Rejects Poetry - Tumblr Posts
howls of the lost lunatic
the ecstasy of forgotten time
of the void impalpable by feeling
of this cavity in my heart
this disaccord of light
that bleeds through the dark
that touches the depths of these caved in walls
that touches despair’s budding shadow
soaked in this arid guilt
while we’re pushed in the gulf of hysteria
searching for the words
to our own lost poetry.
© Margaux Emmanuel
kaleidoscope
The wrinkles of youth were playing
in the garden of adolescence
where stubborn roots make their way through infinite bouquets
of blades of grass
piercing the innocence of the horizon
wandering hearts
that have bled before
meet in this verdure
to bleed together
while we wait for a boat on the shore of a lake
on the shore of life
to come retrieve yesterday’s dew
because the unspoken’s remains
dwell in us
dismantle us
at every quiver of the waves
at every shiver of the waves
pieces of faith bloom
only to fade
when will the flower skim the greenery?
© Margaux Emmanuel
painkiller
You drink pain from the bottle. The shower-head cries, and I sink into the half-hearted water while sinking into the wine-stained corners of your lips, and I wonder if falling out of love is not remembering the way your pale, wet, eyes would pronounce my name, not remembering the way the water rings of your bedside table would yawn for help. Sunken blister packs with your name stuck in the cardboard package bleed through heavy nights, the ink sifting into the floorboards gasping for air. In the wrinkles of the wood, I tried to paint the bullets of the human heart, but that candlelit smirk cannot be trapped in acrylic. You are an opaque sensation, a splintered heart.
© Margaux Emmanuel
The champagne lingering in the driveway of his eyelids ransacks the minibar of his depressive tendencies. A suffering insufferable dandy with a corduroy smile spills the cough syrup on the window sill and walks through a non-smoking floor with an unlit cigarette giggling in between his teeth. The stained carpet mutters that he’s a homeless homesick and the tears sticking to the glass table know it already. So he sits back on a fatigued settee and pours himself a dubious drink with a parking lot view. So he sits back uncomfortably with his heart a little tight and he tells himself that it’s just another sick day.
sick days | © Margaux Emmanuel
you missed the nine o’clock train
You wear
silence’s
jacket
and the acne
that creeps down
the shadows
of your neck
scribbles down
your screams
on the back
of a crumpled napkin
that you always keep
in your back left
pocket.
You are soaked in
faltering voices
yet you are
the flower
growing
in the washed-out
asylum of humanity
and I am in
desperate need
of your fragrance.
I thought
that I had caught
a glimpse of you
arms crossed
wondering down
the hallway
of unsaid nostalgia
perhaps chewing some skin
off your lower lip
perhaps a tear
or two
polishing the floor
under your feet.
But you always come
twenty minutes late
to the suburbs
of my emotions
so you saw me
and kept walking.
A new chapter
but
the ink
from
the last one
always
bleeds
through.
© Margaux Emmanuel