Hope this cigarette will keep me alive longer than you would... - Alive In Coffin
Alive in Coffin. I am a guy breathing in a coffin made up of flesh, bones and blood. Back in my twitter days, I used to write in 140 characters and that passion motivated me to write short poems. I get crazy when thoughts knock my skull. Currently, I am writing from my grave and in my free time, I try to control my heartbeats.
i tell myself
not to write,
for the words
blatantly boast
of my lack
of self control,
but with each verse
while this ego dies,
i secretly feed
a hungry poet,
letting him believe
that he can own the world.
Being ever more hungry for the pure, Vidur breaks open space we long for at
To feel without feelings
To lock up before hearing the word broken
To move effortlessly without hearing whispers of insecurity
Is a world I could only dream of.
If a glimpse of this dream is the closest to reality,
Then I’ll take it.
Not in full, but like shards of a broken glass,
I’ll take the pieces slowly.
Besides
I don’t need a full cup of wine,
Just a sip will suffice
To let me know if this dream
Will make me feel whole again.
— Read more Ummi Salma poems on toosweetsite
Ummi is the first to officially join the Gift Crows chapbook coming April 2021. Read more about that project here.
Should twilight paint your silhouette in shades of amber and rose
Read more Linda Lee Lyberg @ Charmed Chaos blog
Loving memory;
“Kisses of the sweet.”
As I begin with this story to tell,
from whispering to the losing thoughts of discrete.
While embracing the shadows,
I run for you down the street.
The beauty and grace,
to remember them between the lane,
I seek for answers beyond my burning
sensation of the bittersweet.
Tender lips, the touch of honey,
long and slowly they reach my skin.
therefore, I close my eyes,
feel with my heart, and preach for this sin.
“My thoughts leave me rising,
my heart less disguising,
you have been in my soul mesmerizing.”
As I was wishing for more,
I do not want the story to begin.
Read more JoJo Alwaealy Blog
In 1920, one of the founding members of Dada, Tristan Tzara, wrote instructions for making a Dada poem, leaving the responsibility of selecting words and communicating ideas up to chance rather than the artist. Here are Tzara’s instructions:
TO MAKE A DADAIST POEM
Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that makes up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are—an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.
My beating heart is a drum
a thunderous rhythm
reciting an epistle of my grief.
A concoction of
togetherness & separation.
There are layers of longing;
of being seen
and seeing
of a single touch
and being touched
of love
and being loved.
I swallow nights in counting kisses-
and envelope the remnants,
sitting as wildflowers on my waist.
A site to behold,
for million nights.
A star to make a wish for eternity,
A church to worship.
into the misty unknown
carry your dreams
while seeking the sun
today
as you sleep,
i stare
at the ceiling
pondering
the sea salt crystals
on your lovely hands
as they dig through
the crates
of my every
unspoken thought
the hard tangle
of roots
writhing
just under the flesh
the forks of lightning
dancing
within your eyes
as you seek
the hidden words
in every
earnest verse
scribbling in
invisible ink
the parchment saturated
with words
meant only for you
written in lemon and milk
unseen until
the half baked verse
is placed in
the inferno
resting
upon your tongue
this morning,
as you sleep
the quiet is
broken
by chattering birds
whistling the cadence
of my heartbeat
weaving the dull
inner throbbing
to exalt the sun
which pales in
the majesty of
your beauty
a diaphanous
cacophony of
unsundered pontifications
building into
a white noise generator
as my cracked
whispers
fade into nothing
as the ceiling
sinks
drawn to my
pulsating need
i seek to
unfetter the knot
in my own chest
where the birds
leave baubles
of bright beauty
for you
to build a nest
I look up above and wonder
If it’s a sad thing
To be clouds
To not be able to confide in
The Sun, the stars or in crowds
To keep changing colours
So they can keep celebrating the sky
To keep floating around
So little birds can fly and dive and enjoy
To drain yourself down
For the rainbows that satisfy
To keep moving along
Until one day
You shrink and dissolve and die
I look up above and wonder.
Maybe that’s what am I.
