Disturbing Poetry
Don't Get Comfortable
Life is not all clean and bright. Some parts of it are dark and painful in deep and cutting ways. Usually, people do their best to hide those ugly wounds from the world. For many, it's simply unacceptable to let those soul-shaping parts of us see the light of day.
Here are some of mine.
I've poured out a small helping of anguish and anger for you to read. If you are reading on after this introduction, I assume you are here to feel something. If so, read ahead. As I have warned, no punches will be pulled.
WARNING
Some material on this page may be triggering or otherwise emotionally disturbing to rape or molestation survivors.
Phoenix of the Glacier
Dropped by a glacier,
a terminal moraine
begins where cold ended
where vast crests of ice
came to die
and dropped their stony load,
now covered with soil
a rocky cairn for times long gone.
A battered farmhouse sits on that hill
paint peels and broken windows gape,
its decomposing carcass
where my childhood came to die.
A skeleton stripped of meaning,
a splintering wooden fossil
buried by time so shallow yet so viscous
it is now innocent in its post-senescence.
I am not.
I am a dirty phoenix,
the frost of the glaciers reborn.
The iceberg's gravel armors me
as tender skin could not
proof against the feverish, sweaty hands
of a ghost whose corpse has yet to die,
proof against his stifling weight
atop my childish form
which is nothing
compared to lying beneath ice
that endured for fifty thousand years or more.
If I could live a thousand lifetimes
perhaps the ice I have become might melt,
leaving behind only the strength of stones.
Inescapable
When I close my eyes I see you.
Does this mean some emotion between us?
You come to me in dreams -
your sick desire obvious.
The scar upon my breast
burns where you suckled.
I don't bother to run anymore
because you're inside me.
I smell your breath in my face
in the hot wind of August.
I can't deny the feelings I have for you
or that I think of you every day.
You climb into my bed,
unseen by all but me.
Shall I let the feelings cover me
as your body once did?
The smell of light rain on hot, dry asphalt
calls up your teeth on my breast.
Every time I hold a knife
I think of you inside me.
Every time I hear the word whore
I remember your touch.
A Killing Rage
a revenge fantasy
Who knew the dead
could travel through time?
My loins feel the thrust of him
where his blade marked the way.
A cold steel caress
across my breast,
an indelible print
from his hand.
I ache to feel him
under my hands
helpless, choking,
thrashing.
In dreams, my face feels the blood of him
as stinging heat
burning in my eyes
like long awaited tears.
His Time Machine
Sometimes I forget
that I'm not fine.
Then living reminds me
otherwise -
the stink of Vaseline,
the feel of sticky vinyl seats
and suddenly...I'm six years old
choking on snot and vomit
and in his power.
It's been thirty odd years
but he invented time travel
with grabbing,
sweaty hands
and my torn lace tights
crumpled dirty on the floor.
The wrong thought
and I am back
in his time machine,
small and helpless
once again.
Flashback
when bad memories get together and play with my head
The nail buckled away from my thumb
in a steady burning rush of blood.
I choked on the snot of my tears
as I screamed into the wadded up sock
taped into my mouth...
The blood from my mouth hit the sidewalk,
landing like a red butterfly on the concrete
as he pulled back his fist to punch me again...
She pushed me under the water again,
her nails gouging into my scalp and cheek
as she forced my head down...
The cross swayed above my face
as flesh slapped together with sweat and blood.
The pain shot through my belly,
and arced to my broken ribs...
The knife slid across my breast,
carving a flaming line
like a mouth drooling blood
and his teeth bit into my flesh...
...And then the closet went dark as she closed the door...
Spiraling
a commentary on notebooks burnt in anger
Bits of ash tantalize,
suggest words one can almost see.
Sooty metal spirals twist into my abdomen
catching on sensitive vital organs of the soul.
Once they were glistening binders
of the written word, the drawn line
but now they are weapons -
tools, plowshares beaten,
burnt into swords,
curving blades that stick and fester
in tender flesh.
War in the Name of God
Gunfire pierces through the night
and screams arise throughout the fight.
A child hides under a broken bed
dying voices in his head
whistling bombs light the sky
and he wonders if he'll die.
Forgive us, lord, for what we've done
In your name and your fair sons'-
Call it war, call it jihad
it's all in the name of God.
When we die it's hard to tell
which heaven, which hell.
It's all the same, some mother's son,
some bearded child - life just begun
bleeding on the ground.
The earth is thirsty everywhere it seems
in the desert, swamp, and all extremes.
Forgive us, lord, for what we've done
In your name and your fair sons'-
Call it war, call it jihad
it's all in the name of God.
Death - the new pornography
of all the senseless wars
to the cameraman corpses are but whores
whose price is never paid
but in the heartbroke mourning
payment's taken without warning.
Forgive us, lord, for what we've done
In your name and your fair sons'-
Call it war, call it jihad
it's all in the name of God.
Full color, tears in any language
look the same to any mother.
To her, God is the voice of a child
still living at the break of day
under a bed, streaks on a dirty face.
More Poetry from Kylyssa Shay
- Writing From a Homeless Heart
Homelessness left marks on me that can't be easily seen except in my writing, which exposes painful, damaged parts to the sunlight, sometimes through poetry and fiction. - Kylyssa's Love Poetry
I'm an odd person I suppose. Some have said my love poetry is also quite odd. If you enjoy things that are a bit strange that have to do with love, perhaps you'll enjoy these poems.
© 2009 Kylyssa Shay