Poetry Blogs (writer)

People haven’t always 

been there for me, 

but the muse always has. 

Lighting my path, 

healing heartbreak, 

the one making life fun. 

Makes sure suffering is not in vain, 

dances with me in the rain, 

stays beside me come what may. 

I return the favor by making

my muse’s words known. 

Spreading love as we go. 

https://youtu.be/KsZ6tROaVOQ

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Death May Be The King Of Terrors

Each brush stroke of a word painter

Smeared bloody crimson red

Seen through eyes that recognise

The things that can’t be touched

Behind accumulated layers of gore

Where shadows are the surface

What is felt is hidden behind

What is seen 

So your mind fills in the gaps

gives corporeality to the phantom

even as the scalpel ni...

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I want to tell you how incredibly

imaginative, creative, talented

I think you are with your poetry,

writing, music, art...

but I hesitate to expose our

eggshell-covered egos, 

fuel rejection, 

ignite impostor syndrome...

all live wires 

that threaten to electrocute

our fragile muse 

into submission 

of a numbed,

comfort-zone life. 

So, instead of shouting

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Baltimore.
Burned out, hidden from the crowds inside of stranger's minds,
there are things to be found
in a time after time...after time.
But look,
not always you can read the last memories
inside of the universe book,
you always share what it takes
but now it gets more than you took.
No, stranger!
Nothing left to be undermined,
simple, eternal, contagious,
chasing ashes from those emp...

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First, from nothing scarce.

From the significance in first tormenting light after leaving the dark.

I wanted to mention how love saved certain severances...The blood and clay…soul molded and punctured body of constellations…

How we break free.

How my star falls tonight.

Into the root. Into the wind to feel the soil again. Like his hands wavering the beginnings of sun and s...

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Dark birds hover around the wounds of the mystic. They are thirsty.

I am forrayed emitting light. Swashbuckling my shadow. Descending. Invisible ethereal mist...

The fog attributed to the charm of strangers. Colors harbor the noisy cloud of confessionals.

I feel the foam of ruins. Mirrors with cracked edges. Silhouettes...

Doors sunken within eyes. Sunny shoveled graves. Hollowed out e...

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I want to confess that the last minute is the bell tapered within his hands.

That single gesture of ominous struggle to wring out hazards and corridors. Rusted knobs like knuckles.

Eyelash fringe of frosted root. Cold clemency. Integrous beasts. We are jailed flutter. Inside. Within…

We free one another together.

I search for the maze of divine intervention and wings.

He i...

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They frame me in the milestones. Something like an unkempt garden. I am half naked in blizzards of truth. Temperamental hands unclothe me...

Uprooted.

Because you love me whispers from adversaries blow at our threads. The nature of their beasts forget the importance of their Mothers...Of women. Umbilical iridescence floats away. Kites like thoughts lose strings...

I promise...

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A shadow drawing across my notebook

a guiding hand for my uncertain pen

another mind thinking my thoughts

the ghost writer begins to take over.

Words from a different realm

sentences flowing from beyond

aiding me with my creative void

the ghost writer is taking over.

Holding my unsteady hand

boldly streams of words do flow

happy am I with my expressive frien...

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Echoes,
echoes in the dark chasing us away..
chasing us..
away.

Echoes, 
echoes.. are still down there,
..there they are trying to hear our call,
call them to come around we are almost free, almost there,
almost there..
..fallen angels on the ground..
on the ground..
broken needle in a hay ..
in a hay.

Echoes,
echoes .. forever and before,
..before we weren't the same in their e...

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Poetry is a 
refuge for 
a lonely life

the antidote
for pain 
and strife

warm words 
blanketing
a frigid night

tonic for thirsty sailors 
drowning in an ocean 
from which we cannot drink

To our deserted island we go 

while the world 
casts us loners, 
introverts, quiet
weird, crazy...

Let them judge 
as they wine and dine 
in crowded rooms 
on cell patrol

while w...

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You’re not a writer yet, 

until your work is more than just some poems.

You’re not a writer yet, 

so don’t forget you must keeping going.

