Marianne Bonnireade (feeplume) wrote in hidden_clarity,
Marianne Bonnireade


hi, i just joined this community. here are a few poems i've written recently.

i've tasted now the pain and ache
which not long ago i craved.
i recall yearning to suffocate,
then yearning to be saved.

i coast now on my ocean caps,
recalling cold sand floor
and as my gooseflesh my ocean laps,
i search the sea no more.

i've felt her saline skin and then
the deepest of her dwellings
i've learned a slew of spirits' stories
too dismal for retellings.

and once i was a restless sailor,
searching endlessly for something
but i now understand the spontaneity
of the tides and their next comings.

i searched for that warm spot out here
where the sun dances along,
where love sweeps you off of your feet,
and you become her sweetest song.

but now i lay quite tranquilly
on my briny bed in a froth embrace
and i go where my sea takes me,
and i know that is my proper place.

Your Post

utterly, i am, i've decided, pathetic.

so pathetic, daresay i,
that all the words i've got here -
(yes, every last one) -

yet not from any can sense be made.

when i see his face,
it is never anymore
decorated with desire and facing me back.

when i smell his cologne,
it is not even sometimes
in my own hair, on my clothes.

when i see myself now,
i am not on one occasion
smiling, or someone i'd like to be.

when i see the world's moving
it no longer appears, not even a little,
to be moving for me.

i still make sure the pencap is aligned with the papermate logo each time.
i still casually brush my left shoulder when someone else casually brushes my right.

i still prefer tea or a bath to medicine, even when it doesn't really work.
i still speak no more than two languages, and i've still got that empty desire to learn.

i still get quite speechless at the sight of the stars, and of you.
i still find writing quite often the only thing to do.

i still use you more often than any other muse, and i still won't admit it.
i still have so much i could show you - now i'm glad that i hid it.

i still like to dance when i'm intoxicated or alone.
i still like to run around secretly craving my home.

i still can't really park a car, and i'm still arachnophobic.
i still don't know why i still dream you still might care to know this.

i still exaggerate small things and downplay the large.
i still like to pretend and say i'm okay. it's still hard.

i still haven't changed much, except that i don't eat or sleep.
i still do the same things, the difference is they've all grown bleak.

i still want to be with you, but i still try hard not to let on.
i still hurt profusely, and i guess that too will last quite long.

i finally and suddenly understand
the cliche notion of "can't eat, can't sleep."

i want to run to you and see you smile
and hold onto you tighter than i ever have,

but you don't want that now,
and i respect your wishes.

in case you were wondering,
all that talk they feed you about heartache,

i mean, literal, physical heartache,
that's all true.

it wakes you as soon as you've managed to sleep,
and keeps you there, frozen and empty.

i want my blood to flow again.
i don't want to be frozen and empty.

through this i discover i am a hopeless liar.
so thank you, i guess, for opening my eyes.

all my talk of "i crave pain."
and "i'm strong. you can't move me."

quite clearly was nothing but a defense device.
so what do i do now?

i wish you would tell me,
because i'm used to you making (at least influencing) my decisions.

but you don't want that now,
and i respect your wishes.

a fragile, filthy foot stares sourly down at me.
needing a target,
i find myself impaling it.

i smile as it starts to bleed.
surely this owner is a lunatic,
how could a person deal with this?

i curl up my own leg as i imagine.
the injured limb is taken from my sight.

i am at the centre of a great vast glove
and the spinning makes me dizzier
than any drug i've known.

i have grown quite weary of the judge's lens and probe
which move me from this place to that,
leaving none to call my own.

i've ceased to attempt to see outside this dome,
for the colourless cloud haze has long since obscured my view.

i roll along inside, growing bruised as i roam
and the sour death quite thickens around me as i sullenly stew.

i hear scratches on the surface and i taste
a familiar flavourless waste
seeping through my shield.

i can see a weapon which which i might win
but i'd quite rather give in,
for scars are just as ugly healed.

i am miniscule.

this realisation would strike me hard,
but i am dumb, numb in silence,

my thoughts circle 'round until
i grow too dizzy to care,
or understand, or feel.

the clouds seem to embrace me,
but i realise with a surreal start
that they aren't embracing me at all,

but the world.

am not the world.

this realisation once would have startled me.

chilled despite the intensity
of your absolute grace,
i am forced to stop,
(mesmerised, purely,)
and attempt to take you in.

i find myself instead
quite taken.

if i could walk toward you,
through your ethereal glow,
until at last i reached out
and my hand was stopped by your face,
i'd like to say i'd resist you.

i know that you,
your intensity, your strength,
your spontaneously protruding
light aura,

would show me my end.

i remain, though, quite taken.
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