Look at me, my pages are written in gold thread
and bound by the ancient skin of my past.
My library wails in whispers of conspiracy and truths –
of desire so outcast it finds itself homeless;
a thief
carrying life upon its shelled back
turtling its way between crowds of ears
too muff’d to care or to listen.

Look at me, my story is the grand facade
of my penniless home.
My memories spill like curtains
from the sills of these eyes
into lobeless tunnels where I chase for tails;
that I will to capture for a moment’s audience –
a re-telling no soul might ever stay its ground to hear;
my name on this leathered spine
not enticement enough to be considered.

Look at me, my tounge-pen dribbles with needled letters.
My lips foreplay with top-stitched finery,
archiving yesterdays in self-distress like ageing wine;
and all its silence
slipping beneath the presser foot where it cannot be remembered;
where the archives it declines to embroider
fondle themselves alone in knots
to ravish to the last my unheard
and anonymous remains.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 2 February 2023


We had our differences,
and that was the only thing
we could both agree on.

It was almost poetic
the way we left it
without ever really arriving.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 March 2022


And here we end
word chef-ing mixed media whispers with
tears fought in unison after the war

paperback cuts and empty pages to line our
tongues: a vastness, like stale bread
and un-gardened fence lines.

Here we end our story where
it never began: with hollowed sights
and enemy trenches and
bonbonnieres filled with armories
and dartboard calendars

– riding shotgun with fries to go –

carrying anthrax and V-shaped saliva
in white pockets of revenge

bleating our way
between dichotomy and conflict, where,
in this absence of hope we are just
zombies in a dollar bin –
half the value promised
and reduced to clear.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2021


So many words,
fuelled by everything,
filled with nothing.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 January 2021


Here comes the addiction again, its
whispering lips disguised as passion, the
touch of its hidden hand tap-running
way beyond the weave of my skin
and I
soaked to my core, allow it to wed me:
these buckling knees and paper mâché vows
impressing the addict impaled inside, and
while it listens
eyes necking everything in raised pulse,
it rolls them back with slack-jawed possession
and I move aside
host to a beaten heart that will not commit to stopping
– a puppeteer’d shell in this limbless silence –
running far without a single step
both of us
gambling with a satisfied purr that only I
once combative
now frail
know as loneliness

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 9 October, 2019


They all write of love.

But true adventure lay between a
frozen boundary of stony words;
between a synchronism
of dishonest friendship
and the cowardice of being alone.

Poetry is animal without tongue or limb
and it bellows wildly in dormant pursuit.
It flowers only to write of
hand grenades that fall like alphabet stars;
pollen, like acid rain.
It flourishes in drama of silent depth
as wound commits to scar.

Sometimes it touches
and perhaps we might call it rape
but all it ever seeks is our forgiveness,
an atoned pardon for not arriving
– for not stampeding us –
any sooner than it had.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 8 May, 2018


I might have confessed

were it not for the blanket
of second chances,
assumption oiled at the hinges
by forgiveness –

a permanence arriving
to shuttle me beyond
the gates of my first

Suddenly, it’s stage fright
that trumpets me an usher –

it bleeds me
a carpet call of thin red lines
and I tamper with the packaging
of cause and effect –

two quality seals,
the loose embodiment
of error and apology

I might have confessed

were it not for the bible’d cancer
of my second coming

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 April 2018


I am the starved sanctuary for unformed 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 | pisceanesque.com | 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
at making it known.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 October, 2017


Your lies are like origami –
they all start from the same shape
but take many forms

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017


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

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017


How divine
that thought can both
dress and undress the mind
without ever leaving it

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 11 August, 2016


I have
once more
jailed my vision
splicing diamond-cut thoughts with this
cross-bred and violently bleeding doubt that
feeds from the stomach and shreds the sanest of minds

It is here this rampant indecision
squawks in wordless tongue, lashing
its disposable fancies
(arrow-tipped precision)
at my shaking core

bowels emptying
alongside any creative thoughts of semblance

Now all that is left to bear witness: a sweaty palm or two
– and silence –
as the webbing of my fingers um and ah
hovering like midnight fireflies
over the speech-impeded womb
of my QWERTY keys

And, inside, I hear laughter

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 13 June, 2016


the mouth of silence
while the drowning poet
writes to starve the
mind of words

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 November, 2015



are an
opiate onion:
they sting
they burn
but they taste
oh so
on your tongue
when you speak them


