Her body is the ever-punctured typewriter Pricked by the fingertips of lovers and liars alike, Since brick has been put upon brick to build – She has been made into verse.
She is laced in souvenirs, splinters of a dismantled self; Teeth strung into rarest ivory jewellery, lettered keys left derelict To be fumbled with and greased until she is made to sing – She is made to ring out in rhyme.
Her smallest kisses are ribbons wrapped in silk, loosely knotted Lips strangling softly, her smile unkempt and homely like an un-tucked shirt. Born into rhythm like waves, she never drags or rushes in her dance – She moves along, perfectly in metre.
Like flowers evicted from their grassy beds, glassy palms do not devalue But each donates more love than the last; she is the ever-expanding epic of allure. She’s hidden in all the fleeting toesteps that grace the glossy pavements – She will be found in what we pause to admire.
Our muses are many, all strangers and shrines, But whose is most delicate, damned, and divine?
A student of English and American Lit. and Poetry at the University of Leicester, currently on an exchange program at Kent State University in Ohio. My writing style changes more than my Netflix list, but generally I love working within rigid form and metre. It's personal poetry but in a style that intends to be universally acknowledged and appreciated, but above all else I just want to improve my writing, perfect my form.
Crying my sorrows away in that dark lane where my memories bleed till this day, So many dreams I had, but these sleepless nights are crushing me everyday, All the time I think, would you remember me if I am
I… signed your smile while pain betrayed today’s genesis stunning relief beneath purple galaxy filaments. smile awhile, while sourwood fall atop meadows dipped mystic dew of old untolds renewing that Me… Us… running steps mountain high…valley depths saturate sweet sweat
An uneasy blood cascades in the slender arteries when you, that I wanted to touch disappear into twilight of memory. Always a sense of bereavement. why do I care for you? Time drops like an old coin in the hands