Poetry Blog by nightflower
Perception now distorted.
A deep darkness recognized.
Spent. She’s got you on your knees.
Cry for help.
Because she’s got you.
Fall; say’s she.
Wait; I know me.
I’ve got your soul boy.
Don’t speak your mind, boy.
Fall to your knees, boy.
Bowed, beneath swung teet.
Manhood now sof...
Sunday 16th February 2020 8:28 am
Finding a way down
Twisting and turning
Orient crucial at every turn
Wait for the water to still
A mirrored pool
Thoughts already had,
A breath already taken.
The dissociation begins.
Pieces falling out of place
A calm mind essential.
No mind present
Left now right, up down, now and never.
The broken string
Dissonant promise of love.
All is lost, and never was
The ill father c...
Monday 30th December 2019 10:02 am
Resting – a respite from time that doesn't stop.
Breathing – reintegrating the first principle.
Sober – unchanged mind.
Entranced in my subjective palace, polished in the finest way.
Pristine – untouched – complete; a temple preserved only in mind.
Insight trapped by absence of motivation.
A mind blurred between black and white.
A grey figure dancing in the mist.
Monday 30th December 2019 4:49 am
*This is a little on the nose and might make people uncomfortable, so I suppose that I'd advise reading at your own discretion. I apologise if something like this isn't appropriate to post - I wonder if perhaps there's a way to hide posts from the main feed?.*
Magnetic alignment; the image realised.
Cells woven. Built for war.
Sunday 29th December 2019 5:43 pm
See that boy there – yeah.
He's emotionally rich. On the outside all poor – bad clothes, no girl, s*** car; no house.
But on the inside he got that swirlin' blue; that vibrant yellow – an' all that compassion
For me an' you.
You might not see him, but he see us, an'
He got that rich flow but nothin' to show.
No smile for you, cause he on his own.
He on his own.
Him and his ...
Sunday 29th December 2019 7:08 am
I consider myself a poet.
Yet I've never written one.
In my head I'm the best;
Yet, I've not won. Not once. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I wish to learn to conduct my feelings.
Through this pen and onto the page.
Like passengers on a train:
Shaken into a box to be put away.
Dated, signed and sent.
Now poised, waited for the profit to return.
Poised, like a proph...
Sunday 29th December 2019 6:29 am