the touch

a gentle hand caresses
over my painted skin. a sigh
of warm, breath upon my horizon
of despair. until this moment life
felt without reason, purpose,
rhyme. but now, and yet - the moment
calls for celebration, and yet my heart
screams caution, and I cry from within
my depths; what is the meaning of this? my
deepest thoughts, long hidden and gathering dust,
my darkest secrets blown to the surface, and

I watch myself disperse the last seeds of myself;
the final cord connecting me to I. a silent word is
all it takes, and then -

nothing.

seething anger froths through
my mind and bursts out of my
head. putrid vengeance sparks from
my burning eyes. injustice that
cannot be solved or tackled without
loss of money, loss of love, loss of
reason. his voice penetrates the foulest
darkness and pierces the sharpest hatred.
all is forgotten in rage and malice - I
can think of nothing but revenge. no
reason can be stated - no rhythm beaten
out that does not pander to his tastes.
our people suffer cruelly beneath this tyrant's
reign and all shout out in silent anguish -
how long now - how long?

competition

I decided to enter a poetry competition; red house books, this is the poem I entered:

For every lie I tell her, for
each time I hurt her, I steal some
soft innocence from her open self. My
pride over pain, my hate over lust*,
each burning word tearing flesh in a
thirst for blood. Fresh tears mark a path down
the garden of her soul as she lifts weary eyes
to the stainless steel river of snow. Heartbreak
over laughter. Hatred over guilt. My name is everlasting,
My hope is for all. He lifts down his hand and
raises her; and at his blessed* feet I fall.


*trust/lust
*blessed is supposed to have an accent on the e :)



Icthus

ode to a beautiful man

He is beautiful. Each line of his
etched face has been carved by my fingers;
I feel him now; soft and warm beneath
my skin. Deep in concentration, the
creases upon his forehead, and the hands
in rapid motion; writing, writing. His hands
move through his hair, and the sigh of a weary
day flows from his aching neck, his back, his
shoulders. He rubs his eyes with the balls of his
hands, and his exhaustion lets his wandering gaze
fall upon me. He is beautiful.

Introduction :)

I wanted to set up a blog to specifically share my poems, instead of having one that had the occasional poem shoved in, so... here goes :)

Icthus