Felka-wolf

it's always seemingly just behind the cloak of my pride, snagging and snatching at the fabric of my more positive, barely functional, emotions-- its limbs are self consciousness. it leaps towards my heroic symbol, crashing cymbals of self-directed insults and abuse, waiting to grasp the nape of my cape and choke me-- to evoke the anxiety, so crippling; it soaks me.

A stroke of her fingertips A sway of her subtle hips But she’s got her eyes On every one of you. Scarred lips, Once bitten, twice shy, But to this woman scorned Hell hath no fury. Water sizzles on her skin Though there is no sun to breathe in She’s pale and ice cold But inside she’s burning Broken blood vessels linger in her mind She’s got days to live but she’ll never seem to die Just fade away into ash, a volcanic mouth that would never last, Eyes like Egyptian gold, blackened with kohl. Her palms infuse the skies with both hail and rain, As her reign is one she must cling to Or she will have to wait, lose a

i'm minimalist yet complex; i can feel my wide hips rub against my spine when i shake them and i know i'm not aligned but that's fine because of my skeleton within. i can taste my bones, and they're sweet as honey; that's what he calls me. but lets dip into the problems, because that's what really defines me: i've got self worth issues the doctor's diagnosis like unrequited love desired but never given, perhaps needed but not received. when it's direct when someone's saying it to me and i try, vainly to respond--i crumple and cry but when it's indirect it's all in the gut-- nervous and tight. anxious like stars who linger on their loneline

everything feels very far away, distant; nothing makes sense, words blurtogether double vision happens often because your eyes scream for sleep, but welcome to a corporate society where a 9-to-5 is a blessing and with every achievement you realize no one cares... exhaustion. it beats against the walls of your ribcage while your eyelids ache for atrophy and your brain buzzes like bees are searching for a soul full of honey but your eyes are so empty seconds are hours but when you try to curl into covers for a coma, or hide under blankets to become bones just to die a little, hours are seconds i am betrothed to sleep decay, a half-life of

Clothed in soft black, Sinuous, writhing as it lurks in famine, Swimming slowly in a dark world; Blind in a way, deaf in a way, But thirsty— All it knows is desire Sweltering underneath an envious fire, Yearning for light, starving for sustenance, Every part of him, every segment wanting, Swallowing for survival, And feeding— He wants what you have Because he does not have it; he’ll Sneak up upon you, crawl up your skin, Either invisible or convincingly disguised as a cure, or medicine And once he starts to steal away everything he craves, You’ll find numbness instead Of pain— Two weapons, one On each end, lik

A delicate jawbone entices the masses, While the rebellious rats search for something juicier; Wanting a waist that’s thin but one that accompanies supple hips, Red lips, red fingernails, and the rats look on hungrily, While the masses are busy staring at high cheekbones, Big, dark eyes, with appealing legs; The rabble shakes with excitement. Ferocious rats desire a firm rump, with a bust to match, Both immense, both swaying with each step, Their claws quiver with craving. Dim lights with salty flesh, dipped in desire and doused in red, Rats, rabbits and rodents alike long for their primal lust to be fed, By a tail that’s long and

A plump, curvy blossom dancing in its crimson-tinged winds, Blooming within, its stems wrap and weave, Waltzing underneath the sparking neurons in the trees. Its seeds do not have a season, they merely flow With each pound there is a new growth, inside the white fertility composing skeleton, Threaded marrow like roots creating nutrients for the flower, Fed by knowledge, nursed by compassion, initiating fluid yet flawed reactions, Cradled in consciousness and heralded by hope, It beats inside the seat of your ribs, Patient always, traitorous never— Flawless in constant innocence, seamless in its strength, But these traits come from know

Timid citizens line the black and white cobbled streets, Crossing and zigzagging between haughty knights and righteous bishops, While rooks are more polite, and assist the meek ones, almost like pawns, As the king looks on, neither wrathful nor greedy, Standing tall over his kingdom graciously. But, there is one: a volatile queen, Vicious, fickle, impulsive; Impeding upon boundaries that are outlined for the other members in her sacred circle— Murdering the enemies with her eyes, instead of intent, or action, She burns through rules and ridicules those who are imprisoned Yet she lets out a suffering lament once the evening calls upon t

The girl I saw was pretty, But not noticeably so— She had flat gray eyes, that in some light Could appear to be steely, But she was not brave. My pulse raced in my wrists; Her pale skin on the verge of snowy white, but it was translucent, Snatching away any and all appeal. How I wish I could be as strong as she appeared to be, Or as intelligent as she seemed, with her glasses quirkily perched on her nose. For a second, I pretended she was boundlessly beautiful, And I could see a glimpse of the fiery potential that lurked under her wintry presence, I could see the success she’d be, If only she believed. But grounded in her metalli

slithering, snickering, smothering slyness with a sickness that's only noticeable by the highest otherwise it rots and festers like a feverish dying delusional denizen who inhaled when someone coughed. infectious and contagious, never to be cured how absurd--it decays inside of us. radioactive, reactive and rapacious, hungry for more and more never to be vanquished how do we let this writhing, wailing, wolflike warden ward off the prisoners residing in our wake-- wait. what is this wordsmith wondering and warbling about? aren't poets supposed to be coherent without saying the actual meaning behind us? because it's behind us, you see not the