poema inacabado|víctor m. alonso
["la ruta del agua, los caminos en el aire de lo incierto, la costa que me atrae con su ruido de salitre y de silencio;
como tus ojos o tu boca roja, como el sonido de mi sangre, elijo el enigma huérfano de los mares, el océano lírico de tu cuerpo y tu recuerdo; te reflejas en lo oscuro del globo de mis ojos:"]
[en cada molécula de mar hay, como poco, un átomo de esperanza...]
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Sweetness on my tongue as I say your name
My beloved, you are more than sugar
You are honey
You are nectar
You are ambrosia
Prayers on my lips when we are apart
My dearest, you are more than heavenly
You are angelic
You are divine
You are seraphim
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"Sphinx of black quartz,
Judge my vow
And hold the stone of mystery.
Words of secrets rise in the air
Unleashing all of history.
Ghosts will sing and dance along
To music from the midnight song,
Keep on going for too long,
Keep on going really strong.
Lake of black ink,
Judge my vow
And tell me how to go on.
Worst of secrets rise in the air
As I realize I am a pawn.
Ghosts that dance and I hear them howl,
But also hear a low, low growl.
But also hear somewhat of a scowl.
Ghosts that sing,
Judge my vow
And I will fall into your trance.
First of mystery falls to the ground,
Leaving the pawn an open wound.
The cryptids that crawl into my oath,
The cryptids that have much growth,
Oh how I dearly I do loathe."
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My mother was hurt a lot in her childhood
And she would often take it out on me,
At first I’d did not realise why she despised me so much and why she couldn’t just love me.
But then I realized she saw herself in me,
and that it wasn’t her fault that the only love she was taught was hurting others,
Her heart was plagued and so is mine
And although we know we ruined each other,
We still secretly love each other.
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i can never get past this. / like a pillar of salt watching everyone move on. /my stone cold eyes watch cities burn and cities born / yet i am still here, on for the rest of our days. / my arms embrace the cold body of times that have long passed. / i try to cry out for forgiveness, for just one more chance / one more chance and i won’t do it again, i swear. / please, just one more time, just one more dance. / and one thing that’s never been answered is my prayer. / hazy faces and sheet covered bodies circle whats left of me at night. /
an unfinished poem about not being able to move on, heavily inspired by Lot’s wife in the old testament
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Today it seemed right
To open your gift, a gem tonight.
As I began to read your notes,
A wave of warmth filled my heart and soul, a boat.
Each page I turned, a wonder new,
As if I'd been there, too.
And then I realized, the truth is plain,
We're much alike, in our very brain.
Your spirit shines so bright, so rare,
A soul that shines, so aware.
Today, I opened your gift and found,
A soul that's like me, so profound.
As I close the book and lay it down,
My heart is filled, with your magic and your sound.
to the boy so gentle so kind
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You've lead me into the desert
With your tiny flask
To which my eyes avert
In hope you will not ask
If I expect to drink
From what little you have left
Did I really think
That I could drink "from what was his and not call it theft?"
He spullters whiping liquid from his lips
As he drains what I had thought to carry
Scurning me for what little I had in my slip
Had I not thought he would need more to marry?
You've lead me in to the dessert
Now here I stand alone
The blood mixes with the grain and I've nothing left to exert
Wary of mirages, of which your love was own
Screaming out at lakes and clouds
For their clear intent to pain
Claiming them tricks and hounds
As they mimic your old dain
The canary sings out
As you embrace what was once me
My coller to your snout
Was there really need?
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And isnt that the weight of an expectant parent?
The weight of an 'I should have' or 'I should be'.
The grind of your bones crushed into the curb they use to tower over you.
The silence that hangs in the air like a looming guillotine.
- a
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I am not worried
For the first time perhaps
I'm rather relaxed
I still don't know where we
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"Untitled"
The death of I
Is lost in you
Yet,
Simply the beginning
Of something new
Beyond the valley
The black is blue
The death of I
Is the death of you
Forever lost
In something new
Falling down the rabbit hole
What once was blue
Now fades to black
Into the void
No coming back
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some unfinished poetry from 04/05/23
why do I try
if I’ll just end up with sore eyes by the end of the night?
there are so many words that want to get out
but when I’m writing there’s no melody, no sound
it’s midnight and I don’t feel better
What’s love more than a four-word letter?
why am I gifted in the arts if I’m not gifted at all?
my feelings turn into blank pages, staring at empty walls
a voice that longs to sing but finds that she has nothing to say
don’t want to care
but care too much anyway
spring will come,
maybe now a muse will come along
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I met women who were wonderful monuments of fire and speech
Who decomposed sheet music of roles
And unravel garments of fear
Who kneaded bodies of joy
And tended beds of pleasure
Who celebrated worldly victories, teaching that this was the true pride of the soul
And that when speaking they sought a total and balanced understanding between cold logic and warm feelings
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I cry myself to suffocation
The anguish clogging my throat
Lungs burning, weeping alongside me
The terror builds
And Sobs still rack through
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Cracked limbs
Missing pieces
My thoughts have been misplaced
Scattered throughout barren space
Becoming one with the emptiness
Defects and Deflections
Faded Affection and Forgotten Collections
A Festering Accumulation of Neglected Yearning
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unfinished poem i wrote
As I corpse I walk among you. I feel your gaze graze my skin like a sharp blade. Your sadness stings while by presence just graces you. You outcast me and treat me like a leper. Lying in a coffin of nails, forcefully buried while I scream. Soil seeps down my throat as I cry out for mercy. To be apart of the living is all I ask for. Yet, death is so sweet and comforting. I cannot breathe the air they breathe for it is not in my nature. Consuming the fruit that sustains them always rots in my hand.
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I'm laying in my bed watching the crows outside my window.
They fly in and out of the tree, always voicing their woes. They sound quite like mine, but they dampen with time. Mine are always here through the tears and the fears, they just change with the distraction of a new Persephone.
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