I'll begin this by saying that my poetry has evolved properly and is actually good in my opinion. The material I used to post here had the odd potential but was often overly sentimental, and sometimes impenetrable.
I will also begin with a new poem;
"Charlie"
A man’s feelings are buried for a time, till the tide of the sea of the unspoken for turns,
They shake themselves out of their armour of sand, out like a spark, fingers of the hungry,
They set sail to the words in their mouths, and the worlds within those, and the man feasts.
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I'll post some more gradually, whether new or slightly old.
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
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Welcome back, David, we've missed you. 
Three densely packed lines there. I caught a biblical allusion as in man cannot live by bread alone etc. What were your thoughts as you put that together? Are we allowed to know who Charlie is?
Fab avatar, by the way 
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Thank you very much! Ah yes, allusions are my forté it seems!
Charlie is a good friend of mine whom I met around a year ago. He is very tall and loud, and one of my favourite people, and without him I'd probably be dead.
Thanks, I modelled a while ago for my photographer friend Daniel, it's my favourite photograph of me.
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"Redoubt"
The inside of me fades around you,
I cannot breathe with such conviction,
If this is real, then it can only end,
The two of us will be dust.
But for now, these pieces of despair pressed into my body,
Fingers have not met such lips,
Hands like weapons, unicursal across my flesh,
This bulwark that I am underneath.
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"Memorbid"
I wanted to be a beautiful thing, jaggedly so.
[I](Fallen on its own sword),
My tears muddied the dust on your shoulders,
And the hate deposited beneath my fingernails.
Till now I had sectioned off my heart from yours,
And now my cracked wings make room for you,
You, the scab that I had picked at with my dreams.[/I]
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"Things"
I want to take a breath, and mean it;
But the lethargy is so comfortable,
The loneliness, so inviting.
I let the Nothing sift its fingers through my hair,
And tell me Everything...
...And there is not one Something.
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You are quite talented for your age. I especially like the second poem. I suppose my poetry is its antithesis, yours being an appreciation of nothing and mine being an appreciation of everything. Here is a sample:
It is time and the running waters that polish course stone
and time again that makes new stone for the carving.
It is the spinning Earth on its axis.
Its yearly orbit moving ever closer to oblivion,
ever closer to its origin in the burning Sun.
I too take this course.
In time life and death hold no distinction.
One moves into another without loss.
The Earthâs roots are my own and its fate too.
My memory is the memory of all matter
my yearnings the same: to be that cataclysm,
to pull every particle and system to my density,
to fission into a Universe of fragments.
Photons in light velocity are ageless bundled energies.
This is eternity; it breathes in me the taste of sunâs spice:
violet-blue and orange-red light like ginger,
palm fronds, the florescent glow of algae blooms.
I consume the ripening light.
Its rupture on the tongue and in the eye
absorbed, refracted, transposed on the mind
in idioms of chroma and shadow.
I pull at the ground beneath me.
Bits of sand, roots, brittle leaves like stained lace become me
a collage of the body, remnants of all pasts.
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Wintereis Wrote:You are quite talented for your age. I especially like the second poem. I suppose my poetry is its antithesis, yours being an appreciation of nothing and mine being an appreciation of everything. Here is a sample:
It is time and the running waters that polish course stone
and time again that makes new stone for the carving.
It is the spinning Earth on its axis.
Its yearly orbit moving ever closer to oblivion,
ever closer to its origin in the burning Sun.
I too take this course.
In time life and death hold no distinction.
One moves into another without loss.
The Earthâs roots are my own and its fate too.
My memory is the memory of all matter
my yearnings the same: to be that cataclysm,
to pull every particle and system to my density,
to fission into a Universe of fragments.
Photons in light velocity are ageless bundled energies.
This is eternity; it breathes in me the taste of sunâs spice:
violet-blue and orange-red light like ginger,
palm fronds, the florescent glow of algae blooms.
I consume the ripening light.
Its rupture on the tongue and in the eye
absorbed, refracted, transposed on the mind
in idioms of chroma and shadow.
I pull at the ground beneath me.
Bits of sand, roots, brittle leaves like stained lace become me
a collage of the body, remnants of all pasts.
Thank you very, very much! I do like your poem, it is indeed an antithesis of sorts, if somewhat more elegant than mine.
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"Caught In Your Mouth"
He pulled me out with hooks, like I was his fish,
Slapping on his skin and eyes like crosshairs,
And had me caught like the wick in a candle,
Held aloft, and my love adapting to the flames,
And I plunged like rain down onto him.
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"Girl With The Violin"
The girl with the violin plays instead upon her heartstrings,
The spots on her back are getting bigger, and are developing mouths,
She reaches inside of herself, and produces from within a gasp,
Everyone is waiting for her downstairs, everyone is waiting.
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