tatteredwords - Tumblr blog

[tatteredwords]

I have wild ocean blue hair tips,

Erupting waves in their shape,

Reminiscent to sweet fantasies.

But I am reserved

And coated in layers of sorrow,

Constantly afraid of what comes tomorrow.

What shall come and shall go,

Like ocean tides and scurried waves,

Is my most present thought.

Deep down,

Fear is a fuel

Greater than restless waters.

It consumes and drowns,

Sucks up the air

And the will to come back up,

Resurface

As a rebirthed mysticism.

It is all there,

And I may have the exterior

Of an emerging tsunami,

But my sense of self, neglected,

Lays dorment in a corner.

A cocoon time has not yet opened,

The Pandora lost in drought

At the depths

Forgotten.

[tatteredwords]

sweetness

You crave The sweetness Of what should not be craved When there is an apple Laying in a basket, Rotting into oblivion. It is there, It is yours if you want it, The freshness in the crushing bite. It will replenish you, Pure sweetness In the scented waters That pour in a bite. The sweetness Isn't overbearing.

But you crave The pleasure of a moment, In which A greater flavor Of melting clouds and rivers Touches your lips Kindly, With sweetness Gifted to you, So that They may rejoice and melt For even just a moment Of sweetness, Ill-provoking.

You crave A shape of temptation, The softness to the lips, A piece of sky Far greater than the apple. It seems So much sweeter Than the apple That you forget Is laying in a basket.

Your lips, They crave What hurts you, Your mind and body In the long run. Unattainable Sweetness.

[tatteredwords]

your message has been received.

It feels good, A bit like a shiver Caused by a gentle whistle And blow to my heart. When I read the words That are meant to be read From your lips With that voice that is yours. Soothing, gentle, The thump that follows The opening of my eyes, A flutter of eyelids, Decluster of pressed together lashes And a smile, Joy in my reaction. That thump breathes life Into my compressed ribcage. The thump is brief, The heart is alive, And I read your words with your lips As if I knew exactly the sounds, The whispers and lisps That are so theirs Like they were my own. I know them. No matter the words, No matter the significance. The fact that I know It is your own savor Of wordings. That is like finally knowing My heart feels At home.

[tatteredwords]

i will hold you

I will hold you.

Though not physically, I will hold you.

With a big thank you,

And a smile

When the tears cease and desist,

And my blooming self love starts to exist.

[tatteredwords]

sky tears

Sometimes, it feels nice to go for things blindly.

To let them soar, adventurous and untamed, unaware of a path, set goal or motion.

To have it go just as intensely as a shooting star that cuts through the fabric of reality coated in stars to which we both stare on the daily.

With the many wishing upons that may occur out of sheer desire, childishness or despair.

I want to go for it blindly, like the stars have taught me in their wake. I want to feel the rush, the stardust trail that propulses me further than I could ever go. I do, I do want to go as I please, with no demands. Just with a set mind that I will loosen across its unknowing path and lose myself to the motion of going just for going.

I want to go, to leave this earth, momentarily if so, dare to dream.

Defy myself and you, defy everyone with the stubbornness that I may fall as blindly as I want to fly and set sail.

Stare the stars, stare all the brightness that flares above me, because the night sky could not shine any brighter.

It does, frenetic and in set motion like tears that surface ahead of a pretty dark set of eyes. The glimmer of sadness, it flares up, sets the world in a commotion, and my eyes set way up above at the sky of defiant slippery tears that never dared leave their dark inprisionment.

The glimmer of eyes is a precious sight.

Like falling stars, tears fall the same, beautiful pieces of sky in the damning fall to their deaths, the fuel to many other poetic sorts of beings.

The eyes tell a story, as much as does the sky.

Except, eyes can only belong to you.

And the sky,

I can believe it to be mine.

