Author: Pisceanesque

"It's not from within that I emerge; it's by emerging, that I am truly within." Expand your vision, and invest in Bitcoin packs, earning you a guaranteed 140% in just 140 business days - even higher as interest compounds with a greater number of Bitpacks. Click here for more information and to register for free:


I am a glass half full of
I feel seems to swallow me
instead of I
is not a smooth rush
down my open
the words that hurt me again
in ways I will never
what you say before
you open your lips to
through your eyes like I am
trying to do in my
comes in thin spaces
between what you say and what I
know why it needs to be so complicated
when all I feel is
fills me like a glass half full of
rides you easier than I ever could.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 December, 2017


I expect too much of time
in the little I have left.
I am a dinosaur,
and it,
the pummelling to come.

I wait for its whoosh to confound me;
the bending skywards of my neck;
the brevity of my innocence;
my un-vocal surrender.

A wounded animal,
contorted by such clarity,
by my lack of ease
as I awkwardly expire.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 29 November, 2017


There we were
for a moment
awash with candy’d rainbows that shed
spun-sugar silk to dress this call for change.
It’s a pity
this entree tasted like a sundae of fever and fable.
Treasurers, we, to nought, now,
but wingless poetry; of letters, silent
and honest
we’d declined to share.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


Show up
with pieces of my name at your chest
and I will promise you
that all its letters
in any order
will write you through this fire
melting both our hearts

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


in the language of hope
scorching its way with splintered paddles
down to the roughs of my hungry feet
and teaching me
of steadfastness and self-love
through the blanketing challenges of escape

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I fight rough
healing you
to turn truth
into your new home
Sharp edges
for the smoky silence
of a rear view mirror

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I breathe you in
– surrender –
and my lungs fill with
flavours unknown
but for the soft sounds
I make of them
as they arrive

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 28 November, 2017


I scoop this body from its mind, and
on the cusp of extinction, it wails;
insane, lost, romanticising surrender.
Perhaps, my arm the mast, this tissue the flag,
perhaps at last I will tire of this terrorism
and sign on again
for a new amendment of love.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


By and by,
the past, it passes –
date-raping purpose
through peering glasses;
pregnant pauses never lasting.

Every vanished thrill
restarting futures
on a windowed sill;
shadows casting mimes
in stills as long will live the passion,
fueling moments full to brim.

Just as quick, another morning
dawning – time to pass
and kill; murder,
just another constant,
one more loss on
sudden whim as
whereupon man solders on
to play the night another song
for day by day we carry on,
to pass another past

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


I am the starved sanctuary for un-formed words and
by I pass the feverish wind that recipes its way
beyond my teeth to mix another spoon of
awkward with a sifted pound of nervous laughter,
folding and kneading a cavernous desire
that piecemeals its softened voice
into any semblance of oral freedom
my selfishly shy lips will dare untangle.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


My poetry lay hungry,
over-indulged on missing vocals
and absent sound,
under-fed from swallowed emotion
and buried tears –
throat-lumping in the name of opinion
better kept to shadowy under-jaws
and burbling stomach acid;
cocooning noisily with butterflies
of rage whose lead-heavy wings
and straight jacket veins
pin themselves to freedom
with only my dry throat
a means to escape.

My poetry lay hungry
while I feed on its promise
to blanket my attempt
to make it known.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 October, 2017


I tire of love and terrorism, the
way my broken heart lay claim
to territory unknown before; the
way the softness of these blankets fall
like bombs in your wake; the
way the hunger for calm strikes and
starves and
feeds in rations; the
way this post trauma stands guard
at closed eyes and
changes sentry as I awaken;
the way it loops itself about my mushroom cloud, and
belts its breath on my cheek. I
tire of scratching at hope like
hope is a trivial blush at another chance. I
grow weary of this kamikaze daze,
my eyes the fluorescence of every wound un-bared. I
ignite from within, limp and lost
from so much exploding without.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 July, 2017


O, the involuntariness of life.
I did not ask for any of this. I
was not sinned from my mother’s womb to strife
between such small moments of bliss.

