Butterfly

A Boy With Roses

I rearrange myself like the elements

On the days everything is gloomy

The blood loss is captured

In however many bell jars

Two years worth of time would gracefully fit in

Little nuggets of gold

 

My constant thoughts are falling leaves                                                         

In a book of spells                                                                                                   

I edit myself and crave the taste of freedom                                                   

The needle is in the arm                                                                                 

I am loose ribbons of blue lake water                                                           

Finding my place                                                                                       

Flowing with subtle and delicate movements                                                       

Flickering on and off

 

In individual shades of iridescent colours

Moving and twisting with ease like cloud structures

My body's full of psychedelics

As light bends through the cracks in the trees

I am a hermit in slumber

Ballgagged with a string of emotions

My gut reaction sparkles with vehemence

Obsessing over imperfections

Sleepless nights of wondering

Pucker like taut and young skin

With no sense of direction

 

I want you and nothing else

I want to sink into your poetry

At the top of the hill

At the end of the world

The breeze combed my ruffled hair

The precious feeling of being alive

Pulsated through my core like an explorer

That had stumbled across a time forgotten

I am a boy waiting for romance

On the park bench

Sat, motionless, like a statue in a museum

Gazing at the city below as if I was the sun

All eyes were fixed upon me in that moment

The dog's paw ripped apart my red insides

Now I don't trust myself with a hot knife

I am more than the twilight

On the dark days

Coffee poured into the thunderbird

The tadpole of the cherubs remembered

In a pocket in the echo's memory

Impervious to the fog

The cornfields are haunted dreams

You will find the truth                                                                             

Soiled by the witches' fox in isolation                                                           

With an endless drone babbling on                                                           

Scared of the possibilities                                                                                               

I glitter each time                                                                               

Frogs bleed lips in sync                                                                                                                                           

Ling clings to me like a spotted dewlap                                                                           

I am breathing but lifeless.

  • Author: Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: November 4th, 2020 14:08
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 60
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Comments +

Comments1

  • L. B. Mek

    firstly, I think you have a wonderful gift for innovative imagery and I liked your write

    in my humble opinion if you were to tone down the dramatic elements within your style, it will help streamline your message a little clearer,
    please take no offense, I would not bother commenting if I didn't value your writing and I am certainly no authority on write or wrong, just sharing a humble suggestion: my 2 cents - for all it's worth,

    • A Boy With Roses

      No offense taken at all. I'm not a sacred cow and authors are not exempt from criticism. Having said that, I honestly couldn't give two fucks what anyone thinks about my poetry. Though everyone's allowed to have an opinion. I write for myself to express my selfhood, and I don't write for anyone else. If you like it as it is, great. If you don't like it for whatever the reason may be, cool. As long as I like what I publish then that's all that matters really, which is funny, because sometimes I look back on pieces I've written and cringe, but for the most part I'm generally content, even though I'm always determined to be a better poet. Nevertheless, I wonder and am curious as to what you consider to be dramatic about my poems, this piece in particular, and what constitutes as the dramatic elements you mentioned and think I should tone down on. By that statement I'm not sure if it's something you think I stubbornly do on purpose, but I am pretty histrionic in my madness I employ. As far as I'm concerned I don't need anyone to tell me what they think I should or shouldn't do in order to write better, or to, as you put it, help streamline my message a little clearer, or whatever the case is. No offence to you either, and I know it was just advice, but I'm just stating my opinion. Personally I'd never tell another poet or writer what I think they should do for whatever reason in order to blah blah blah. I read for what it is, and not for what something could be. If someone recited a poem for me I probably wouldn't reply maybe if you were to do this or you should've done that, or I think you should tone down on the dramatic elements of your style, it will help streamline your message a little clearer. I'm very purposeful, and not a pedagogue. That's why I'd actually reject the prospect of teaching art, unless it's an artist you're studying. It's inherent, and in most cases classes are all pseudo-intellectual bullshit post-mortems and examinations in an attempt to find the deeper meaning or tear a poet's work apart, and I'm unaffected by that. I don't think you can tell an artist what they can and can't do, or what they should and shouldn't do. Art is subjective for a reason. I had this issue when I was actually studying art, and even though I was often praised, I would also get criticised by my teachers for not doing what I was taught or what they wanted me to do. They'd tell me this is how you should draw eyes, or this is how to draw a nose, but I was more of an abstract surrealist. Although I did get a good grade, and the highest grade you could get when I took my final drama exam. I agree with William Wordsworth's definition of poetry in his preface to Lyrical Ballads, that it's a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings, and I'm under the impression confessional poetry is supposed to be striking and truthful, alluring in its details, a gradual descent, and a dramatic monologue to capture one's attention.

      • L. B. Mek

        lol, my bad

        • A Boy With Roses

          Sorry I didn't mean to be a dickhead about it. I was just perplexed as to what you thought and was eager to know. It's okay. You don't have to explain or elaborate. I just felt inclined to respond but wish I wasn't so impulsive and flippant about it. Acknowledged and love how you said that and my original response was dramatic itself. Ha ha. Anyway, I've been up all night and I'm sleepy now so going to bed. I should shut yup.
          still learning. hope you have a nice dau :)))



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