[tatteredwords]

the looming tree

Abandonnent, it looms even when unwanted. Ironically. It has always been there. My own abandonment. Of my own right to feel, of my own self love. It looms over, creeps like the shadow of an old branch that had grown past the fluffed, disheveled evergreen core. The shade peers over me, scolds me. It doesn't neglect me, but keeps me all to itself. I have been asleep under the tree. The roots clung for affection, they smothered me into belonging to them. I nodded, and slept. My demise was written in acceptance, in negligence. Of me, of the world. The roots were intricate, and the nets tightened in fear. Trees are bound by the abandonment of time, left to grow and surpass all that lives. Not quite eternal, mere lonely scattered shapes that contort in dread with plentiful arms. The trees have seen the world, have tasted sorrow, were carved and embued in love time and time again. A tree is a lonely lover who has not learnt to love. It loves each touch, each droplet. It loves you, it loves me, who sleeps under. It is easy. I love, and gift it my soul. Abandonment is scary. I comfort the shade that has loomed over me. It is comforting to not be alone. Being the narrator who sleeps under the tree was always the easiest. The safest choice, the path which could not hurt me. Until it smothered me into oblivion, self abandonment. The smother, like a tight hug that could not ever possibly hurt me. Gentle, kind, lonely. Roots became claws, hearts became weapons. The world got grey, scary, demeaning. I was a spectator of the demolished love I buried under the roots. They embraced me, as I smothered. That was what love tasted like to them. Raw flesh in sacrifice to the world, a grip of consolation as the world flourished evergreen. Was it okay? Where was I? Where was my love? I was surrounded, shrouded by the decay of the roots, held back by the abandonment. I laid down, alone, awake, numbfounded. I was there, abandonment embraced on my darkest hours. It was all I knew, grew to meet ahead of myself. Abandonment, kept me, towered me like the shadow of a naked disheveled tree branch that escaped the rest. Abandoned of life. I grew accustomed. Not living as one would did not bother. I was a narrator of tales, gifted with the impartiality of abandonment. Self hatred that bloomed into fascination to those who dared live. I was a spectator, loomed by a lifeless branch, wrapped in roots, sheltered from the kind of love that may hurt. Empathic to those whose denise came. And asleep, with a sense of abandonment, under the tree.

[tatteredwords]

a flower’s growing pains

I am sorry. All the words I spew are I, am. You never liked them for what they meant, not the sorries, not the poems, as a bitter linger of home sounded through their echoes. They define me on my fear of losing myself. But losing you is greater than any emotion stored over time. Fear looms, and you grow tired by the second. It is so close and palpable, your departure. Fear looms. It just does. With the someone that is me taken back by the suppression of the I, am. You are. You are a beautiful soul despite the ugliness in people's eyes. Hurt and scared to show it in someone's face because they may pluck you off that right. The world was born to hate you and you feel it with the heaviness of a funerary march. The steps are heavy around you. Fear looms. You retract. You mourn yourself because you must. You are all the wrong in your eyes, you were always all the wrong. They dread you and despise you and cast you away from the right of uncertainty. You lose your voice, your dance, your expression that is truly yours. Pain makes you livid. You suppress it and hide it in the same matter that a vase armors and towers the roots that erupted from a little seed. And yet you fight. Against all that opposed you, against it all. Rage looms over you. Feelings loom over you, but people don't. For the first time, something is truly there to tend for you. The rage is. And it is a fervent pain that blooms and sprouts from every slash and cut life has made you. You felt like a flower, ready to pluck at their disposal. But you were a small, barely blooming flower. The prettiest little flower. And they just stepped on you from the sidewalk. Severed your growth and looked disgusted at you. A nuisance that dared grow out of place. Dared persist and exist. So you grew thorns. You dared, defied, succeded. Rage loomed and for the first time it was petrified at itself. You had it in you to fight and stand up, so unexpectedly. To evolve into what would one day be what loomed over. You did. You grew tall and firm and loomed over yourself. You did. Fear deserted you, and you stood accompanied by whom was yours truly. You protected yourself. You sheltered yourself. You grew vines that surrounded yourself beyond the harm. You did it all, and people still stepped on you. Called you a pain when you were in pain. And you stood, vines hugging themselves into their own shelter. You were your own home, amidst the wind and threats that peeked from every corner and stepped far too close. You loomed, dreadful and half dead from all the battles where little sprouts insisted on growing, blooming and existing. Yet, you loomed over me and embraced me  and my broken spine. You towered me in the best of your abilities despite your fear of the world and what could have so easily hurt you into oblivion. You did it. A tight and unpleasant grip at times, yet to hold me up from my own torn shape and sorrow. I worn you out, and then I plucked you. And all I said was that. I, am. Sorry I plucked you.

