Lost to ambiguity,

I’m nothing.

Obstacles with no substance

nor logic conquer all.

Circumstances are conspiracies.

My anger’s self-righteousness

must win the war.

All in life plans to witness

my reactivity and self-destruction

because, of course,

the world revolves around my demise;

saying otherwise is a risky lie.

Read full poem on Vocal.

Photo Credit: Gioele Fazzeri 

More Poetry

A Plea To Death

Winged

Elemental Magic – Fire

In simple conversations with others, I mute myself unintentionally…

…and it feels involuntary because I’m the type that wants to spill my heart’s contents. I just feel like when I’m around the majority of the people in my life, they have shown me what they really care or don’t care about through rejection, belittlement, invalidation, and sardonic attitudes assaulting what is not just important to me, but also accurate. So like many sensitives, I choose silence while my eyes tear up and my heart aches and my stomach churns and my mind screams. 

This became a painful habit of my people pleasing persona. The consequence was volcanic, but luckily for me the pen could channel the magma within and somehow transcend from being raw and unruly to becoming divine and sculpted. It was the first poem I wrote about how much I loved Spring in 5th grade where I realized I was being listened to. It was my first song about friendship where I realized I was being heard. So my poetic career plodded on while traversing through goth culture, my parent’s divorce, going to college early, losing toxic friends and becoming the toxic friend. 

I didn’t pick up the pen as much when depression won me over, but I’d reach for it in desperate times to avoid carving into my skin, since that too was belittled, invalidated, mocked, and only a few times led friends to beg me to never go too far. 

I’ve teased death a time or two, but our relationship is so much more fulfilling now that my poetic purpose has been embraced by my artistic and fragmented soul. That volcanic energy would cool sometimes and seal the broken parts me rearranged by new philosophies and mysticism that called the pen to my hand again, reminding me, especially when I’m erupting, that poetry is permission to simply be. 

Kris Leliel


photo of a full moon

Moondays Should Be Mindful – [Just Me]

It’s so important to have just one day completely stress free, but that’s not easy…like ever. Considering that many of us have been “grinding” so to speak either in the workforce or in school most of our lives, we can’t just say, “I’m relaxing now,” and boom! You’re chill AF. That’s not life. That’s not […]

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.

Foregrounding: “Calling attention to something–a word, a rhythm, a character, an idea, a viewpoint–by placing it in the foreground against a background. Taken from painting and the study of visual perspective, the term is used more broadly to mean setting anything off from its context or creating something that stands out from the ordinary…Interpreting a novel as if it were being read by a woman foregrounds the woman’s viewpoint,” – NTC’s Dictionary of Literary Terms (1991)

My Take On Foregrounding

I know this term is basically the writer doing their best to make sure a certain word or statement stands out from the present context, but I’d like to add a quote from The Routledge Dictionary of Literary Terms (2006) by Peter Childs and Roger Fowler:

“In literature, foregrounding may be most readily identified with linguistic deviation: the violation of rules and conventions, by which a poet transcends the normal communicative resources of the language, and awakens the reader, by freeing him from the grooves of cliché expression, to a new perceptivity. Poetic metaphor, a type of semantic deviation, is the most important instance of this type of foregrounding.”

Peter Childs and Roger Fowler – Quote found from thoughtco.com

As I’m studying this term, I feel like I’m overthinking how it’s used. Metaphors are common nowadays and there are other types of linguistic deviations where the writer aims for something to stand out, but I think if you’re going to break certain literary rules, you should make sure there’s solid coherence. In other words, it better be damn good because many audiences are used to this and a poor attempt at foregrounding could either blow the mind of your audience or underwhelm them. Perhaps I’m worrying more about the negative results. I’d hate for my audience to be underwhelmed. I’m not objecting to chaos, surrealism, or randomness in literature, I just think it could go from symbolic to senseless real quick depending on the intention. But whatever…here’s to the rule breakers and those who become icons as a result of their rebellion.

AbeBooks.co.uk – find more than 110 million out-of-print books worldwide.

Why does this literary term give me anxiety in a way where I’m laughing about it to?

You know what? I think it’s because I found a new challenge in my writing. I like it ’cause it terrifies me.

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