The saddest thing for love is being so close to each other, and yet just can’t come together.
#cassaquote – 42
The saddest thing for love is being so close to each other, and yet just can’t come together.
The saddest thing for love is being so close to each other, and yet just can’t come together.
Disturbing Event (A Dark Collection)
This is one of the dark poetry which I wrote as a writing exercise. Dark poetry is not my usual genre. I had fun writing it.
That Summer was so hot.
Grass in the backyard choked
our footsteps.
Lying in bed next to you,
the loud crickets relentlessly
held me off of sleep.
I remembered
the panic in your voice,
‘Did you hear that?
They are coming for us.
Stay still!
They won’t find us.’
You struggled with the locust plague.
We hid underneath the blanket
on a 30 degree night.
Your panic
and the cricket midnight party
went on and on.
My brain shut down
and I slumbered into sleep.
‘Did you smell that?
They are cooking opium again
next door.’
The smell of smoke
stang my eyes to wake.
I sprang up from bed
to rush out to the garden.
The backyard was like
an abandoned camp site
in the daybreak.
You went in the ambulance
laughing in exhilaration,
‘I burned the fuckers.
Don’t you fucking mess with me.
No fucking plague under my watch.
I’m gonna get you,
you piece of shit
reincarnated
opium dealer,
undercover
fucking neighbour.’
That’s how that hot summer ended.
#blog
Flicker of Thoughts is 3 years old.
We Were in Love with Our Identity
We were once so in love with being poets, even more, being two poets in love.
We thought we would love and hate each other through poetry, and that was a noble idea.
Good poetry stands the test of time but there is no such thing as good poets.
Love is everlasting. The idea of love is merely the lover's vanity.
#Musicshare – Bluebird
Play Kit (A Dark Collection)
This is one of the dark poetry which I wrote as a writing exercise. Dark poetry is not my usual genre. I had fun writing it.
she put her lace-up
thigh high boots on
as the final touch
before leaving for
the special call
she swiped in
walked straight to
the plush velvet bed
she layed out meticulously
gas mask
ball gag
cuffs
ball lock
flogger set
strap-on
and kept
the digital scale
in her play kit
underneath the bed
he was a special one
to her
she almost loved him
in her
faint conscience
she completed the
2 hour assignment
he was exhausted
and satisfied
instead of
feeling disgusted
as usual
this time
she felt
a sense of beauty
glancing over
his vulnerable
shriveled body
a dear little lamb
unawared of its fate
it was time
for her pleasure
and gratification
she took her time
Chopin op 25 no.1 on repeat
crimson spots and sprays
raw primal smell
metalic light salty
the latex gloves
stopped her kinaesthesia
she masterfully
dissected the lamb
she pulled out the scale
weighted
the heart
then liver
then kidneys
she bloomed
an orgasmic
smile
Trapped (A Dark Collection)
This is one of the dark poetry which I wrote as a writing exercise. Dark poetry is not my usual genre. I had fun writing it.
he barely goes to the well
he knows spring ain’t flowing
there were times
hard times, soul searching times
he sat by the well
sobbing
telling her about the hard yakka
he poured into the farm
yet yielded no return
except rats
he gave thanks to her
for the insurance money
which kept it going
and kept him sane
not by her own will though
then
he cursed her for
the nightmares
she inflicted upon him
“I love you sweetheart.
You had been good to me.
The farm is my everything.
I sacrificed you.
Now I am bearing the pain and loss.
Would you let go of my torment,
depart from me my darling wife?”
Orange Peel
Sexy lady
Ordered from the menu
Last night's zest
Stained my fingernail
This morning
The off smell irritated
my spliting headache
Why Aren’t The Roses Growing (A Dark Collection)
This is one of the dark poetry which I wrote as a writing exercise. Dark poetry is not my usual genre. I had fun writing it.
his neighbour always had a smile
hanging above her taut full lips
wearing yoga pants and platform shoes
she also had a cat always hungry
the feral creature preyed on his birds
with deprived and snarling face
he checked the cage everyday
OCD on its bars and lock
leaving no chance for the predator
to his dismay
he returned home to find an empty cage
with no sign of his two budgies
only
the feline was grooming uncaringly
…
he is looking out the window to the garden
wondering why his roses are’t growing
blood and bones are meant to be
excellent feed for roses
he was careful with the burial
to ensure gradual decomposition
and slow release
he cannot understand
why aren’t the roses growing
perhaps cats do indeed
have nine lives
Hell
The Living Poetry prompt – Hell
Hell is a permanent stage of rejection. Just try to imagine everything you ask for the answer is always 'No!'
Flicker of Thoughts 