[tatteredwords]

state of her

Eyes swollen at the lids. Irises sharpened with swelled supressed tears. Jeans ripped in places where they shouldn't have been. Bruises from the exploding parts of her that want to come out. It burns. It hurts. Lips parched from the water that relieved her headache, sandwiched by pills, bathed in medication. Lashes fallen detached onto her cheeks. Nervousness. Anxiety. Relentless spinning. It all hurts the heart, it all cripples her body. A scar which has been peeled by frenetic nails that defy numbness. The wetness of her cheeks after the burning tides were set ashore. The pain is home. The home is damaged. It hurts. Her.

[tatteredwords]

hearts

My heart gathered dust, in a box, and yours was left there, on a plate. Displayed beating, so alive, we waltzed amidst the limbo of life side by side. Torrid beats, intense flickers, you cast a beam like a spotlight, and an intense melody accompanies the dread of my mourning. You guide me out to safety with the frenetism of your aching drums, healed, torn, repaired, stretched skins. I am trapped, voiceless and musicless in a box, ever since torn out of my chest. No beats, no gentle taps, and no quick jumpstartings were left to blossom amidst my breasts. But a flicker, thunder, tap, loudness of a roar, all of them tug and pull at the lifeless rags of the lifeless tissue and muscle. They put me back together and scare me. So new, the sight of a heart. Is it strange? It is lively and loud but adjusts its quietness in the distance like endless pokings of arms, and legs, and cheeks. Am I a child again? Is this a thump of happiness? It is very wild and exciting.

[tatteredwords]

she spoke to me

She spoke to me of heart, and me, a master on heartbreak listened attentively. Her warrior clothes shed with trembles, it pains her to talk, a frail voice that would rather remain placid and shut and not unveil such frailties. It is as if she is my soul. I know that shape of being like my own. Love imbued, deeply troubled. Her heart darted love with such pain and emotion that it was as if she was just as much me as I am her. We are similar beings in an odd sense, we are bound on the same essence, and our thoughts are wired in the same strings, magnetic and built in thorns. She spoke to me of hurt, lingering and swaying abandonment in her loving words, and I told her. That spark in your lungs, it does not dissuade. Love never truly and fully vanishes, it shifts in shape. It leaves a mark imprinted, a heart bound in strings that get to be pulled when your eyes set on what last claimed it. The enchantress of your eyes is always going to tug at your love like a defenseless child tugs at your sleeve. It is a remnant that is always going to ache a little. A pain that is addictive. Like nicotine, it spreads across your very being, and once it seems to heal and vanish, you realize you won't ever feel it again. A sense of dread towers you like an agonizing yet enchanting sorceress, and it hurts as soon as you think of how it felt during those sweet moments. And you mourn your love. You keep yourself at bay, a distant and hurtful healing, on a limbo of hurt and bittersweetness, unbearably blurred. It may hurt you, but you crave it, I told the soul. The pain subdues and the hypothesis and possibilities lull you. It is odd, a poison that warms the heart. It makes you adore the unapproacheable. You repudiate what is on your reach, it feels wrong and foreign to have happiness reach out its hand. And so, you unleash the hunger for love, a type of love so ethereal, an everlasting mythical connection you can find in books, red string of fate shenanigans. You may hurt. But the heart misses the drunkness of the poison, and it eases you. Feeling that hurt for someone.

