"The Poets Might Disagree" Poetry

I know that with disgust, You studied / the things I hid in my closet / where brass locks have been bloodied, / and with my mouth covered with vomit. / I was waiting for You to condemn / all the souls I captured with rage / just so You would notice I've been damned / with the bloody mark You drew in my forehead, this cage… / why does He look at me like I have sinned? / the preacher said, “God takes away all the pain” / but all the blades in my heart are His own; pristine / and with that I realized I am a daughter of Cain. / The preacher said, “God will never make you feel alone” / but God, why does the cross around my neck burn me / why throw me in the realm of the Unknown / and if You're really there, why do I feel alone with the little old me? / The preacher said, “God loves you enough, that once you admit all the sins —” / “your forgiveness is a promise” / but God, if ever the Judgement Day begins / would You discern that all the chapels I burned were for You to notice (me)? / “God sacrificed His only son for you to be saved” / but if His beloved was thrown to Hell forever to be punished, / all the questions will make my mouth bereaved / what's in store for me, what is promised? / And if I tied my neck with all the cross I found / to the point I couldn't breathe, would You tell me it's all in vain? / to the chapels I burned, to the hateful words for You I wrote in blood / will peace be a promise to a daughter of Cain?

“graveyards are my faraway homes”

If my hands reached for the skies / would souls embrace me too? / Acknowledging all my plies / does graveyards welcome anew? / You might be somewhere / I'll search through names / the flowers say your voice is everywhere / and tears came running—can’t confirm the claims. / Crows hear my sobs, they pity / when a petal decays; I might weaken, / search through tombstones even if dirty / graveyards are my faraway homes, I reckon. / Perhaps you're there. Perhaps you're here. / Why evade me? I'll go home, / you will see me, you will hear / my cries for you, even if souls there roam. / Your warmth I miss, / your eyes I remember / your smiles with bliss / thinking you're gone; I can't bear. / Wishing the soil there embrace you / even if decay and grief do roams / and stars I wish they pray for you / you're there and with that—graveyards became my faraway homes.

“oh, my dear Lily,”

Oh, my dear Lily, you always wished that / you can explain what you feel without full on crying / just like how snowflakes melted on your hand, / you wished you can grip merry-go-rounds without trying. / Does it felt like the 26th of May again? / When water falls on your head, / does it felt like bricks again? / Did all that decaying flowers you hid bled? / Oh, my dear Lily, did childhood really killed your heart / like how lilies die at the end of summer? / You feel like carousels you adored and regretted is hard to part / the reflection in every waters, you tried to outrun her? / “I was just a child,” you mumbled but oh, my dear Lily, / when would you stop dipping your head in your own blood? / You would rip your veins just to kill me, / would it satisfy you to cut me from the bud? / You gripped on those swings while your palms bled / and you know it felt like forests and dark rooms again; / “it wasn't your fault” are the words I always held / but you always throw it after you steal my pen. / Oh, my dear Lily, no use keeping ancient stones / no use staying underneath waterfalls / no use staying in farlight zones / no use trapping yourself behind outer walls. / Stop blurring your eyes while staring at clocks, / stop faking every musical laugh. / Stop cutting every box, / stop splitting yourself in half.

Oh, my dear Lily. When will it end?

“my soul?”

I
am
going to run away.
And perhaps you'll see
how flowers bloom to pay.
Do you
ever wonder why
my soul smells like rot
if ever you guessed, you will lie
And I
am tired to fool
the maggots there lay
on my bones, how much they drool
I watch
them awake, as you drain
all the pollen that I have within me.
The decays of old, isn't it too much to blame
my
soul
my
soul
my
soul
?

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I
represent
all the sins you
tried to dampen down
by digging my grave; you
push all the dirt, the maggots in
my mouth, and you expect me to follow
their command. The merriment of the brave
did try to uplift all the sorrows I write, and perhaps
you'll see how every water that drips down your
roof is a reminder of the rain that embraces
my corpse. We are dead all along and
the crows and vultures are tired
to sing it all day long. When
is it actually going
to end
?

Reducio

Did you know that my Docs folder for these poems are named P.O.L.A.R.S., meaning Poems Of Life As a Raging Shakesperean? It was funny, because I write sonnets in Petrarchan style. That's why I know poets will disagree with me.
You'll see lots of shape poems in the near future, by the way.

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may????????????????????????????????you
see the blood????????????????????that trickles
down my pristine?????????????dress, they are tes-
timony of your love?????????for me, when the sun
witnesses all the decay that these ground hid. You
have carved proclamations, hatred, fear, in my
heart and you wonder why sunflowers look
away from the dark where you're from.
Is it too late to brush the sweat from
your brow? Is it too late that
when your hands are
smudged with
blood,
my
blood,
is it really
that late to say
that I still love the
way your eyes sparkle
when you finally see me
dead in your warm, hateful arms?
I love you. I love you. I love you. I…
I still love you. I still love you. I still love…
A knife in my heart is the love I'm waiting for.
And I love you. I still love you. Do you love me?