But you can recharge my battery in the woods, the forest floor my corridor to some unexplained source of vitality.
That or let me breathe in salty ocean air,
Drown my old self in the cold, dark, blue of the Pacific,
Rise from the waves anew.
Born again and again in and out of your arms, watch me take off
like Apollo 11.
Balancing the day and the night, the light and the darkness, emotion and might.
Days swell into nights,
We toil away cloaked in civility.
No respite from this hunger,
Soaks into my skin like the last days of summer.
Coiffed and poised for a total takeover,
Obstacles, slowly but surely devoured.
Power in my sights,
Read my eyes.
Budapest’s very own, Terror House Magazine published two of my original works today. Huge thanks to editor, Matt Forney!
Click the link below to read the poems in question and discover more from Terror House:
while the perseids kissed the night sky
but summer heat gave way to cool breeze
Just dirt and a picnic blanket
yet it felt like the very definition of magic
Almost five years now
and still under your spell