expression

WRITE ME BACK TO LIFE

Piece by formless piece of me
compose of new desires –
write me back to life before my hope
deterred
retires

Inflate my heart until it finds itself
in soothing flight –
sprout for me the wings I need
to beat its rhythm right

Expand my lungs to fill with life
and bleed this void no more –
to breathe ambition in until
it seeps from every pore

Expression-fill my written words
in storms to self-empower –
for in this silent wash of time
perspective leaves me sour

Find within my shadows
proof of flawless, lustrous light –
elucidate my purpose
forming day from cloudy night

Write of peace, a balm
to heal my bleakly fractured power –
a vision
rich
to seed and plant
and soon – I hope – to flower

Inspire my eroding soul
with passion to ignite –
a reason to awaken
fresh
with fervour to incite

Harmonise expression
to unlock what I admire –
write me back to life before I
sadly
might expire

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

THE JAILED FREEDOM OF WRITING

Sour, my attempt to write –
the flavour lost in every bite.
Undecided words, unheard,
but seeping out, expelled,
disturbed: a self-invaded,
cornered bird, un-winged
and clipped from flight,
while

I rumble with poetic temper,
my bleeding soul,
in part, dismembered,
blank, un-whole, alone,
distended –
my belly full of passion,
yet, my appetite untended,
and

expression jailed and flawed,
dissolving quicker than it pours –
a vat of garbled, bubbling
troubled thought
that rivals typed impression sought
to pillage mind and spill from core.

Scored, the days it takes between,
in floor and wall,
to key the lock that binds
this isolation door,
ancient finds arising
in my lust for seeking more
and more –
buried words upended
with surprise, and unintended,
for,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within,
and
never one to coat my words
too thin/too dry/too weak it seems
(by definition) I resist
to drown (at best)
or leak,
while anchored here, existing,
with unflinching frozen speech,
but

the accidental draining of my
purpose-tended bed of prose,
is waiting hand on foot
with sweetened
suicidal pensive throes,
as I,
with mocking rows
and rows of written doubt,
release, in lines,
my stomach
churning through and out
demands to hasten
one true last and final shout,
so,

this filtered care
that stains my lungs with ghostly stare
and soaks my throat
as vomitus
as stinging air
that leaves me rendered,
flailed and flared and wounded,
brooding, undeclared –

through THIS
the words escape,
an icing on the freedom cake
all cherry-topped, and cut, and baked:
a timeless meal to share
without the food to waste,
the friend to taste,
the key to exit,
smitten,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.

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

THE SOLD SOUL

It slips,
– this new surrender –
past the rusted locks and caution signs
and crumbling roads of cul–de–sacs
and vacant lots
and open tracks
to freedom:

where conundrums play and secrets huddle
and bodies lie
and youth decays
– retired past expired days –

Engraved in time,
cocoons and shells and nests are hung
and quartered for a chance at love:

the way ahead
receding,
half behind and part enslaved
(a mask of promise worn from sale of soul to lucid grave)

And
– like an avalanche –
it falls in quick pursuit, this
multiverse of filthy guise
with liquid paths and dangerous eyes
and ruby coloured blushing cheeks
where
every lover’s heart of sponge or stone
descends to meet while
heating
for another touch
beneath the fraying sheets

And all the while
– in haste, not glory –
time, undressing moments as it passes,
flies away,
incarnate instead as flesh (again)
with wings that only beat
to re-transcend and scar
and mend
in pounding, swollen, rhythms
C
L
A
W
I
N
G
for the warmth of distance:
**ROARING**
for a hurried end

So,

spaced between the
t i c k s and t o c k s
of darting pain
and thrusting cocks,
of cunts aroused, abused, and shamed,
a silence, near, deploys again:

the ever-caged
and emptied song
of lustful shame
and mouths and tongues
declining, fast at last
to go
from whence it came
to soak the mind
and strip the soul
and blur the lines
of time and toll

buried
in surrender,
whole

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 21 July, 2015

HALF WRITTEN

burning
these eyes
fear what I see

– incomplete poetry –

a part of you
unfinished
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
encroaching

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

THOUGHT #341

Being at a loss to express oneself, one is indeed expressing oneself.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 6 July, 2011

PENNED DANCE

 

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

 

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

SPAKE

Impale, oh thee, thine words
with burning, slow incisions,
once, and again,
unto death’s
arrival.

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

THOUGHT #141

The rich combination of expression and potential cultivates a victorious appetite for sharing one’s significant journey toward inner abundance.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 1 September, 2011

THOUGHT #107

Expression nourishes – with a demand for notice and a tongue for freedom – a hunger vital to every desire; or, limp and lifeless, one might forever abstain from purpose.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 20 September, 2011