The works that touch me the most. The one's that are the hardest to write. Mainly poetry with the occasional short story when I'm in the mood.
Sub-Galleries 3
Literature
fathers daughter
I watch my father
tear apart the skin
of a clementine and
find myself wondering
what else his hands
have done.
The answers I both
fear and know,
could intuit from the
moment I took my
first breath.
Enigmatic but familiar,
as all parents are.
But I know where he
buried the bodies.
At least, I think I do.
Does he know where
mine are found?
Buried where my
grandfather’s orange tree
proudly stood before,
like all things,
the parasites claimed it.
And when my father
looks me in the eyes,
with the impish smirk of
a boy off to the principals,
I believe he does.
And I know that if he is
to be condemned to hell,
or whatever torments li
Poetry
9
Literature
These Words
Why do these
Words no longer
Flow freely?
They used to
Come whenever I
Put pen to
Paper.
Now they are
But a distant
Memory.
What happened?
Did I lose
My voice?
My muse?
Was it snatched
Away from me
Like a thief
In the night?
I miss my
Words for they
Could make or
Destroy an emotion.
Whether it be
The reader or
Me.
Let's See How Far I've Come
5
new york state of mind by inkstaineddove, literature
Literature
new york state of mind
there's something soothing about
being nobody.
there's a calming aura emanating from
the faceless crowds that
aim to swallow you whole.
the masses remind that
you are nothing,
it doesn't matter,
just try to keep up.
you can lose yourself in that.
you can remember what
it's like to be
free.
maybe they're rude with their
ready-made insults and
a middle finger on display.
they don't suffer fools and
their displeasure can fill
summer night stadiums.
but, when all around you is
a southern breeze that
doesn't like to make itself felt,
that thinks every conversation is
a game of chess or a play with
multiple hidden meanings,
you appreciate blu
i. Loneliness mixed with a
lazy stillness hangs
over the room.
There is nowhere to go,
no one to talk to but
the cicadas humming all around.
Its tiring, being stuck
with only your thoughts, but
there's a peace to it.
An understanding that
this is healing, letting the
phoenix rise from the
ashes the sun created to
become stronger for the
next year.
You hope the
newly forged armor will
last.
ii. There's smoke in the air,
voices crying out, but
I can't tell the cause.
Pleasure or pain,
it doesn't matter,
both lead to
pointless wars.
It's in these dying breaths of
summer, the renewed chills of
the winter that I
feel glory and infamy
brus
desperation clings to me.
i am forever in search of
a legacy that will never
come to me unless,
somehow, i set myself
free.
but what is 'free' when
all i've known is
the shackles of the past,
connecting me to events and
memories i no longer wish
to be tethered to,
no longer want to
bring me down into this
cruel reality?
if there were a god,
She would've made this world
a little nicer,
a little kinder for the
outcasts, for those
tossed aside like
annoying crumbs clinging
stubbornly to you.
what is the point in
turning oneself into marble?
what's the point of
creating yourself into
myth when we don't even
remember the names,
much less the
hephaestus incarnate by inkstaineddove, literature
Literature
hephaestus incarnate
thank the lord that
i am not a god
for, if i was,
the world would end
in fire.
my rage would
swallow you up
whole, rendering you
weak to my
tyrannical feast.
the land would be
scorched beneath me.
how beautiful the
blaze would be.
i'd make sure to
leave you with
nothing,
sweet nothing to
allow even the
hope of survival.
i'd want to see you dancing,
helpless in the embers,
praying to me for
the ultimate salvation.
i'd let the flames consume you.
they'd make a snack out of
my measly seconds,
my washed up lover,
my half-baked romance.
i wouldn't cry.
i'd warm myself in
their glow,
whisper you a eulogy of
'good riddance.'
be thankful t
I thought I saw you standing there, without care.
Eyes like topaz, smile as bright as a star.
I learnt that my dreams could not be that fair.
And, in reality, you were quite far.
I tried to ignore the disappointment,
But it was ever present, choking me daily.
I cried and cried but it didn't help to vent.
I continued to float around miserably.
Soon I'd be relieved of my misfortune
For you will be returned to my arms
And the suffering will be forgotten.
Peace will be restored when I'm under your charms.
To be by your side is where I find joy.
You are my one and only, golden boy.
my love, my salvation by inkstaineddove, literature
Literature
my love, my salvation
i used to believe that
my life would be
relegated to one of
constant loneliness,
workaholic tendencies,
and success that
tastes pyrrhic.
oh, how you've changed that.
no longer do i
doubt my worthiness
of love and devotion.
having a companion,
someone i can
find solace in,
doesn't seem like
a pipe dream.
you've provided me with
a hope that surpasses
all others and a
love that is all consuming.
you are my light,
my life,
all my pretty cliches.
to be without you is
a fate i am sure to be
worse than death.
when i am without you,
i constantly yearn
for you and, when i'm
with you, i try to
drink up as much as i can,
never quite getting enough
the world of paint and
canvases has always been
one i've found to be foreign.
lately, it seems it's the
only medium i can
create in.
all my words have
apparently migrated for
an early winter, but
i can still create.
in the mornings,
it's pink-tinted skies and
rosy cheeks.
it is a teal bed,
messy yet still warm.
the colors are blurry,
blending together in
a blissfully sleepy haze.
the afternoons are stained
with grey clouds, grey desks,
grey anything.
they yield to the monotony of
their setting, each one
indistinguishable from the last.
the nighttime is for masterpieces.
i can blend all the
colors together and
make the scenery abstract
home doesn't feel
quite like it used to.
the walls are
shrinking in and
the beds grown colder,
grown smaller
till i can no longer fit.
i've been reaching out
and reaching out,
trying to grab you but
only finding that i can
catch ghosts.
they make good company if
you invite them in,
though they tend to
overstay their welcome.
you send me postcards.
snapshots of a
sunny life with
'wish you were here'
scrawled in messy script
across the bottom.
i try to envision myself
alongside you but
it's getting harder.
the stock seems to
fill up the space
you used to reserve
for me just fine.
keep crossing the days
off the calendar.
keep ex-ing the day
my father a king, my lover a genius, i a fool by inkstaineddove, literature
Literature
my father a king, my lover a genius, i a fool
my heart belongs to
men whose bodies have
long been cold beneath the earth,
who took their last breath many a
century ago.
i find myself, when i am
alone late at night
without another soul around,
praying to a king i
never knew.
i wish for his guidance,
his approval,
his praise.
when i whisper his name,
it tastes like blood and iron and
paternal.
my kingly father is warm,
stern, reflective, everything i
had hoped my
flesh and blood father
could've been.
i find long lost lovers in
the pages of biographies.
they reach out to me -
calling my name,
grabbing hold of my clothes
to drag me down to them
in between the pages.
each one of them