Something greater (pain),
dangerous to both our hearts
eats us like candy

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 13 October, 2015


Time, again, bleeds through:
my skin, the landmark of pain.
Weeping wounds, naked.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 6 June, 2015



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 | | Written 11 May, 2013



Impale, oh thee, thine words
with burning, slow incisions,
once, and again,
unto death


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 22 June, 2011


To learn from a bruised soul, one’s heart must remain uncushioned.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 7 September, 2011


carnal lightening reaped my brain in verves of
sickled fever, emotion sloughing clean
my tortured psyche.

and who was I to challenge
this narcotic self ablution –
yet, what of my resolve to linger
in bias mental disarray?

pathetic hypotheticals
engorged my blood
as nothing new.
the tension burning scars within this
manic unenlivened carcass
grew until

my hybrid self assaulted what was once
unfailed but often wrong integrity
as swifter than a scarlet blade
my conscience was absconded
to a heaven: peace, release, and ease.

had I commanded armies to retreat?
my palsied mind
was finally worth its bloody ground
and tissues thick with matters
fed on independence
lost among the strain.

I must remember where I left my genius.


© Tamara Natividad | | Written 24 June, 2004