The Writer's Address

                             she was that girl, the one whose name 
                             loitered on sweating tongues, as
                             her smile, alluring in its mere innocence
                             left their knees heaving

                      her face, as if constructed from dear
                      gems, twinkled from the capture of
                      unremitting rays

                             and as she moved, with the grace
                             and agility of a prolific
                                                              dancer
                             I tripped over my own heavy
                             flatted feet

                      so under the silence of the Moon
                      I endeavoured my own venture  –
                      under the sheath of nightfall
                      I found my elixir
                      and I stole her face.

                             stitching by candlelight, my own
                             seamstress mother would be proud
                             as I fitted her features to my
                             own face of embittered
                             leather

                      oh how my eyes illuminated in the
                      luminosity of the final candle!
                      how the lips, became plump and pout
                      and curved into
                      a weightless smile

                             I almost fell in love with myself, as
                             I became the wolf dressed
                             in sheep’s clothing –
                             this skinnier, younger, more beautiful
                             sheep    
                             my own wolf self was slaughtered
                             deadened for evermore.

                      and the boys in the hallway
                      long now to be the only
                                                           one
                      and although I enjoy their
                                                            affections
                      deep inside, there is a pining for
                      authenticity

                             as I know that it is not me
                             that they yearn for
                                                        it is her.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

      I am the trickster, a villain of
      the dreamlike, I circle seething
      ashes of a thousand loyal
                                             deaths
      their screams bleed in the
      ambience, but there is more
                                             there is
      temptation and fury just
      lingering here.

      you seek me out
      offering unquestioning trust of lost children
      who are searching for a home
                                                once again
      and disappointment and thrill
      of the continual parody
                                       of truth
                                       of art
                                       of fate
      lead you to rise to
                              the fall.

      I am that apprehension when
      the coaster sits on the
                                      tip

      the bridge between life and insanity
      it rocks to the metronome of your
                                                      fleeting heart
      and you wonder, when the
      time will arrive, when you
                                          eventually roll down.

      these stanzas are flowered, watered
      to ripeness, but I am afraid this garden
      is filled with artifice
      you breathe in the propaganda, and
      under your supervision
      I descend further, deeper
                                         within you.

      we are not meaningful, we are
                                                  empty
      hoping to settle in vacant hearts
      we feed you the trickery
      of these hard times.

      and you swallow, so devotedly
      the lies that you already know
                                              not to be true

      but so desperately
                           wish to believe.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

once, twice, thrice, I called
him, staring into the potholes
my brown eyes imitated my
trepidation; as I all but breathed
his name

he is elusive
like the smog that saturates
the empty pathways of cobbled
streets, he emerges from steam
grates, only to spread, intangible like
cold vapour

I believe I had met my Candyman tonight
and as his toothsome kisses, left my
lips parched, I began to search
for him

once, twice, thrice, I called him
just like the monster, as children
we were taught to fear, I anxiously
waited, hoping that this time
he would return.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

   the air is rigid, unyielding just as he is stubborn
      our dispute has terminated yet the tension remains taut
  his eyes fail to acknowledge me, but I am aware of their scorn
     quivering lips slide easily into a destructive snarl, even
 the sound of him clearing his throat is condescending.
      the last words uttered resonate in the awkward silence, as
 we all but twiddle our thumbs - I detect a slight shift of discomfort
      my eyes fixate on his retreating figure, anger
 always did emphasize his broad chest, his muscular arms, the
      stiffness of his jaw - that faint line between rage and passion
 is blurring, I can no longer answer which I feel anymore.
      an overwhelming of yearning echoes in the pit of my stomach
 and I fall victim to my own longing and lust.

(Source: thewritersaddress, via thewritersaddress)

Hazy moon, casting shadows over
Sleeping houses, coupled with
Lazy roofs in downtown suburbs-
Barbed wire shimmer in the
Incandescence, roses and orchids
Yawn in their flowerbeds, as rain washed
Pavements open to refreshed drive thru’s, the
Drizzle and slight hum of the first to rise, open
Fire to the dense air, as the cockerel crows
At the sign of daybreak- in this mad
World one can only appreciate peace in
The creation of dreams, and the
Loveliness of a deep slumber.

(Source: thewritersaddress, via thewritersaddress)

                              there is one
                                   definitive
                                         attribute
                                       of summer
                                    that I
                          have always
                                       remembered

                           the moment, where
                       my lips blushed
                           at the thought
                                      of you

                                     how they
                                would quiver
                                at the
                            slightest grace
                        of freshly
                                  chilled
                            kisses on the back
                                   of my neck

                                   and that
                                   delicious guilt
                                     that lingers
                                            on my
                                  tongue
                                  of cherry
                                             popsicles

                                  I miss the
                              balmy days of
                                     summer
                                 but most of
                                   all
                              I miss the you
                                         and the me
                                  of that
                              summer.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

You are sand.
the tighter I hold you
the more you slip through
my fingers.

