Original Poems

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Mooring

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Dull blues and purples were sponged in the summer-sprinkled sky like a painting,

the slit of salmon clouds being cut into by the sharp set of the sun that cast a golden hue onto the white Polyurethane paint.

Dark fishing poles; unused and contrasting the sky.

The boat made the land in the background look smaller than it could ever be, and yet away from it, it never felt as small.

The rocky waves licked up the

Portside, leaving cool trails of murky seawater pattering as the

the boat sped up,

the engine humming and

propellers sputtering with the speed

arousing ruckus waves that sent me

nearly barreling into the icy water.

Perhaps it was something about the

two friends idle beside me,

sleeping

even with the fiberglass itching at their

skin, but I was at peace.

In the middle

of nowhere, surrounded by the ocean,

it was peace away from the sea of

ignorance awaiting my return at the

dock.

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Soul Tie

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A connection- intimate, predestined, prophetic in its seeking.

I have found the other half- the horribly taught end of the knot that connects to me,

and yet she had tried to unravel it with dull sheers: careless, useless.

Not for a sake of my appearance, nor my personality, but because she fears such an otherworldly thing. Something real, something her heart yearned so loudly for it sounded like a feral cat screeching every time she thought of me.

She is not used to someone adoring her so truly, she caught a glimpse in the mirror and realized with a prick of the ears that she was the cat, trapped and thrashing.

My soul tugged back, beckoning for its other half to stay, not fray,

and in her quick attempt to break she only wound herself tighter into its prey.

It is a discomfort we both feel, but one I cannot soothe like a child tying a loose thread around its finger until it is purple and swollen and scissors cannot quite slip to free it.

My heart feels much the same, and I am unsure if it will ever remedy. 

It is not my choice to make.

 

Shotgun Shell

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"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.

My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.

The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend. 

I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).

My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)

"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."

She says to my brother; the boyfriend.

Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.

 

 

Ink

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It is inane- insane, to bleed myself for ink in regard for a person that sees me as death.

No, not evil. Not the grim reaper. 

I am death to them.

No longer a soul damned, nor nothing vengeful. I merely mean nothing.

 

Yet, here I am darling. Breathing. Reaping what I am owed.

I seek your time. Your energy of mind. You give me such.

You seek my profile. My name, you remember it fully to type.

You look at my face- and you remember the way my bangs fall. The way I smile.

And you find disgust in it. You send it to everyone you know but, oh-

it has been years.

I have seeped into the lines of your flesh, 

and my picture is burned into your eyes with a blue light covering.

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More poems available at https://www.theprose.com/r_raven

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