I enjoy the unraveling,
the debunking,
the revealing.
I live for the challenging,
the confronting,
the annealing.
The mystery’s only fun
when the chase has begun,
and the puzzle isn’t puzzling
’til I’ve given it a spun,
and revealing the riddle
isn’t the end of a case,
but the death of a hurdling,
intellectual race.
I devour the swindling,
the perplexing,
the conspiracies.
I live for the kindling,
oh so vexing,
sweet mysteries.
Your words are foul,
both birdlike and base,
and the fury that swarms me
when you speak
is a frightening thing.
Your voice digs into my skin,
fierce as a crow’s squawk
and sharper than its talons,
and though you have done me no wrong
but to poison the air with your tongue,
it is animus that ignites me.
I have no right to hate,
I have no right to wish your lips still
or dream of my ears falling off
so that I should never
be filled with your foul words again.
My anger astounds me,
my animus alarms me.
Raven shrieks
and yowls of beasts
would be harmonious in place
of your toxic breath.
If only you’d quiet,
if only you’d listen,
if only you’d realize your rancid words.
Then perhaps I would be relieved of
animus.
This poem ended up going a bit differently than I originally planned. Its structure’s a bit iffy, so I might come back to it later to iron out some kinks. The narrator of this poem is a pretty messed-up original character of mine, in case you were wondering.
Can I ask this really quickly?
May I redirect your question?
Are you aware that filling questionnaires
is a sign of sure depression?
Why do you go about your days
reading personality tests?
When it would be keen to turn off your screen;
’cause don’t you know yourself the best?
Am I questioning your question?
Or simply being much too shrewd?
Is anxiety your priority?
Will you please stop me if I’m rude?
Can I ask this short and sweet now?
If your results are less than par-
will you lessen on all the questions? ‘Cause
you are just fine the way you are.
When
paintings pour
out of picture frames
and statues
shift their eyes;
when
violin strings
pluck themselves
and andante
notes rise;
when
beauty breathes
upon anything
created or
contrived-
that,
my friends,
is truly when
art comes alive.
Funny, how ironic it is
that a fire can start at the
flick of a switch
at the snap of a spark
at the twitch of a twig
And that blaze-
how it burns with a lusting flame
how the fire consumes
oh, watch it rage
Odd, how it takes but
one pesky rumor
one curdling lie
one itching trick
to instigate a craze
Once born it rips through life
like a merciless flame
that swallows up innocents
and spits them out chafed
an anger
a fervor
a blind, spinning plate
that grows in a flash
and dies in a gaze
Funny, how ironic it is
that restless school girls
have the power to start
a war of the gods
a fight of the faith
a panic of fools
Funny, how irony has the power to kill
I wrote this abstract free-verse two years ago for an assignment on The Crucible by Arthur Miller. The play is set in 1692, Salem, Massachusetts, and is about the witch hunts (which, according to Miller, were instigated by the carelessness of a few schoolgirls). Much like a fire can start from a measly spark, a panic can erupt with just one lie or trick. Though it’s been a while since I’ve read it, I recommend reading (or even seeing) the play to anyone.
When I was first crowned in ivory
I assumed that knowledge
would come with the jewels
and the servants
and the velvet throne.
The pearl scepter they placed
in my hand
would surely wield power
and turn the tides to justice.
There was no wrong to be done
with a crown atop my head.
When I was first crowned in ivory
it didn’t once cross my mind
that simply smiling and stamping scrolls
in the back of court wasn’t enough
to preserve the peace.
Sitting upon a throne
did not render me all-knowing,
and the scepter I waved
was no more than a sumptuous stick.
There were too many arrogant thoughts to be filled
with a crown atop my head.
Sometimes it’s painful
to think that book characters
aren’t in phone books.
Fantasy, I think,
is reality saying,
“Look how I could be.”
Books aren’t escapes;
they’re mirrors of what we know-
just more exciting.
I think that it’s cruel
how fiction has a way of
slashing my heart out.
Each word is drawn red,
torn from my heart, raw and wet-
I bleed on the page.
Just a short haiku for today. I was inspired to write this when I came across the Ernest Hemingway quote: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
“The horizon is my
final destination,”
I said
when they asked where I
was planning to go.
“Where the earth crumbles off
in an eternal cliff,
where the sky stretches so thin
that there’s no wind to blow,
where the trees forget to stop growing
and the stars swallow the sea.
I go where time ends,
and also where it begins-
the horizon is where I flee.”
When pressed with the question
about my intentions,
I laughed and replied,
“There is no reason why.
I want to see everything
on my way to nothing,
for before I dive off the end
I must swim through the beginning.”
They deemed me a case
and snickered, “Farewell!”
as I fastened my cloak and commenced
my migration.
But I do not care; I won’t see them again,
for the horizon is my
final destination.
Alone.
I batter blades in a sea of
mimics, all raging the same roar,
all singing the same steel.
Alone.
“I fight for my family’s freedom,”
three hundred cry.
“I bleed for the blessing of the divines,”
six hundred more squall.
“I perish for power,”
they all moan.
I stand with my sword swinging at my side,
silent, without anything to fight for,
to bleed for,
to die for.
Alone.
Stellular Scribe 