[tatteredwords]

worth more than absence

Your absence reeks of carelessness. Your voice lost its charm, it doesn't enchant me, the body falls apart from any sign of life you may expell. Distant, it grows, and it stays there, enclosed inside boxes of past not to be pried open. I like to feel wanted, whereas you don't. I like to know that I am worth more than what you make me to be, to value. A rough, brute gem. Worth far more than your suddenly convenient goodbyes and half assed see you laters. I need love worth living, no empty promises, no deceased, far gone wishes. No flattering when it needs to flatter otherwise my interest sparks will cease to glitter in little fires and fireworks. My heart has a whole lot of expectations you deprive it from meeting. And it grows tired of the void space where only a misty smoke of care and affection lands. You don't belong there, so, why would you occupy it with a mere distant presence and a wish to be noticed, just as much the same as my fallacious desire to hear sweet nothings from you? They are nothings, they are empty, they are void of any feelings. I humor you, and use you just as much as you use me. To delightfully parch myself in ego when you reply back, and loathe viciously when you don't. Cancelled meetings, awkward stances. Pure humoring on both parts, from hearts that don't want to let go, and people who don't want to give in. Just be honest about it, on how this hide and seek in which you keep hiding, as you become dust particles at the back of my thoughts, is a mere conquest, a cougar masked as a lamb, meeting a seemingly defenseless lion. Unforeseen sight, or a vicious trick from nature. You hold interest, as much as you get to hold me in the after hours. A gem is roughed up, shard like, but it still shines more than a nuisance, a vessel that was deemed valueless far back in time. A claw, protruding, piece of glass caught in flesh.

[tatteredwords]

no voice

I need my voice to soar, to be listened to.

It is like the quenching of thirst to the sound of your ears. Drops sweet in pitch and fluttery amidst silence. My tongue is foreign, I thought I'd speak one that is known, but I stood silent, caught in soaring waves, clashing, contorted, distant.

It smells of coffee, industrially manufactured stenches. Not melodious, not captivating, my voice barely soars amidst machines and my throat hurts from yelping away galaxies of dreams, dust and particles amidst the consuming loneliness. I stand, tall, strong, with feet held in the tenderest twigs, a pedestal from which I don't rise taller, and to which the eyes don't look, and the higher up ears can't ear.

My voice won't flutter by, the singing is hoarse, the throat is parched with knives, silent and scared, the tone is deaf and the pitch is reduced to open, agape lips. Lips are dry, voice is a yelp swallowed in. Let me swallow my tears and catch a breath, but desperation won't bring them. Dry, losing the taste, losing the movement of a swirling, defying tongue.

Nothing comes out.

I wish to be heard. I wish my voice to be high, distant, aloud and clear. But the tongues of the world are stranded down, tied, and they taste of Chesterfield.

The scents of flowers and freedom are long gone, a tainting, bitter and poisonous venom spreads rapid and mercilessly across my lungs.

But I want to raise my voice beyond where the dark stinging mist can take me, contradict the madness that slowly rips me away from myself, like my very life is stripped away into nothingness. A slashed throat at the hands of a loved one, a betrayal so wide, the questions of uncertainty come out as mere movement as life slowly fades into color and a washed out face.

My eyes are bloodshot red, marvelous creations of the new humanity. Vaporized into mere abandoned thoughts and long discarded will, powerless.

My voice won't leave the back of my swelled up throat, my vocal chords have knots in them, and the language I knew is lost.

The neighboring smoke of cigarettes has numbed my senses and judgement, and the machinery and clockwork brought a sip of dark, bitter coffee to me. So dead, it makes me. A slave of what I must, a slave of waiting for death to come, clogged of will, caught in a web, a void, a shell, and a broken toy whose batteries had slowly come to falter.

My voice is a forgotten tongue, dorment in history, ripped apart, shredded and accustomed out of.

The tear comes, and dries in its wake, sliding its path.

No noise, no voice.

