The Foreign Voice

Longing for a return of my foreign voice,

To gather the many recollections for a choice.

The figments march toward a space I abide,

But the sorrows are slithering inward to my side.

Fill me with poisonous streams

Till my body overflows and splits the seams.

Let the blood wash out all the rues 

Till all my skin emits different hues.

Let it twist me, fold me, invert me 

Till my restraints let me be free.

Lead me to a raptured being;

I'm not the one that I've been seeing.

Give me back my foreign voice,

So that I can make the choice.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was inspired by a song by Grouper called Poison Tree. 

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Night's Lover

Natural life

When darkness falls, She strolls across the rosy stream left behind by sunset, eyes already roaming the horizon.

Her inky hair streams out behind her, a waterfall of indigo.

She watches desperately, pacing back and forth, waiting for her silver lover.

His heralds twinkle his approach, and then he appears.

His magnificience causes her to shiver, with fast-moving clouds scuttling across her velvet skin.

Each night, they meet, and their slow, sweet kisses move the very tides of the earth. 

Heaven bends to shelter them, and their steps move in that eternal dance that time can never change.

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"The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt"

Emily's hope is ever-feathered
Sylvia's swastika burns the sky
William soars, a fly untethered,
Free from Poe's still-mournful sigh

These voices, they endure forever
Mingling in whispers in my ear
Personifying that endeavor
Dear to me but marred by fear

That fear, that fear, that bastard fear-
His weeds still choke my stem
That rascal fear, I feel him leer
And snatch away that glimmering gem

That gem, that gem, that little bud
That would have blossomed as my flower
He stamps with vigour into mud
Sucking up that precious power

in my deepest heart of hearts
in the house of my ambition
The puncture wounds begin to smart
As he feeds without contrition

Hope refuses to take wing
My blackest black fades in the sun
My caged spirit cannot sing
Resolve melts down and starts to run

corroding fingers in its path
You see - I'm no Sylvia Plath
Self-doubt kills creativity, she said,
and my creativity?

it's dead.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I've always loved writing, but it frustrates me that I can never seem to produce anything original or good. This poem is about how my perfectionism and fear of vulnerability related to that issue have more or less stopped me from writing altogether. 

This poem is riddled with references to famous poets and their works, especially in the first stanza.