(Source: thewritersaddress, via thewritersaddress)

Dinner parties, raggedy bow ties and
Corsets, crushed heels and missing teeth
Tonight, I journeyed to reconciliation

Reluctant gatherings, and ones where we were unaware
My run-ins with Death were much too suspect –

Until tonight, I dressed as though it were my last
If nothing else, I would be that beautiful corpse

Eternally stained with juxtaposed feelings
Of loathing and love, I would
Make the end seem wonderful

Tonight, I danced with the skeletons
In my closet, how we sashayed under fairy lights
And a disco ball the very likeness of the moon

But Death lingered, watching me as I
Jived to their drums, and howled
At their fluidity

He waited, and as I walked over
He muttered his wisdom, before dissipating into
The rain

‘Embrace these skeletons’, he said
‘they just want to be acknowledged. They, like you
Or me, do not want to be incarcerated, forgotten
In closets of the past’

(Source: thewritersaddress)

The letter was thrice folded, silently
Casting adrift perfumed pages scripted with
Adroit calligraphy, a scrawled postal
Address shaped the sentiment, while self
Adhesive envelopes dried by the rear window -
Crooked stamps and more postal dates, airmail
Delivered you to me from across the waters
Your smile has not yet graced my heart, the
Decibels of your laugh in my ears, yet I
Feel as though I have known you forever.
Words, words, words -

Eyes are meaningless, for I do not know them
Your penmanship, and the ease of these simple
Letters, they are the windows that allow me
To gaze into your soul.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

sundew teardrops formulate
in the bud, the pit of revival
sticky, sweet
as it drips audaciously, attracting
the hopeless to
their descent

there I was, remained
closeted in blankets
of pollen
in the very quintessence
of the first day of Spring
the taster of
fresh cut grass and
incessant buzzing

yet there is more
to this portrait
smoked stems in
the sizzling sun
this was more than
just a
mercy killing

I watched
as  each petal melted
away with the
heat of resurrection
allowing the skins of
a thousand burning
roses
to fall victim
to flames in the twilight sky

I shed not one; but
a gush of tears
as my weeping
did nothing
but
add more fuel
to the fire.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

I used to love the stars, the
hidden arrogance they possessed
as they came
predictably every night
to flicker discretely
like vehicle headlights
through the fog

the night used to be my friend
the darkness used to suit me
until shadows became just
another door for my
repressed angst

your face is one that I cannot
leave behind
completely shrouded in glee
fairy lights were held prisoner
in your left eye
cloaked in complete vice, I could
not work out
why these pretty lights
still reflected so
brazenly before me

the smile, the chills of your laughter
still haunt me in my awakening
hours
I can still feel the clammy palms
the fingers textured
in rubber, the nails like leather
floating over my lake
like masses of ghostly fish

I was just another lonely
gazelle in the wilderness
and I can still feel the depth
of you when
you pounced
and claimed me as
your own

defined by the unification
of fear and reality
I keep wondering
if it was me who
invited the ambush.

(Source: thewritersaddress, via thewritersaddress)

       tonight
   I succumbed to a
        most dangerous nature
   left alone to ponder
              the musings of
                                   nightfall
        I committed
           the irretrievable

        it may be safe
       to say that I
                slaughtered
            the one object
    that truly
          loved me

       tonight, I
               sent my muse
     to execution
         and as I feel
         nothing for
         my treachery
                   I feel more
              for the absence
        of loss

        but you deduce
             wrong
                    her death will
            not hinder my
         poetic ruminations
               bereavement of
     her short-lived
      mortality

           will paint
       a hue so dark
            in my rhyme
                     I will
              endure for
              years.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

at the apex of difficulty
the mind wanders, hoping to seek out ways
                 in which to terminate
                 the predicament
the equanimity of this zephyr is soothing
but once these troubles are taken into
                  foreign palms
                  my behaviour becomes
                                                       circumstantial
pride to allow a stranger make sense of my
life, compels me to ignore the
                  irrevocability of this puzzle
                  horrified
I stumble back over hardened obstacles
ready to throw in my gloves and my towel
                  the alarm has rang
                  the fight is over
I accept what is and what will be
so I no longer need your pacification
please do not believe you were of
                                                       any help at all

it does not do well to dwell on empty rhetoric.

(Source: thewritersaddress, via thewritersaddress)

I used to love the stars, the
hidden arrogance they possessed
as they came
predictably every night
to flicker discretely
like vehicle headlights
through the fog

the night used to be my friend
the darkness used to suit me
until shadows became just
another door for my
repressed angst

your face is one that I cannot
leave behind
completely shrouded in glee
fairy lights were held prisoner
in your left eye
cloaked in complete vice, I could
not work out
why these pretty lights
still reflected so
brazenly before me

the smile, the chills of your laughter
still haunt me in my awakening
hours
I can still feel the clammy palms
the fingers textured
in rubber, the nails like leather
floating over my lake
like masses of ghostly fish

I was just another lonely
gazelle in the wilderness
and I can still feel the depth
of you when
you pounced
and claimed me as
your own

defined by the unification
of fear and reality
I keep wondering
if it was me who
invited the ambush.

(Source: thewritersaddress)

the blood
congeals in
my veins

it liquefies into
maleficent ink
by which I work
my scripture

I give you
my heart;
my soul splattered
on these
empty pages

but your eyes
see nothing

your hands
still grapple
for my
consent.

(Source: thewritersaddress)