[tatteredwords]

i exude kindness out of myself

I am on a stage of my life where I exude kindness out of myself, Pour it out on countless lips for them to sip. Painlessly imbued in me, they are, I aid them with the bits of me they rip apart and open As if my duty to submit and suffer on their grasp As if no choice assists me, As if it doesn't belong with me. A slave of hearts and strings And pulling of both these things, Contorted, shapeless, Made this way, By manics and creators of chaos. There is a certain affliction to myself As I watch, as I give into the need of aiding the cruelty out of you. The need to heal the gaping wounds You left on the wake of your own shattering shard coated explosion. It seems to me you had the need to. A weapon of destruction To others No fear in causing pain When the shards come to collect their merciless fate to you, Just as much as they do to me. Destroyer of worlds, of all where you are, where I am. There always were those who toyed with safe spaces, Scars and shelters Like you. Gas floods my numb Dumbfounded senses and havoc destroys the structure of my being. You pick up the key And the pieces of self That once had some sense of belonging And stack them into chaos Conflicted thoughts. I am reshaped, tied to you, Your wrist protruding into my chest As if that foreign part belonged there To begin with. But it doesn't. And my mind works around it Aware you aim to alienate me Away from finding you to be foreign to me. But I recognize what's not mine As soon as I sense it. I am a warrior of thoughts I survived countless wars amidst myself. I know what I've always learnt To hate and love Every bit, fallen piece Decayed grain of essence. Even what no longer is, Haunts the thoughts, That still belong at the depths of me. But you don't. You're an external parasitic presence That is not worthy Of getting to the bottom of me The temple on my chest My secluded worthy self. I am so much more beyond what You mean to grasp And I quickly overcome your touch, Ready to expel you away from me. But I am yet to pay tribute To my darkness, yet not found by you As you took my kindness for granted, As if it was All there ever was to me.

[tatteredwords]

carved and shaped

Corrupting gestures that sway one's resistence, written spells, spewed cursive motions on his back. Delightful blood pouring to the very conjoined space of flesh and nails, they were. Her truth on her motions, her devotion unwavered. His back, beautifully decored, a red deep, a wound deeper and an unparched hoarse whisper comes afloat with the droplets that pool at the surface.

She grins victorious. He is made hers for the evening, her touch is delighted with the texture of harsh sandpaper cuts, the bumps of life and scars and the softness of the reddened, sensitive skin. Her hands have taken over, empowered, with mild red to them, fervent and thirsty for the bloodshed in the name of lust. Tiny villages, paths and ways made crimson rivers, havoc and war by the hands of a dethroned sinner, siren of tiny gentle lungs and wingless back.

Her nails reap the path in her wake like a scythe of passion and deviancy, and she knows a prayer is drawn within every shape and shiver.

She moves taunting and gentle at first, softly, the nails brush past his bare back of so many things, they worship the wholeness, the touched and untouched of it all. Every bit of it is sacred ground that shall be blessed and ointed with a prayer, the place she calls home, where the strength to hold her brews after her torture imbued sanctity is over. He manages to wrap her tight in the arms she persecutes simply out of sheer pleasure, and she goes on with her wicked love, harder by the second.

She claws away a grunt from his lips, life was born from his voice straight to her ears. And she must go and slash at him again, ungrateful pleasures of hers that wound her home like a fog of smothering clouds, asphyxiating and slow.

He is carved and shaped to only her whim. Underneath her touch, unwavered, with parting sounds, strings of voice that pave her way to him. She wounds and gives so much, with such audacity, strength and self. She breaks, digs beneath the surface of his but she gives what his voice sings to her ears.

The love and the pain go hand in hand.

Hands on his back.

Once it is all over, her hands are numb, fullfilled and rested, unwavered lusting claws set to sleep with a cushion called home. Of flesh, reddened, with drawings, lines, notes of raw feelings and emotions.

Call them clawed, the shoulder blades, the arms, the back, the entirety.

Hands on his chest.

[tatteredwords]

self destruction

Ever since I was young, I was coined, accounted for as self destruction. That stomach was not meant to grow, a life was not meant to flourish, the wanted and unwanted crossed paths. And there I was, after a while, defenseless, hanging from life. Not yet, it’s not yet your time, the drugs screamed to my pressing desire to leave. It started on the wrong foot.

