The womb of past secrets is stretched in agony,
longing to give birth to what is long hidden and unspeakable;
but its child is stillborn and unmourned,
because dark whispers do not make it past closed doors,
to tell accounts of what was — and the pain that still lingers.
Vengeance is dreamed of, and always tingling on the tips of the fingers.
The heart refuses to fully heal, until there is a reckoning of monsters.
They can no longer live in hiding, plotting; planning.
They must be drawn out, and utterly rooted out by their victims, limb by limb;
even the blood, bone, and sinew of them must not remain.
Nothing shall be left of them — not even the whispers of their names.
After they inflicted anguish, torment and pain
nothing again, ever again, was the same.
Tag: Writing
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The sorrowful heart, is the pen that writes
anguished paragraphs and chapters of torment.
The author’s bio is a summary of years of lament.
The foreword is written in blood;
the book is dedicated to the withered soul’s remnants.
The eyes of the reader widens, as the first chapter begins.
Tears are shed, and anguished screams are heard, as the final chapter ends. -
You speak to me through abbreviations of the heart:
a light kiss; the brush of your hand against my wrist;
the way you gaze at me when you take your hair down;
your loving whispers to me when I’m down.
Confessions of the heart don’t have to be long —
in short form, I understand.
Through the falling of my joyous tears,
I tell you I love you, again and again. -
In agony, she keeps falling,
Praying that love will catch her,
With arms outstretched, waiting. -
Heaven, please let the children dance again;
Let the hearts of tearful widows mend;
Restore breath to the lifeless and joy to the broken;
Let victims release their pain, through utterances of the once unspoken;
Let the deeply wounded begin their healing;
Let the numb immerse themselves in wonderful feelings;
Let the unloved find love through kisses and intimate gestures;
Let the motherless children of deceased mothers
hold them once again — and hear their whispers. -
I stumble,
the cross I carry falls away from me;
the weight of its heaviness cracking the foundation.
In agony my breaths are labored.
Eyes that gaze see beauty and devastation.
Duality tears me asunder;
I am filled with love, but a timid boy no longer;
to survive, I confront the terror
with a merciless heart, and weapons of war and armor.
Many battles have hardened my once soft exterior
and have made me stronger.
I weep no more because of the abandonment of my father,
and in my weariness, I remember the love of my mother.
I lean on my mighty sword to steady myself when the blood runs
and strike the terror again with fearless rage and precision.
One day the terror came and deeply wounded the boy with the bright smile,
so the terror must face its reckoning from the rage of a broken child.
He is not merciful, nor will he hear the terror when it cries;
He will continue to strike with fury, even after the terror dies.
He will slay the terror — and the terror’s lies,
to revive the soul of the boy that once brightly smiled.
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How beautiful you are in my eyes.
If only you knew that I see past
what others may think about you;
If only you knew that I see much
more than your physical attributes;
If only you knew your own value;
If only you knew that I refuse
to give up on you;
If only you knew that in the safety of my arms
I want to wrap you;
If you could only see through
my eyes what I see in you;
If only I could take away
the depths of pain in you;
You glow in my heart;
I see the diamond that is you.
When you walk by, they lust after you;
but in my soul I hold your heart—
and the essence of you.
I love you;
Your pain is my pain,
so until your heart is made whole,
I will weep for you. -
The ink of the poet’s pen wails on paper,
releasing passion onto pages,
telling of love, remembrance and anguish.
The sky is set on fire, and words are eloquently put together;
the poet weeps — writing in-between bouts of insomnia.
Memories do not die, they only sleep,
to be awakened again in vivid recollection.
They tell of a childhood lost, the wants of intimacy and love,
and pain exposed in its rawness.
Tears fall on rough drafts as they are discarded;
the heart whispers, and the hand narrates what can’t be ignored.
The pen itself weeps, as it is infused with the author’s agony;
it bleeds the dark ink that continues to tell a story.
He is no Poet Laureate,
but what he conveys is an emptying of the soul and transparent;
in his world, the summers are hotter and the winters colder.
In his world, the soul whispers the things of the innermost, at the writer’s hour. -
In her travail, she remembers to love herself, dry her eyes and deeply inhale.
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She steps out of the darkness with resolve,
Her broken heart not fully healed;
Still, she carries on with quiet strength and beautiful calm.
She is not deterred, though her tears are carried in the wind;
She does not weep for herself but for him;
It was in the second trimester, that she named him.
She weeps over her loss but will try again;
In her pain, she called on heaven to safely deliver him,
But it was not as she prayed for it to be;
In tears, blood, and agony she miscarried—
But now, it is in her heart, that he is carried.
She says his name in beautiful whispers
And sings to him lovingly,
Saying, My beautiful baby, forever you are a part of me.
Intimate Compositions 