I cannot canter, all horsely and proud,
made to garden the fruits of my labour.
My soul was born to yearn loud, not
sink to another’s cold favour.

God willing, by the end of my days
I will leave achievements like letters –
small mercies for the suffering of babes
to learn how to generation better.

Peace comes at this fair price –
not without effort, or calling; but
through silent lessons, taught to them twice –
elders way showing before falling.

And so, to these children of time:
mistakes beget paths, straight and narrow.
I was birthed as Creator of mine
to lead such a flight like a sparrow.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 10 July, 2017


Your lies are like Origami –
they all start from the same
but take many

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


Should you
perhaps blindly
show an interest
errantly battering storm within
may cease its embryonic dance
and betroth itself
in your capture


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


What remains of our more recent differences, those
saturated words fallen from the lacy cuffs of our noble tongues; the
sound-filled garments and raspy lingerie custom fit
for implication and blame – what remains

but the pungency of battered verdicts, the jesters
of white noise and spicy hung detachment, the
midnight winds of halitosis fouling casted spells:
an alphabetic bouquet of gambled persecution,
the weight of which we transport as we fade away…

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


the danger of
falling in love
being thrown
out of it

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


There comes a time when
moving forward
is a monumental act
of self-preservation;
walking away,
a feat of rediscovery;
and letting go,
the key to finding true purpose.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


You are my story
and I escape within these pages
of your unmapped strength
through pauses
and the violence
that collects each letter;
another lash I want
and need
but don’t deserve.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


Sometimes I lose myself in you
whilst wondering
how I ever survived
without your distraction

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 3 July, 2017


It is unlikely as you reminisce,
that I,
white as your black is dark,
appear largely unobstructed
in your mind
– stark, as my naked is bare –
a ripening contrast of shadows
raining over my image;
and from where I stand I feel
the wetness
as it pours upon my hair.

Muddied storms rise between us
– a collage of painted quicksand
from my toes to my lungs –
my attention taken from ‘escape’
to ‘survive another night’
for another day;
running at a loss from your black
with my concrete feet
to my canvas of white
from the pain of this confusing grey.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 17 June, 2017


I am glad these butterflies my
silent stomach houses feel more
at home knowing you will
never return than when they
were hoping you might.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 June, 2017


Apparently, I died yesterday, but my
last breath was somewhere between March and April
– it just took you another 3 months to decide
that you are the vastness of space
and I am the lungs that are empty without you

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 12 June, 2017


Take anything, but.
Kill every emotion, twice;
just leave me my heart.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 31 May, 2017


Alphabet pain, this.
Loops, lines, and curls without form:
writer’s block puzzles.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 31 May, 2017


Taste of me, these words –
a conundrum to lick clean.
Tongue hungry, I write.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 31 May, 2017


Heart made for loving:
broken pieces raining down.
Here comes a new storm.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 31 May, 2017


Your heart is a no man’s land, and
you have fornicated, battle-ready,
with countless minds; The Art of War
alive in your apathetic stare,
a ghostly Sun Tzu in your shadow, and
its pages falling like poetry from your face

Yet, like a Viking, you roar,
axe in hand to slaughter dreams and cut ties;
no art, no honour, and just half the warrior
you claim to be – the septic engraver of
bloody runes and headstone eulogies –
Norse winds carrying the poetry I write of you:
it’s pages never to reach your crimson eyes

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 27 May, 2017

TE WAIRUA FREE (‘The Free Spirit’)

My spirit needs mending but I have
no coloured thread
to darn these fraying burdens

The eye of this needle lay gaping and empty
and I am standing on its edge ready to fall through;
a knot to my ankle and my fast surrender
and I’ll fly deeply in to weave new dreams:
a fresher self with perfect stitching
– an un-perished disaster –
still surviving in spite of her erupted soul

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 19 May, 2017


My posthumous heart
declares no life without you,
yet, the holding of my breath
to mark your absence beats it louder;
and as I listen to every bloody word
it whispers in my ears,
I wrap the sound around me
like your missing arms,
until my vitals fade,
wondering if you will ever rush
like this intimate moment,
to tend to my starving needs again.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 17 May, 2017