I grew to be polarized. To be on my own, split in between the life of a child and unwanted desires. I was me, yet so far from being the persona that would give my me a certain type of meaning. I had revenge boil at the depth of my throat, pulsing for me to spit it in anger, and sadness burned my eyes in ways I still recall. I didn’t want to be the weakling no longer. I was fighting to be other but the weaking, a hero, a villain, a fountain of revenge imbued pain.

And I got it. I grew shaky, hurt, broken, a limping leg as they shot down the other foot. I seemed to have no strength to walk. So, I didn’t. I did not move forward, and I forgot myself as I closed my eyes in an unhealthy attempt to become some other sort of monster, broken but not powerless.

Life passed me by and I gained root in an undesirable world for myself. I grew root growing as so many more branches beyond my being. I transformed into a vacant vessel of people. I was me, yet the me was empty, a personality empty of personality. Hurt was my name, and sadness was what occured through every pulsing corrupted muscle.

I wanted to go and take the easy route. The only route I knew of, the one I wrote, a bridge where words only mean things to me, because only I see them. Loneliness took me over, and hurt was most of myself.

What if that girl that was birthed on that autumn morning had never taken its breath? All the what ifs. They always clouded my judgement, just like they did the night I was meant to come and smile and clap with all the good things that made me who I was. And I had them, ever so briefly.

However, a kid can only control dreams.

And a kid was broken in yet another autumn morning.

And it lead her to self destruction, one so great she could never truly part ways. Her veins pulsed as her teeth clasped onto her skin, feelings, please resurface, and tears, please go.

She was hurting as a punishment for her own hurt.

And she felt unworthy of crying.

All her life she has.

So, she self destructed into nothingness. Into havoc that shared a room with a set of lights.

A pair of hands on a keyboard, standing out amidst the shadows of a cold room.

As she went back again to self destruction, the ticking bomb.

[tatteredwords]

stretch marks

Stretch marks, lead the paths in which I never took you. Your fingers, your wet tired touch. They are trails that lead you to me, from the outside until the very depths. You tend to follow them cautiously as I told you to, as my hand held yours down its frail river flow. I am water bound, you drag the mud of your rich fingers to mark me, stain me and make me yours. Your fingers trace me, tell the stories of why I had to bend and stretch into myself. Into the shapes written across my chest, ancient scribbles of prophets, foretellers, angels and dreams, that tie my thighs together, mirrored, touching and kissing themselves with their heavily irritated scars.

You touch away my weaknesses and make them my rivers, my flow of happiness. They stand there, wounded, crying in crystal clear waters that had been stained by a rich brown, coppery blood. It dries down and stings me as I remove my stockings, as they detach from my skin, dressed wounds in vinyl and hurt. You are the one who caresses them, who tames the hurt, stinging and yelping for release at first. I let you touch the weakest parts of me, and you are gentle and soft like cotton, a earthly scent of forest kisses my thighs, your fingertips. And imbue me in belief.

They’ll heal.

What is left are stretch marks, that you shared, worshipped and healed. Rivers, tamed waters, with a scent of your nature.

[tatteredwords]

all the things that make my mouth sing to you

Drop and droplet after drop, you pour me out like a liquid sensation. My sweat tastes like worshipping of your running tongue, and hands, frustrated touch of heavens. You caress my fervent body beneath your tips, spank me, break me, make me whole, unleash that sweet energy, that soundly frustration. You power, you tower, and do me bad in hopes I leave my soul and wish you good. I do, so good it makes me a sinner, drop after drop, each racing trail of wishing you that oozes out of my mouth. I love it. I love how you do me bad. The pain rejoices me. My throat sings to your violent thrusts, they beat back, rolling hips, vicious, sadistic parts of me. Please do me bad. Drop and drop and drop it goes. Slip past my tongue like the holiest treat. Pour your precious self bit by bit, gold imbued, sweet drops, down the wishing well. Do me bad and wish me good. Break me worse. Feed me your prayers. And lay me down in a bed of budding pains and aches and care for me deeply as my quenched thirst for your good good bad falls asleep with me.