poets society

The fog on these windows won’t clear,
Despite rays of sun shining in from above,
Despite the warmth in their eyes.
Friends bring in heaters sometimes,
Line them up along the walls of my house
Like soldiers on a battlefield.
Somehow I still manage to stumble,
Blindly, tripping over corpses
With mirrors for faces.
I still cannot name her.
—  poeticallyordinary, the stranger in the mirror
venus, one look at you
and i understood
why battleships and storms were named
after women.
one kiss from you
and i understood
how a person could go to
war for love.
that one volcanic kiss will be our last
and i get it,
you’re into bad girls in leather
jackets wearing cigarette smoke like
perfume and i
in my
mum jeans and
post pictures of daisies on instagram.
it’s okay though,
you’re the kind of girl
i feel lucky just looking at
and it’s easy to admire from afar
when you’re vegas lights.
demanding, neon, beautiful.
a gorgeous gamble,
an electric haven.
—  the nine people i have loved as planets: venus // L.H
I will let these scars show, unashamed, of the war between me and you.
—  excerpt from unashamed

You use to bring me flowers.
Now all you bring me are lies.
Your eyes gave you away.
It wasn’t a big surprise.
You were never good at lying.
You always left a a trail.
It was easy to find.
Almost as if you didn’t care.
You hid behind false smiles and fake gestures.
It was always about yourself.
You can keep your flowers and your lies.
I’ve had about enough.
Don’t come crawling back here when you realized you messed up.

-Tiffany K ©(2017)

There’s a crowd of people

Stage-men dressed in all black
Pulling ropes
Dimming lights
Silently working

Executives in designer suits
Ordering chardonnay
Telling stories
Laughing obnoxiously

Homebodies adrift on a Royal Caribbean cruise
Vomiting off their balconies
Eating all they can eat at the all you can eat buffet

Scientists in Antarctica
Staring at whales and snow
Making notes
Save whales and snow

Families in three bedroom colonials
Working Monday through Friday
Relaxing Saturday
Mowing the lawn in Sunday

Drunks limping in the streets
Asking for change
Stuck in time

Old-souls laying in bed
Blinds closed
Television on mute
Unset alarm clock flashing
Books and vinyl records hanging from shelves like sad trophies

Trust-fund babies napping in a piles of money
Watching the days go by

Quiet folks nestling in the woods
In the city
Across the country
Minding to themselves
Stew on the stove
Bread in the oven

Shadows lost in the stars
In between everything at once
Hoping for answers they can’t comprehend

our two hearts strewn
with endless strings of galaxies
our blood shimmering of the stars’ bright lights
our eyes portraying the memories into space
unveiling the history
long before we knew earth
we have known each other a million light years before
death has never been an obstacle
we believe in the faith of our love
to always gravitate us
back into each others’ lives
back into each others’ arms


I give my heart willingly
too often, and too willingly
and for you to take it
so willingly
and still hold me
in such high regard
is new

I write often about the fact
that I challenge you
just as you challenge me
but I have failed to mention
that you are the first
to let me challenge you

to others
smart is smart
beautiful is beautiful
talented is talented
you are the first to see
that my qualities
cannot be confined in one word
you are the first to see
that I change
just as you do

I have thanked you
so many times at this point
here is another of my thanks
to add to your list
don’t expect them
to stop anytime soon




From the underworld, she came

On the shoulders of Osiris.

Through the layers of hell and flame,

Her fate scrawled on the charred papyrus.

She was clothed in gems and golden skin,

her lined eyes were black and starry

Destined to win through seduction and sin,

she became Queen Nefertari. 


The End Night

He numbers the bullets two through five
Then takes from his pocket a special kind,
A silver bullet and numbers it first,
Praying it doesn’t come to the worst.

He shows the bullets to his only son
Before handing the six year old a gun
And removes the boards against the door,
Slowly loading the other four

Numbered bullets into his own
Weapon but before leaving his home,
He turns to his son, kissing his forehead
And says to him, “remember what I said.”

While stepping out, “you have to be tough,
I love you, son. Now lock up.”
From a peephole in a boarded up window,
The boy waves to his father, watching him go.

The man scopes four figures at the horizon
Cocks his gun, and nods to his son.
Looking up at the swollen moon,
He sighs, “This better end soon.”

[Text: Black roses were her favorite. They reminded her of her soul. Although dark at times it still blossomed with beauty and love. She kept walls around her heart but she was still tender and kind. Sometimes we guard ourselves in order to survive.]

An excerpt from my poetry/art journal.

there are words that cannot leave my throat
the air in my lungs anguish
at the thought of constructing them
and the waves of the memories
forbid it to be known
to any mere mortal man
so they will sit quietly in this chamber
of pain
with the hope of time neutralising them


I learn to love
every single physical space of you
as you shadow my storms along
to your sea of flames
we become such melodramatic souls
even the naked sky
couldn’t stand watching us
murmur to one another’s longing,
making a mess
to this deep, warm desirous
sort of love
—  a. 

In dark spaces, I ponder of who the people must have been in the times before they were told who they were supposed to be.

I try to remember the essence of a heart before it was shattered like a hammer to glass.

I attempt to imagine a time where we did not think like thunder in a storm, seeking to startle.

I wait for a time when I am certain, certain of the things that I cannot foresee.

Are all books meant to develop crumbling pages?

Are there people that were born to lose?