You’re not a writer yet 

because you ‘might’ by the writing bug have been bitten.

You’re not a writer yet,

if getting it right, means more than getting it written.

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All these new things, 

Happening. 

Time passes through me like a breeze - 

But the hours feel like eternity. 

These cigarettes hurt me, 

But I can still breathe - 

My heart skipping beats - 

Occasionally. 

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I had that dream again...

You and me dancing on some random beach.

 I felt your hands on my thighs,

moving me gently with your warm eyes.

You were looking at me like if it was the first time, 

the first time of holding me with your warm hands. 

I remember it clearly now.

My head was resting on your chest,

I know you were smelling my hair and

playing with it just like y...

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There was once a man,

charming in the flesh

He fell in love with a woman,

who he described her as a universe with the brightest stars.

She was his dream,

a dream that came close with his reality.

There was once a man,

bewitched with all.

He dare not speak,

for not to ruin all.

He cared for his beloved,

as if she was the heart of it all.

Until he met his dem...

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True to
The saying
“The pen is mightier
Than the sword”
To your enemies
Deep-cutting and
Mask-divesting
Were every  of
Your  acerbic satire, also
Bitter-truth packed word.
“To ignore
His pen we ill afford
Nor could we
Fight him back
Word for word.
So covertly
Let us
Strike him  down
With a sword
About his whereabouts
Effacing a word!” they said
Forgetting
As a writer Baalu
W...

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There's a garden inside of me.
It grows through my lungs
with roses and daisies.
It grows with my soul when it's touch by another. 
Though it rains, though time it collapses
It's still there, growing roses and daisies. 
With warmth and kindness, it's always there,
though storms pass and go.
It will always be there, my garden inside of me. 
With the roses and daisies of my life within me.

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relax,

now start breathing,

everything around is around for the same reason. 

Catastrophe, catastrophe its all the same feeling

i'm too old to move on, i'm too old to keep dreaming.

When to move on is to grow and to grow is not leaving,

in a promise land we grow, and speak of the same reason

we speak of heaven and hell like they're not the same demon.

Well to move...

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Hi all,

I have just released my third ebook 'Realisations' - a year after my debut ebook 'Open to interpretation' and it's subsequent second edition. It is available to buy now on Lulu via this link: http://www.lulu.com/shop/christian-reeve/realisations/ebook/product-22865142.html

A brief preview is available for all three of my books on the website itself. Please buy a copy now and support ...

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I am not a great writer
But in my writing I can be great.

You only go around once

in this life.

In my writing I have visited

Haunted houses, been greeted

by my long gone Father, and

even been to space.

I am not a great writer,

but my Family supports

and encourages me.

So, Yes I am a great w...

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Despite the never ending wonders
and the darkness it brings.
Life and nature itslef
brings a beauty so rare
that makes moments in life so specail.

And if we take a moment to stop
and really see with our eyes
we'll find something so breathtaking
that no play on words could even describe
the beauty that you and I seek.

That only a writer
could capture natures beauty
and just one wron...

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Everyone's a writer 
These days
Poet, playwright, scripted scrawler
5am, cigarette, red wine bawler
Everyone's a writer
These days
It's the craze or just a phase
I don't know
But it seems knee deep in the linen of our lives
And the answer to any creative 
without a clue
who doesn't know what to do 
Or who rides the wave
in a depndent haze
of the ones who script our days
when they ha...

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The Trade Name.

When the green fairy

kisses my lips

with sweet anise,

I take the grand wormwood path

just for jolly, wouldn’t you?

Cachous,

to mask her breath

of juniper.

A road

to mothers ruin.

The gas-lit fog

cloaks the backstreet

opiate dens,

where wretched

addicts lie.

Pastry faced women,

lifting ski...

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FADE

I fade away to nothing because you're not here. I know you exist. You're my contemporary who achieved great things. My twin flame. I want to steal you from your boyfriend by winning your heart and seducing you with my poetry. I know your language and will capture you, no matter what karma. Naomi stole David and they built something together. Trish and I will do the same. Her song...

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