Lying – [Poem]

Unsure if my immobilization

was inspired by one-sided conversation

where you’re pushing, pushing me down

asking me how I ended up on the ground.

“It’s my fault,” I say, “I keep falling.”

Breathing in dust, my brain is stalling.

You command me to walk,

my feet drag and drop

until I see a cliff,

like a true escapist,

and pretend to fall again.

Another lying breath.

Another fall closer to death.

– Kris Leliel

Read another poem: The Prose of the Fool or Peril

Or let me read to you: The Monster Within

Prose of The Fool – [Prose Poem]

The first step is the hardest. Could it be because there’s no more land beneath your feet after that first step? The dog is barking with urgency, while your heart is beating with passion, and your foot hovers over a ledge taunting gravity and fate. Calling you The Fool isn’t an insult to your bravery nor an applause. You are pure adrenaline, you are the heart falling into the stomach, the stomach jumping into the throat. You might be naive or tired of everyone calling you what you’re not. You’re just The Fool facing this new beginning that may have been by Chance, but that’s no reason to pass it up.

Click here to read the rest of the poem.

I’m so honored that Vocal.Media put this poem on the homepage as a Staff Pick! It really boosted my spirit for further tarot-based prose poetry.

The After -[Poem]

Under a blanket of white

starts the eternal sleep;

A trance with transportation

towards a new dimension deep.

As I release my shell,

my soul I get to keep.

A new journey birthed

from the experience I reaped.

It’s easier to hope for nothing, yet I eagerly embrace the unknown something.

Simply – [Prose Poem]

I’ve genuinely been pursuing calmness in this life because I finally detected the chaotic pattern of my many histories. To keep myself busy in the lives of others and let them rule my ambitions, to hold to anger and revenge as a permanent resolve to my misery; these are the patterns of my self-perpetuating pain from refusing to face the emptiness inside me. That emptiness is a different chaos that simply is; a gateway to my deepest inner truth. I am empty like a room that was robbed, a blank slate. Tried to paint the walls with bloodlust, but the rage doesn’t stick. Revenge just wears the walls down. Letting other people come in and paint the room only upset me and I tolerated it because I kept blaming myself for being robbed. Everyone left when I remembered my power, my worth, and my ability to forgive. I have no more rage to paint with. I am still, like the room, empty, blank. I simply am.

It’s time to relish in the calm and keep things simple. I’ll fill the room with who I am. I’m going to embrace this vulnerability and paint with my true colors. I’m not worried about who comes to stay or leaves. In this calmness, this different chaos that cultivated my freedom and autonomy, I’m going to pursue an environment where I belong; a home. The love of home can never be robbed from me because it becomes me, simply.

Typos – A Poem For Writers Who Get It

They’re a thing.

They happen.

They’re survivable,

yet

embarrassing.

It’s the equivalent

of shooting yourself in the foot,

bleeding all over the floor,

but still walking around,

limping even,

and not processing the pain for a long while,

too long,

until you stub your toe,

look down at your ridiculous foot

with a giant, gaping hole,

and see blood everywhere.

Then you wonder,

“How did I not know?”

You can go to the hospital for your foot,

but doctors won’t heal your dignity.

Ugh.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

The Rot – Dark/Gothic/Horror Poetry [Explicit]

It’s a pit or a grave.
Whichever, I tend to stay
when the sorcery of love dances
on my corpse day by day.

But something died
and love isn’t necromancy.
Eleven ounces of flesh
rotting, barely breathing.

Many tried to revive her.
I welcome them to the grave
of a lost cause, damaged goods,
a bleak, paradoxical save.

Faint beats of my flesh
responding to a loving touch,
but a kind of suicide captures her
because she’s never enough.

“Would you fucking try?” I ask,
“Would you bleed so I can breathe again?”
She’ll bleed herself dry, drown my eyes,
to assert her choice for death.

She wants to die with the lost love,
though it’s not so lost on cosmic paths.
Stars confirm love’s sweet blisses,
its harshness, its beauty, its wraths.

I plead for more beats; she rots,
resenting me six feet under
because I drank poisoned beliefs
of shallow loves, faux thunder,

an alluring ether seeking prey,
necrophiliacs raping my weak-beating flesh.
Perhaps I’m the abuser, the poison shame,
for demanding her strength in weakness.

Am I the sickness? Am I the rot?
Yes, I’m deepening the grave,
barely trying to leave, not taking her with me
though she whispers, “I don’t want to stay.”

But we stay. We rot. We bleed.
We concede. We cycle. We mourn.
At a loss for a remedy, though considering necromancy,
I’m unsure, dear heart, you’ll ever be reborn.

How have I done this to you?
How have I done this to myself?
Love was once our native currency.
Now I’m convinced she poisons our wealth.

Reoccurring, this poison, this dread,
this seemingly infinite sorrow.
It won’t kill itself or let us die.
It bleeds us–I bleed us–every ‘morrow.

How, how did I get here?
This damning, infinite fear.
Why won’t you leave me,
you mirror so clear?

The rot won’t leave my reflection.

Witchcraft On Your Eyelashes (Poem)

Blink, you begin to see
the world as a mirror.
When you look around, you paint with fire,
and dance in the ashes.
Your glares are necromancy
raising passions once dead.
Your irises, an endless color palette
capturing your technicolor heart.
Your stare transform into screams;
music to the spirits.
Sparks in your sight
bring hearts to burst.
Witchcraft on your eyelashes
fluttering with the impossible.
Blink,
magic becomes incredibly possible.

I may submit this poem into a contest. What do you think?