flashesofgold

Late night writing is becoming a favorite pastime of mine. I. I held you in my hands tonight like A woman to her pearls on a sinking ship II. I felt you in my arms tonight Like the lukewarm of fading spots of light The precision of blocks and dangling lines Like the sickly moonlit limelight Taking sharp bites like teeth on stark white walls III. I sensed you in my eyes tonight Like plucking of eyelashes like Making dumb wishes like Uneven breaths...CONTINUE READING

Another insomniac rant from yours truly.... It is one of those evenings A firecracker evening When each strand of your hair Is ablaze all around you And the dynamite fizzle Converges at your head And you feel so nauseous And dizzy And limbless And the world outside Is splayed out like Peacock feathers Of vigorous pinks and teals And each step perpetuates Kaleidoscope echoes All the way to the Lucy in the sky with The rain that glitters down like Droplets of ink...CONTINUE READING

I can't sleep. I can kind of write. Sleep can mean a number of things A peaceful resignation from the world A slight dimming of the ticking time bomb A child’s prayer for something irrational A lover’s wish for someone better A painful misunderstanding of reality A lively interpretation of several long breaths A reincarnation of friends forgotten An artful articulation of the future in the brain A fanciful pleasure of a kaleidoscope A state in which you rest A resting position in which...CONTINUE READING

The real spectacle of the firefly Can only be observed after the Dimmed silence of its absence In which it lives as just an insect. In these few seconds, it has no business In the hands of a glowing delighted child And can stand unwatched by the couple enamored Or the dog trying to extinguish enigmatic fires. Most of all, these are the moments In which the firefly can escape greedy hands Fighting to capture moments long passed In the flashy jars of their...CONTINUE READING

I woke up at midnight. I think slightly sleepy inspires a state of artistic zen. The lines are rather long and the poem is pretty short, but it's the first poem I've been inspired to write since I've gotten home from Ann Arbor. What am I to you When you wake in the weary moonlight and you Find me speckled with the bread crumbs on your kitchen table and The memory of me trickles in while you pour the last drop of milk and...CONTINUE READING

I think I could make this better with some editing. But so far, here it is. One.The number of times I’ve talked to you.Our palms fit together like the ring around my finger;I suddenly felt conscious of my thirsty skinWhile your hand attempted to read the lines on my handAs if the cracks told a story of the harsh, worn meUnderneath the half-suns in my eyes of aSmile I’ve been conditioned to hold.I don’t even know your last name.Two.The number of drinks you spilled...CONTINUE READING

It's kind of silly. Enjoy.I was slightly inspired by this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kozv2POJS0I Your love is aromatic, fragrant, delectable youFill me, coat my throat with blissAnd move through me, seeping through my bonesThrough my veins, conquering me with your drug.You’re heroin straight to my bloodstreamStraight to my brain to the tips of each hair on myHead. I quiver with the rhythm of your flow from theMoment you’re soaked into the crevices of my lips andYou enter and you navigate through and warm eachTastebud on my tongue...CONTINUE READING