loss

PILLAGE (HAIKU)

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

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 May, 2017

SHATTERED (HAIKU)

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

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 31 May, 2017

PURPLE HEART

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,
and
count
each
pulse
until my vitals fade,
wondering if you will ever rush
like this intimate moment,
to tend to my starving needs again.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 May, 2017

VACANCY

i am being crushed
by the weight
of your absence
and if it does not lift
i may never
stand again

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 24 April, 2017

AND THEN WE WEREN’T

we were pointless once;
that is to say
we were always in growth
and there was never a time
when what we had would stop
to be what we
‘had’

our map didn’t come with
those flags to pin and say
– this is us –
or
– we are here –
we were the whole map
we were every map
and then we weren’t

now we are no longer pointless;
we are ‘that point’
the marked X
(without the treasure)
the one that simply says
– here –
and my heart is this map
and it is pierced and leaking
and all that it contains
will run like ink
across the world
our red flag standing on end
and flying alone
to remind me

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 April, 2017

SEIZED

I

am at

a complete loss

to understand the workings

of your mind; the cogs that turn

to wind your clock

have seized

and the only hands

that pass time now

are mine

alone

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 April, 2017

SECOND PRIORITY

Second Priority

Love is not being second priority on a list.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 20 April, 2017

 

SINKING

 

this moment will slip away from me
drowning out my fears in a raft made for two
oars afloat
beyond my cramping fingers
and nothing but my shadow will be revived

 

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

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
and 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 filled with written words, my storm to self-empower,
yet, in this silent wash of time I very humbly shower.

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; a 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

UNTITLED (HAIKU)

I have lost myself;
too many words left to write.
My void grows timeless.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 May, 2016

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

 

This night carries me,
blinded,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I
flat,
and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
longing,
for another day; but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans,
instead,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
asleep awake, to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink,
like a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
walking,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
here, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
this
bottomless pit of expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

 

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

FOR EVERY MAN

 

The Man who never brought hell home
was wise beyond his years.
He suffered long
but lived it loud
imprisoned by his fears –
and those were thus:
that those before him
came and went
with nothing left but
pain and name
and more of same
who went and came
from seed in soil
to root and stem,
to fallen branches, time again:
a family tree to fuel the flames
on cold and lonely nights.

Embodied by the coat of arms he wore,
this Last to hold his name,
he swore,
– in vain, perhaps –
to stand at ease no more.

The Man who never brought hell home
encased himself in spite and spirits;
ghosts of generations gone,
encroaching deep within.
He sought for answers,
fought for reasons,
questioned why his bloodline grew
to fall and rise
and curse and kill
with secret lies
and stolen rights
and ties he could not sight.

The Man who never brought hell home
had died
the moment he arrived
– or so he thought –
he always said,
with eyes in search of something else . . .
perhaps that love that once he’d felt,
despite the years of crime he lead.
And what is left, again, but holes
to fill with buried woes
and broken war-like games
and shattered dreams
and darker still yet, nothing.
Nothing, as it always seems.

Not a sliver shall him by, it pass,
of hope,
of love,
of peace . . .
Not until the very last,
this Man who never brought hell home.

And so, this Man, with blind belief
declared his story would be brief,
atoning for the sins he cast
in other’s lives
in years that passed,
and spent his days in self destruction,
free from want, control, and need,
biding time with bated breath
like men, before, who longed for death,
entrained in mind and soul,
until one day,
the hell that never came,
came whole.

For every man,
and son of man that once there was,
who sharpened knives
and counted tools
and cleaned his guns,
and polished pride, his moral compass by his side,
who now lives to wake and wakes to die:
repelling faith, repelling truth, and cussing lies,
this Man has died.

 

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

ICECREAM LOVE

 

This icecream love
– sweet –
and filled with cold desire,
drips
through the hole
in my sugared cone.

The very thing
that holds my love within,
is now partaking
in the letting go
of its own
contents.

Much to my despair.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 20 May, 2012

ABSTRUSITY

(meaning: wisdom that is incomprehensible to one of ordinary understanding or knowledge)

Alone, let me dissolve into the stale persistence of repeated memory, where,
to sink, into that moment, long at last, I will;
to time that stained my white and holy life like thick excreted waste,
as lost among the black apostles, self detest infection festered.
My soul did roast my psyche.

Let me watch through wiser eyes as I was suckled dry by rogues and devilled men who
fed me lies and praised degraded hopes in tight knit bondage ropes and
prayed their symbiotic futures whole;
their shackled lives, encased by squalid dwellings, raped to empty, burnt to coals. Then,

let me fear again the death I cheated, let me shy away again from light and love,
as once I did,
and let the drugs inspire hunger, let my ribs admonish friendships;
show me seated on the sharpened iron throne that clawed its way into my life.

Let me remember courage, this, when biting clean the straps
that bent my arms behind my back,
that tied my feet without allowing slack, that stole my mind, that seared my life,
that scarred my flesh and sent me running, set me free at last
from final unforgiving seas that tempted me with futile guarantee
to nurture, care and carry me.

Let me, lastly, naked, stand in stark surrender, found by precious realisation.
Finally human once again! Majestic once again! While
chains of brutal, rusty, rotted steel detach,
and I begin to heal; to patch at last, my puzzled life that, muzzled,
once,
I hanged among
such sordid ruin.
Now a sequined future wheel rotates as I transition
from a past so art surreal,
so damn unreal,
and yet, a history, sad, but passed, that’s mine, alone to boldly feel.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 29 July, 2004