Tempest is the word of all my days- erroneouschoices

His eyes charmed me. He was not a word person, he always asked what I meant by charmed. There’s something alluring about seeing novels, short stories and bibles behind eyes that don’t translate through their owners lips. Like an undiscovered island that you’re certain holds a treasure for you but you have to dig deep and hard to reach it.

I fear for myself, that one day my words will start a revolt and become outrageous, and I also hope they actually do. Some truths require a slow bleed and the way I’ve been bleeding out I’m probably the truest thing alive.

We’ve talked, he and I, about me being wild and worse, and much more. It strikes me critically that this minimal wordy man can see straight through me and communicate a thing so profound in poetic form without even knowing his genius.

For all intents and purposes I’m reserved and complacent at all times. The tempest beneath should be shrouded in decorum yet my wild is sweaty and seepy to his piercing island eyes. Remind me of me, please always remind me of me so I don’t fade away. I might die of grace


Read more at Choices in Error

Part my ribs- erroneouschoices

I adored all the things he did that made me feel like he was strong. It wasn’t only in the things he did but from the air of confidence he brought with him everywhere. If he was strong, I could feel weak but safe. Being the strong one was over-rated and exhausting.

As I watched him working under the hood of the car I knew I was as going to miss him desperately. My body started to ache and I wanted to make me think of other things but I wasn’t able enough.

Laughter is a kind of sex and that meant we had sex down pat. He was the best at getting a laugh but moreso a smile from my usual poker face. His eyes never failed me, filled with reckless they constantly ignited my abandon. And every time he bit his lip while concentrating Id salivate at the idea he was biting down hard on my lip and I’d have to press my legs together to temper the heat in my lady bits. I wanted to live the dream where we kissed any time we wanted and I know all his shoes and shirts and he’d feed me breakfast. And I was there, damnit, I was there.

Things are fluently fleeting and neverlasting, and when he kept saying he wanted to be the best man that he could be it kept making me think that is sounds so judgmental, so difficult and everything I don’t want. We never run out of sins in all this breathing we do while dying. The struggle to be the best would take away the light and breeze from being the not best.

Im well aware that the heart and brain fight like little children. But they also know each other better than bread and butter. Sometimes what the heart can’t do the brain fills in and visa versa.

I’m made of stubborn softness and sea breezes with a touch of pink to lighten the space between. I’m getting to know my heart better and my minds getting to know life better and madness tastes like him.

As the madness began to grow and the sanity dispelled, I knew I was going to miss him more than my mind, but not more than my heart.


Read more at Choices in Error

Into My Arms- Nathan McCool

The place where I gathered all our hopeless dreams

only to bear witness to each of them devouring another.

My arms that always failed

to protect the things I cared about.

All of it was useless in the end wasn’t it?

 

I would take back the mistakes if I could.

I’d run through the world to come and 

kick down your door,

just a torrid, dreaming vagabond 

smoking lithium from a lotus flower.

I’d say, “I’m here, my darlin. I’m here for good.”

 

But things never turned out the way we thought they should,

and our hearts are still just opposite horizons 

torn in half by the same savage splinter of lightning.

 

I still dream of you swaying to my music

as you balance yourself on this piano.

I am still haunted by all the things in this world

that remind me of you.

I still sing songs 

that offer you my melancholy love

and the hope that this world does not change you, 

my dearest.

And if I could, Virgo, 

I’d bring you into my arms

and tell you that I always did love you.

I’d tell you that, no matter the paths we take,

I always will.


Nathan McCool is a member of Blood Into Ink and the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective. You can find the haint, dusk, and sizzling of his concrete snares on his blog, Mist of Melancholia.

Melt- Iulia Halatz

I have shared

land and sky

with you.

I have tasted

blood and honey.

My witch-oil turned

to dragon-fire

at your touch…

 

Soft fingers laid asleep

until your turmoil

woke them

for so long….

 

It feels like getting drunk

on old reddish wine

long softened

during times of

War

Equanimity

and

Comets.

What shall I pour in your glass?

Molten flowers

Golden ink

Lucid light

Unicorn mirth…

 

I dig your veins

for gold.

I find pure

bitter-sweet

amber nuggets.

 

I fear any story

whose ink

my words

can’t drink…

Yet I drip in yours

ever since.

 

When your arms call

and your lips

read all my feral kisses

How can there be no heaven?


“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.

The Weeping Song- Aakriti Kuntal

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal
If I must now,
now that the whole sky is molten
carcasses of marigolds and water lilies
I’d do it
I’d open my mouth wide and scream
Then you couldn’t deny it
even if you wanted to
My body of cerulean flakes
As it would pile upon your
white lotus skin
and dance to the tune of your breath
I’d declare my love
to the solemn face of a downward facing sky
The blunt face of cold utensils,
their inherent apathy for all bleeding things
I’d pick you off long scrawny windows
rocking
beneath my rectangular eyelid
and ship little parts of my being overseas to you
Tell you that I’m here, smiling,
long and overgrown in this useless body
Watching all these dead parts hum in vain


Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.

A picture of our torn up praise- Aakriti Kuntal

a picture of

Image and writing By Aakriti Kuntal

Your absence is a theater. I grow disproportionate in it.
The winding and unwinding of curtains.
Warm air circulating through my face.
I imagine your body is no more a landscape.
That now it’s a home. A home with
movements and sounds and occupants.
Your arms stretching your lover’s slender body
into a lunar eclipse,
tirelessly eroding my feeble song. My tiny insignificant memory.
There’s been no word from you. Not even a sound.
It is as if your mouth transformed into a black hole
and took the rest of you too.
And I,
only I walk inside it.
Retracing my steps to see if I can
find any palpitating remains of us.
Anything, anything at all
that would explain
these patterned nights, these long long pauses in daylight.
How life has blatantly refused to comply anymore .
And how it has floated to some corner
of the nether sphere
where the sole thought of you is celebrated in adamant silence.
Where even you would now be barred from entering.
Where only I sit
with our sick wobbly songs sprawled all over my lap.
My lucid legs dancing to the tune of your voice.
Widening into a continuous void.
All stars, all planets sucked in.
And I, I all alone,
All alone by myself baby
thinking about us.
Thinking of this throbbing universe of
endless possibilities where we could just not be.

Aakriti Kuntal is a 25-year-old emerging poetess from the country of veritable colors and stratified rainbows, India. A Network Engineer by profession she has been writing for over a year now. She enjoys nature, music, all things geeky and all things art.  Aakriti writes for the Writings of Aakriti Kuntal, and her work has been published in 1947 Literary Journal, Duane’s PoeTree blog, Visual Verse and Indian Periodical among others.


 

Venusberg – Iulia Halatz

She walks slowly
like music
She feels gently
like water caressing
the stone it pierces
in the long haul of time…
The cleavage of a rose
tells all about her beauty.

Fine alabaster lies
In the heart of her skin.
Sweet fruits alive
in the deep velvet
of a green swirl
are dappled with her insurmountable scent.

She catches the tendrils of care
sent by your star
She buries them
in trenches
in her armature of love.
Your breath is
mortgaged to her smile…

Burnished sunsets
chant
the moment
She steps
in the shade of the evening:
“Can you dance on water with I?”

—————————————————————————–

“Writing is an Iron Tale, must be tough and sincere to the core of human perception of pain as valor. I am the grumpy T-Rex who started writing out of pain, not because of a polished world. Writing out of love is painless and herbivore. As we sometimes taste blood, ours or others’. Nevertheless, some words are so expensive that we are better left with them unspoken or write them with the ink of a Ghost…” She is a teacher, small entrepreneur and cyclist.