Phonebooth With Ms. Byrderten

You can hardly realize how much of a strain we place on our bodies until we’re made painfully aware of it

How heavy something really is until your muscle ache and mind becomes cognizant of it through being made sensitive through that “eye”

The very shift of an atom in a gentle breeze

Poetry is really the thing that we hardly pay any mind to or place notice upon

Why is pain on a mental, physical and psychological level so well acknowledged and understood better than joy or pleasure?

I could tell you a vast account of tear soaked moments that would far outweigh the golden ones

Is it because we treat joy as a rarity, because we barely genuinely experience it?

Is that why love is love, when you’re constantly getting it…That experience?

Like a soothing healing balm applied deep down to our very broken and flaming cores?

Every time I awake from my slumber, through that “eye”, I’m always both surprised and amused of what is that the false self does

You know, that you both in thought and deed that you think the world’s wants, that you that’s a shadow cast of your fears

Do you even know just how beautiful you are?

The secret joys that only a select few will ever know and get to enjoy, by interacting and indulging in this psychedelic honeycomb of sweetness known as you

To know that feel of that swirl of warmth radiated by your presence and touch?

How the color shifts in every strand of your hair as it passes through their hand?

That heaven of pleasant smelling pastures only nature knows

I don’t think we love ourselves for how incredible each individual truly is, what we senseless call imperfection 

©2017 loose.leaf.lover

All That Shimmers

Making candy-coated poison droplets 

Optimizing, trying not to exude your discomforts

I’ve never known roses without thorns

Nor heavenly gold without hellish crimson

Upon stratocaster’s strings weaving satin dreams

May my moleskine’s lavender lines breathe what I can not seam

All of me bleeds into every crusive contouring your being

Immortalize what lies layered and hidden from being seen

Afraid, afraid, afraid of what’s barred behind all that shimmers

Within a cage of gold, diamond and pearl lurks a heart of winter

Crossed arms of obsidian, patrolled by platinum sculpted cherubim

Is this a choice, naked ravaged by the gold plated splendor

For all the marquees are alight with your name piercing the dark

In unison with multicolored glares from neon brusts; you, its pulse

And I know in the earlier days no one could forewarn you though

Now gone are the canopy of family and friends, only harshness shows

©2017 loose.leaf.lover

A Landfill Becomes Love

​Swept over with the idle in the spider lilies, wander the catacombs of games so old

For every blossom grown a body’s owned, karma for carnal carnivores

What does it mean to be grown if we can’t fully swallow the bullshit we’ve done so far?

With wars blooming from wounds livid, pride’s fall causes mushroomed scores

I slept in a bed of guns and knives each time I spent the night, an orchestra that I’m not for

I waxed and waned through the strain of the blame game, that spot light’s on and I’m not finna preform

That chapter of my life has pages thoroughly worn underneath the strokes I’ve donned

I once too saw a red dawn in the form of the woman I loved in the arms of another one

Behind the mountain of skulls the youthful spawn, how the cycle we spun continues on

In the vales beneath these lilies’ petal, it can feel like an eternity living in crimson shadows

Love and war sharing the same colour, the deeper then the darker and colder the departure

In the ashes of my madness, with her raven wings, lunar silver and ivory skin adorned in a fashion hue of passion 

I collapsed into ink and text, instead of roaming the four corners for sex; couldn’t shake my intellect nor conscience

That I too contributed to the landscape of skull and bones, swept over in a horde of spider lilies

©2017 loose.leaf.lover

Of Realists And Stationery

​

It’s graduation day dawning in the kingdom of cold steel, stone and glass

Where this infatuatious haze yields to an azure view of all being in grasp

To heaven on our stolen wings, each feather from a dead fellow to craft

It’s survival of the fittest, what greater beast than man starved in his task?

No longer witless nor a need for the gown and cap, we gorge ourselves savage

Leaving no stone unturned, we scour the earth with greed unmanaged 

Your wife, your husband in an orgy of decadence…the lost are fleeting

What morals dare imprisons; what instincts so casually liberates from fearing?

Prey harder and still at the foot of giants, find that even God has rapidly moving talons

Find that even God is written with quills eager to fill where paper thins sporadic

What beast lurks behind kind eyes, if only in misfortune to you, appears when famished?

The friend you’ve known a lifetime is sadly the same peer to snack when it’s crunch time again

What many would hold sacred is just hanging on by a single purse strap so flimsy,

That if the wind should thieve with one ill breathed, countless would be tranced and picked clean

One breeze of revelation, and so called sickness revels where they’re unaware yet most healthy

©2015 loose.leaf.lover

The Elixir; The Malady

​Weaving the halls of Shangri-la through silken cords to frigid heart, how soft and just your voice

A warmth that transcended the frost, the lot, cryogenically preserved nightmares throughout

I spent my time within this sprawling dark, a gem in shambled grains across an obsidian vault

But you carry forth these peridots of a perished soul on beams of light, the heaven meeting earth

In uncharted vales lush in the palette of champagne spills, the otherworldly heals the hell of thought

The troubling scenes manifested in scales, talons and leathery wings become forgot when we do talk

I know it’s hard brushing off crystalized spears assaulting from eyes that hold such a paranoia flux

The way the world works with it’s perpetual dark touch, unfortunately she’s omnipresent and passionate 

Intimate with every nook and cranny of you once the armor’s broke, how thorough the kiss that corrupts

How it mires and mars my brush, and creeps onto my canvassed easel like a distressed damsel at first

Haloed with a luster and cascade of ravens, in the guise of an angel but with a coat crimson from vineyards

The intoxication that amplifies those parts of you that hide from scrutiny of the light, confiding in that medley of malady cursed

©2017 loose.leaf.lover

Do You Realize

​If it’s not for the sake of a green face, you’ll not find many left who’ll reciprocate

God’s grace, if only for a few hours on a Sunday in a church space, pay your tithes then pray

The hypocrisy is often funny to me, the same people claiming “real” are the most fraudulent doing

For me, it’s not so much of a writer’s block; it’s the mangled mess in which we call our hearts

The rubik’s cubes behind each thought, how tricky it is to manage the spectrums we jot

Atop a precipice with the unprecedented dropped, I never know what’ll be the next to give out

Mostly, my hands conduct themselves fine, but it’s my face that contorts to Dali’s time

It’s surreal the feel of steel pressed up against one of your own kind, where everything’s already dying

Where everything’s just surviving, and the gospel they’ve qouted is paired with brothel cryings

Blindfolds for every single soul housed in a government mausoleum, but few have groaned

How does one compose without eventually losing their own, mind where steel buckles and broken is stone?

Taking quills to where it constantly hurts, while others are blissfully unaware of the wound touched 

I’m steady double dutching these assaults, dodging and throwing salt at evil that approached 

It’s a miracle gone unnoticed, every loss being turned triumphant upon my constant coaching 

These survivor’s scars are the only testimony that’s worth me vehemently showing

That crown adorned when hairs are gone, to the kingdom in which I’ve build ages upon

Suffering long trying to hold it all together, the man in the mirror who knows the story even backwards

©2017 loose.leaf.lover