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 June, 2015


Where, I ask, exhausted, did my creativity go?
Was it shadowed by my many burdens
and finally let go?
Did I forget to save a seat for it
while I rode the highway of life –
carrying every ounce of every day
in a heavy sack by my side?
Did I leave my creativity far behind
and outside of the boundaries
I once hungered to avoid reviving in my mind?
Or has it leapt ahead of me,
light-years away to a time
I could never expect to write or reach?
And will it only greet me again
in the next life
in shoes that another more
worldly and traveled other would wear
better than the ones I, alone, attempt to fit?
Have I,
just a here-and-now speck of dust
that tumbles aimlessly along,
reached the limit I somehow self-inflicted
earlier on
to stop me from rhyming more
about what I might never know,
or perhaps, am never meant to find?
Shall my questions be the soothing pets
that follow me like loyal friends
but somehow stay an arms length away
and whisper secrets I could never
– even with a stethoscope –
allow myself to hear?
Knowing what I know, would I detain them
to keep them near?
Shall I, neither ancient, nor elder,
try to understand the heart-beat silence
that, like a disease,
runs impatiently through these veins?
If it returned, would my creative other
fall like pounding rain into my arms and
dissolve itself of any sin
by becoming,
yet again,
a part of what it once was in?
Would my creativity starve, or feast,
by sinking and syncing deep within?
If I handed it the keys, I am certain
we would both deserve to win;
but neither I can, and neither it will,
because without each other
we simply
– both –
are frozen, less, and still.


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 26 October, 2014



These long silences
used to haunt me –
now every ghost
of every memory
comforts me wisely


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 March, 2014


I Have Lost

I have lost
you: lost myself
in the search
to find us both.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 21 May, 2014



I can be silent
but vocal
if you only had eyes
to listen.


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 18 February, 2014


concrete emotion
part water – part sand
stiff and retrodden
imprinted by hand

unbroken dazing
obsessive addiction
weathered disfigurement
stolen ambition

frozen with purpose
externally veined
denied all surrender
exhausted terrain

captured in burden
expressionless pain
mindless estrangement
decisively plain

distantly suffering
obsessive beliefs
helpless remorse
escaping relief

painful receding
numbless appeasement
gone now, the bleeding
here, quiet, the easement

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 May, 2014



each of us
as insane
as the other
– you, more so than I –
we both repeat
at once


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 9 December, 2013


Instead of foraging around making connections
with cables and wireless systems that
bluetooth and sync their way
into our pocket technologies
and portable screens

(tablets of which we self-prescribe
and regulate through overdose
and comatose seedlings of stillness
and waking dreams)

why, instead
don’t we fool around
making connections
with others of like mind and brainwaves
instead of radio waves and
the mastered minds of computer waves
and lift an arm and
really wave
beyond our windows to
real people
in real time
rather than peeping
like a holographic Tom through
tabs and browsing windows,
multi-tasking time in a state of mime
like it’s about to expire

(like the wireless wires will break)

and all that we’ll have is
all we can physically take
from this moment awake we call ‘life’
– a mistake.

What else is left now
in this vegetative
one man / one woman state
where we live to close our eyes
and shut our minds and wait for
the modem-router to re-dial and
get our avatar back online and
our friends back into our
multi-dimensional realer-than-time

Pseudonyms solving identity changes
emerge without birth with designer non-faces,
now that we no longer need imperfection
or meaning or privacy
or even perception
we alter ourselves to impress our connections,
to bond in the moment like a drug we’re ingesting
while hiding as one almost fearing detection,
and tip-toeing straight past
concern or reflection

– invisible firewalls at our protection.

Where IS the affection we actually share
in this digital age
that we turn off so rarely?
This internet craze has become a new God
that we dial to be saved far more often than not
while we race without feet
over networks in haste
with the spambots and viruses
to infect and defile us
– and not without mention
the ads, and our logins, and
passwords impassable if ever forgotten.

And yet
we grow fonder
of pics and of pixels and
texts of expression
(the emojis by which we select our impression)
– and all of it
coded to task like an errand:
the reality of which we could lose in a second

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 10 September, 2013


these eyes
fear what I see

– incomplete poetry –

a part of you
yet alive
becomes lost again

half written
this frankenesque fate
seals your mystery

locked within
a writer’s typed notes
– and unaware –
I sense you feel
the end
once more

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 11 January, 2013



The school girls
with the messiest hair
are my daughters

The ones with the
fallen socks
and the untucked shirts

So concerned are they
with getting there
so they can come home later

That nothing but
can stop them in their tracks


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 11 August, 2011



Barely living,
one’s dance
doth animate;
one’s words,
rhythm providing,
doth speak.


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 June, 2011



Standing here
I stood my ground
than the distance

than ‘ahead’ I saw
fighting for resistance

– not alone –
with only me
I stayed

– screaming loud –
to hear it:

. . . silence . . .

yet I disobeyed

Cocooned in air and
by these fitful gulps
I dared not breathe I
marked out time
in vacant space
I owned – yet
not yet: not for me

Thinking hard
I cleared my mind
– illusioned, lost –
memories traced

Would I
(should not) leave
I’d try

The where?
Just ‘some’
ANY place


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 30 October, 2007



As I watch
the moon slowly


behind the clouds
to appear again
in someone else’s vision
all white and shiny
and virgin.


© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 26 May, 2002


We are we.
For the others we shall see.
We are we are they;
She. And she.
We are we.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | date unknown