Pseudopsychosis.

Hey.

Hey,

I’ve been trying to talk

in the sandbanks of languid darkness,

eons of violets caved in embryos

a pitfall of resignation;

you can never hear my voice,

but you will see my eyes shift to the ground

spending reflection—who are you,

you, you are little known,

and that’s okay, as a faceless shore,

we do not need to be known.

 

Console me one night,

my blood. rushing. wenge.

Leach into the lady

of rocks; reverie mistrusted,

silence repeats on waned breath,

the plea for fate

whispers forgotten,

preyed upon fleeing mind,

the wicked gallow of the sun

and it fell to the bled roots

in drought amid

phalanges

on littoral crawls

on strings like a lute;

Echoes rose

to ossicles; solipsism forms

over the cenotes

I succumb to my mistakes.

 

The pond abreast with spitting hue,

by my mother’s garden,

there are layers of hay which are blind

and torn to the swerving wind,

howling like lost, godless ashes

to the buoyant blackness of the sea


arborists stalk the forests

on a path of needed blood as we speak,

and the thin conscious effort eludes me;

a fragile feather to the death of ocean;

our paths toll and entomb in the despair of frost,

a celestial trial in the capillary precluding loneliness,

it overlooks the sand dunes, and the rocks rived with waves,

a shore and of blood; choose,

darting in its chip of ice,

pouring over teeth,

fetters the lip; layers of respire,

enflamed by loss and suffering.

 

Death wails alone

not darkened

by the nascent shadow

gazed to the falls of penance

unleashing escape,

deciphering through most eyes

loneliness.

 

I can only say sorry, mother and father;

I’m sorry.

The slope of the sea twitches like a finch;

an ocean ribs and hollows

worn memory

fallen to the eye

closed to the mosaic evolution

from blue winter to summer, aiutami,

in the death of itself; now it’s dark,

alone, guilt is my slow death.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

A/N: My attempt at a slam poem, I guess. Some lines were inspired by Voice of the Soul by Death. A great instrumental for those who enjoy a layering of electric and acoustic guitars. As well for those who listen to music/instrumentals while writing. 

Lucy

“Poetess of darkness”–dVerse community; cat hoarder, guitarist, keyboardist, psych major.

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26 responses to “Hey.”

    • I’m glad, but at the same time, sorry that you’re going through this too. This was a painful poem for me to write so I understand.

      Sending hugs. ❤ ❤

      Like

      Reply

  4. Lucy, “in drought amid / phalanxes / in a littoral crawl”, you mean the Phalanx formation, from ancient Magna Graecia, or the bones of the hands, since in which case their plural would be phalanges and not phalanxes, as in, various phalanges displayed in rowed lines over a coastline, as the strings of a lute but in a desolate, wintry sentiment of irresolution?

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  9. Always write for yourself – do not get caught up in ‘being a poet’, First and foremost, express yourself, enjoy the process and enjoy creating something. You writing will change as you get older, life experience, different styles. Just enjoy it and if others like, great, if they don’t, that is also fine. I will be honest, I have seen people write three lines that a five year could write and get 80 likes or so. People liking your work is no barometer of talent, just a nice bonus when they connect with it.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    • Beautiful, beautiful advice. I wish I could share it to everyone here. Very true about the writing process; it really is for the writer to grow and it truly is something if others are able to connect with it. If not, it’s still something I can enjoy and even re-shape as time passes. Thank you so much for your comment. It is very appreciated!

      Like

      Reply

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