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


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 | pisceanesque.com | Written 3 July, 2017


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

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


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

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


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


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

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


The Mouth of Silence

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

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


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,

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,

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,

from I, the Jailor,
baseless accusations rise,
lashing, fast, acidic wind
that primes the rhymes I tongue within,
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,

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,

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,
from this solitary mind-induced
persisting empty prison space.

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