ludle

apart.

What a beautiful tragedy it is 
to live my life weaving 
in and out of yours, 
creating a tapestry of stars 
with our fingertips 
always parting… 

It could have been wonderful 
had I loved you
and you loved me 

but all we are, I daresay 
will ever be 
are different patterns 
of the same tapestry - 

weaving in and out 
of the other’s heart;

good together, 
better apart.

a product of contemplation.

Written and submitted by lulu-llama

There is something to be said about the ability
to write at ten in the morning on a winter’s day
with fingers numb from cold but they keep typing
keep writing, about nothing and everything.
They pay homage to the cold evident 
through the windows that lead out onto the garden
and the windows that lead into your soul.
Eyes dry and heavy from far too much whiskey
and too much time spent staring at the same word.
If you take the time to think about it too much
you can almost see the decomposition of fibers
and the flow of your blood that refuses to linger
in one spot for too long, afraid of missing the
beat of even a single throb of your heart.
You start questioning what it is you are doing
in this one place, at this one time -
Has your life become a systematic arrangement 
of words and phrases, rows and columns of pros and cons?
You ask these questions and yet, you sit there writing
as though each and every breath depends 
on the letters that attach themselves to meaning
without the excuse of writing for a love interest.
You rub your dry, strained eyes with cold fingertips
and you keep writing to prove that you exist,
even if you don’t believe in everything that
spills forth from your hands.

You use the time you spend on writing
to unravel the thoughts between the phrases
that echo through your skull -
keep typing, keep writing.

storm.

The passion in my voice 
slowly seeped out until
there was nothing left
but a few word spatters.
I became 
an unbearable silence
lost in the translation
of your soul.

I am the deafening silence
responding to your words;

I am the stillness

                  after your storm.

I believe that some people grow into their madness so eloquently that it replaces their personality without anyone noticing and these people are the best kinds of people, because they become their madness instead of trying to fix it and that, to me, is an absolute thing of beauty.
—  Luci Black, A thing of Beauty
strength.

Your strength does not lie
in the ability to grow a beard, 
in the deepness of your voice
or the complexity of your words -

it lies in the silences before 
you close your eyes to sleep,
the moments when 
nobody is watching
nobody is listening
nobody is reading
when it is you and you alone.

Are you strong enough 
to hold yourself together?

instinctively poetic.

Poetry drives my instinct;
I am brave in words, 
I blink back tears in verse 
and there is no shame 
to my frayed nerves. 

In poetry I find commitment 
to my wayward soul 
and the bitter darkness 
in my heart is reconstructed 
around a burning light. 

Poetry drives my instinct, 
in these lines I am free.

symphony of tears.

Some days I find bits and pieces
of those I loved, those who lived
so dear to me in the
very beating of my own heart
and for those lost few moments;
my heart beats in symphonies
my heart beats in memories
and my tears rhythmically flow
over sentimental smiling lips.
Always loved,
                   never forgotten.

on giving up the pretense.

Stubborn fingers gliding over 
deep grooves in the page 
where ellipses were made 
beside your name…

I don’t feel you there anymore, 
I don’t hear you in the echoes 
of my name whispered 
by someone else, 
I don’t see you in the sunrise 
or the sunset.

I’ve wasted enough time 
in attempting to sense 
who you are, 
I’ve given up trying 
to please an ideal -

maybe we are 
what we write

after all.