bottle all these emotions I'm still here after all the weight is near heavy the overflow is a drop away I don't have the words to say enough or obey you take all of my time and you don't even know it my boy, you can stay I've given you the sun the stars the moon a perpetual accolade even when I'm gone remember a mother's giveaway I will be one of the beats to live in your heart's estate
struggle to gauge one thought
decipher repetitively “I am not”
rush to breathe
suffer
sent unsent letters
blind pilots climb
mysterious routes unkind
deliver silent parades
above formidable lives
slaves to looking up
plucking the light from their eyes
Hatching ideas
it's dark
too dark
this dream,
shadow man
tells me
to grin
bare all
use thumbs
he squeals,
less-apt calm
ride along
consumed of
studious
eyes,
nostrils
lift &
transcend
brilliantly
Spring flowers
surround
land-based
bodies,
lost freedom
stings
insides
ceaseless
I begin to
cry
as if being
filmed,
tears
tower
selfless
cheeks,
indrawn seas
fall onto lap
drowning
hungering earth
caught
by a
wish
to up.
wake me
I Set My Shadow Loose by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
I Set My Shadow Loose
I set my shadow loose
the dreary warmth
leaving the touch
to find a new specter.
Much later...
I find her crying
on a highway overpass
she sees me eat a secret
I spit the lies in her face
“Go away!” I say.
She jumps.
The water below
walks ahead of me
carries her
with pocket holes
for breathing.
Someday
something will drag us
back together.
For now, I keep
the great poets
bottled inside
of this body
no longer bound.
The Life of the Party by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
The Life of the Party
I have been to lots of parties,
barricaded by both men & women
thickened with unwinding alcohol.
Quite the life you already know,
very secret lives, everyone make-belief
lying through their cock-thickening mouths....
sole motives to only shirk, beat out with eyes,
nearly diamonds, the brightness letting us drown.
Out of touch .... yet everyone rubs nigh,
wandering vacuums, too near to hear
what's already been spoken, sucking up glow & alluring
persons, whom are feeble ... too far behind.
Tinkering hands and looped music
pollinating dingy brains.
Spellbind grief, unbearably
reminds you, the life of the party....
can't get there from here
What a Writer must do. by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
What a Writer must do.
To live beyond the word
a writer must trust the wounds,
human suffering,
a prelude
of what is about to come.
The lack of words is what a writer
may need to endeavor.
Precisely, revive a bruised land
of skin
breathlessly stretched
to the inner ache
of all mankind with wine
upon the lips, a writer persists,
times when there will be nothing left
to feel, belonging at all risk.
Your heart is the vital necessity of my existence.
The useless woman I had been before you,
doesn't understand.
Yes, I did have a name.
O, but you directly named me Asteria
and so “Ashley” in a sea of poets
does not possibly stand out as passionate
and honestly,
not a luxury
compared unfairly
to Asteria.
He dances a kind of genius
against white walls;
all prim and branched out
The fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
carries me
to
him
Fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue
We giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs
His smile vintage, lips, dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass
The table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug
among spilled wine and cradled glass
bottle all these emotions I'm still here after all the weight is near heavy the overflow is a drop away I don't have the words to say enough or obey you take all of my time and you don't even know it my boy, you can stay I've given you the sun the stars the moon a perpetual accolade even when I'm gone remember a mother's giveaway I will be one of the beats to live in your heart's estate
struggle to gauge one thought
decipher repetitively “I am not”
rush to breathe
suffer
sent unsent letters
blind pilots climb
mysterious routes unkind
deliver silent parades
above formidable lives
slaves to looking up
plucking the light from their eyes
Hatching ideas
it's dark
too dark
this dream,
shadow man
tells me
to grin
bare all
use thumbs
he squeals,
less-apt calm
ride along
consumed of
studious
eyes,
nostrils
lift &
transcend
brilliantly
Spring flowers
surround
land-based
bodies,
lost freedom
stings
insides
ceaseless
I begin to
cry
as if being
filmed,
tears
tower
selfless
cheeks,
indrawn seas
fall onto lap
drowning
hungering earth
caught
by a
wish
to up.
wake me
The Life of the Party by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
The Life of the Party
I have been to lots of parties,
barricaded by both men & women
thickened with unwinding alcohol.
Quite the life you already know,
very secret lives, everyone make-belief
lying through their cock-thickening mouths....
sole motives to only shirk, beat out with eyes,
nearly diamonds, the brightness letting us drown.
Out of touch .... yet everyone rubs nigh,
wandering vacuums, too near to hear
what's already been spoken, sucking up glow & alluring
persons, whom are feeble ... too far behind.
Tinkering hands and looped music
pollinating dingy brains.
Spellbind grief, unbearably
reminds you, the life of the party....
can't get there from here
What a Writer must do. by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
What a Writer must do.
To live beyond the word
a writer must trust the wounds,
human suffering,
a prelude
of what is about to come.
The lack of words is what a writer
may need to endeavor.
Precisely, revive a bruised land
of skin
breathlessly stretched
to the inner ache
of all mankind with wine
upon the lips, a writer persists,
times when there will be nothing left
to feel, belonging at all risk.
Your heart is the vital necessity of my existence.
The useless woman I had been before you,
doesn't understand.
Yes, I did have a name.
O, but you directly named me Asteria
and so “Ashley” in a sea of poets
does not possibly stand out as passionate
and honestly,
not a luxury
compared unfairly
to Asteria.
I do this for you, really. by AsteriaSinclair, literature
Literature
I do this for you, really.
A pocket full of decomposing stars
delicate bones in drawers,
the sight
of blood
soaking
under newly pedicured
toes – exciting.
Walking home,
bird with no wings. Spare some conspiracy,
just don't feel up to flying
this one night.