Jenny's Poems

@fractalpatter.bsky.social

Poetess (amateur) - Ally - Ace/Demi - She/Her - Thought Poster - Person - Place - Time - No AI - All work mine (excluding reposts of course) - Just trying to be me - Thanks for being you

Anonymous eyes can still be deceived
by how they’re perceived
in silence.
As if the violence of the world
is unfelt,
undealt,
unknown.
This hand is not prone
to hurl into lines
the unfurling of crimes,
the most vile we know.

That pain felt by ascendant souls
who see life as more than a game of chess,
one where the soulless make a mess
of everything they can touch.
Where the soulless take so much.
Where they devour dreams
and demand compliance.
I can’t forgive the contrivance
of transferring one’s pain
with the lofty rawness of bitter refrain.
That stain of words meant only for the speaker themselves
dressed in a steel suit of rusted wealth.

But tied souls are reborn tethered too;
this I must give you,
there’s a sense that balance must exist
rather than the shift
from bad to good.
The mist of excuses would
always demand the intoxication
of vocalized isolation
over calling out the true source.
While anonymous eyes always perceive
how other minds can be deceived
and forced.

Were we once free of this wound,
this self inflection
pointed at replication
and sameness?
This tower of glorified monotony
and its heave of static
as we descend
into the certainty of bellowing splendor.
How loudly it praises itself,
even those deaf to its contagion,
clawing ears with endless fears
that nothing true can measure.
What pain it projects
in endless commands -
the demands of mad men
who know not why not them.
Why not them;
why knot them?
Why tie anything closed
when the stitches just pop anew,
never healing, never true?
The wound is ne’er allowed to heal.
And its only beauty that it steals.

I wake from a dream
to find life a nightmare:
both in thoughts
and what they allowed.
Those duplicit commonalities
painted rainbows on shit;
spun lies of polyester
then labeled them silk.
When I think of it
my entire body cries.
Flames arise,
and bitter biles
own me
for a while
again.
The lies just melt to goo and then
the prelude to insight passes
and leaves what amasses:
the rest of my life.
That’s all.
More time to live in it,
with it,
honestly, but never free.
Fierce, but affected,
on a verge oft neglected.
Because situations may end,
but memory extends them into being,
publishing them into this draft
of human
I am.
I’d edit them,
but never can.
I’d edit them,
but I’m only man.

What a sordid tale existence writes,
when life is like a script:
written,
forgotten,
then improvised poorly.
This mind tries to remember
but often falls short
of the grand plan,
the ballad sang
at the mention of a prior name
this soul held.
Still, I try
while the piranhas vie
and plant lies:
their meddling shenanigans
against my dreamy mettle,
this aura of anxious peace:
peace that’s pieced out
while anxiety stays close.
While anxiety plays host
and guest.
I promise I’ll do my best
though I dropped a line another time.
But what a sordid tale existence writes
by those who dare to write it.

The woods held much
of our joy,
mossy artifacts
spent by centuries of ruin;
what was once a palace affected by
the claims of nature and time,
those merciful masters that offer sacred fulfillment
in the return of green.

But passions called our bluff
and we veered off course;
what once was a path
became and improvised jaunt,
a ramble of words and feet
as you ask,
“Is this Love?”
“Can we find it again?”

Can we find that oasis of flame:
our garden inferno
with rubies in leaves so
brittle, yet yielding;
not hot,
but inflamed with whispered threats
that the search may end.

How we’d be
would we dare stay there-
in the woods unknown,
in the garden ungrown,
in the endless search
for my treasured end.
If we’d let the trees inside us bend.
If we held what held us so true.
If we dared to know we knew.
How we’d be would we dare to know we knew.

Two faces appear:
one with a leer
that fades to false guise of surprise.
One staying dear,
not here,
but so wise to lies.
The choice is too clear,
not the prince, but the peer,
not the one who carries seeds never sown,
but the one who wearies and feeds and knows
and still chose generosity.
It's all now so clear to me.
It's all now just meant to be.

The magic seeds may grow a vine,
but you, sad prince, won't call me thine.
The bag you wear may carry gold,
but you won't know me when you're old.
The smile you wear may sell so much,
but you are made just of the such.
Your lies may fool the foolish heart,
but they're all that set you apart.
I once felt bad, but now it seems
you were of nightmares not of dreams.
And though I let that history fade,
nothing can fix the mess you made,
that thing you'll face when time remains,
that choice that now lives with your name.

The eternal note beckons:
a song from the red bard
fated to fly
a cycle of crimson circles
of shared blessings
on this land.

A whistle of starlight -
withdrawn before the sun,
but e’er lingering on
in the mirages we hold
with a percent of belief
we dare not admit.

‘Til in the twilight between
the breakdown of dreams
and the song’s middle ground,
we remember the sound
as a magic takes flight
when night meets day.

Only to fade
as truth betrays
the logic of the bright:
of the literal, the call,
the chores of hearts and hands.

Still, the bard sings again;
the eternal note still beckons.
Forever calling.
Forever there.

The wanderer finds tenderness in the pink,
that vulnerable material of a petal’s touch.
A fellowship of initiation
from solo endeavors to something far more intimate
than that orbital shape of swirling in dust.
Now beauty caresses eyes
as Gaia herself smiles
at this newfound wonder,
a removal of the eyesore of compromise
to only swirls of green and blue,
earth and water,
emotions once forgotten
now found.
Only that moment exists;
a time forever known in secret whispers,
secret thoughts,
mimes of a life that can never dare a sound.
That softest edge of bliss.
In the pink, the wander is known.
In the pink, all is felt as Love is sown.

Life has its price, but then, so does death.
Now loosening grips to embrace the bereft,
I find the spine bends
to allow madness to come again
and resurrect the vague,
the mystic, the maid,
the sage and unknown,
the mythos we’ve grown,
the consent to review
and dare to imbue
the banal with eccentricity,
that ancient electricity
of spirit and sound.
The final future weighs not a pound
when we consider the ghosts that haunt us now
and how somehow
we’ll become them someday.
Death simply has a way
to make us realize with blinded eyes
the tense cadence we hold ourselves too.
Unless, that is, we dare see through.
Unless, that is, we dare see anew.

The box whispers,
taunting.
The ghost of you
haunting my closet
as if, somehow,
out of sight was out of mind.
But haunting means never out of mind,
not when I open it and
there
you
are
with a smile no less.
A smile.
The nerve.
Close the lid and I'm frozen again.
Maybe another day.
Maybe another day.

Open these hands.
Melt their chill
with hourglass speed,
that vague sense
that we’re constantly
running out of time.
Seize this day:
mock the clock
that dares to chime
with your hand in mine.
With the
flowing of knowing
limitations
and ignoring them.
Our lives are hidden in the sands
but hand in hand
we’re seen for a while.
We’re held in shared smiles.
Just a touch is all it takes.
Open these hands.
Melt their chill
with hourglass speed,
and for a few grains,
reduce this pain,
and fill this life we plague with need.

The comet’s dying leaves its tail,
crazed in its directionless trail
but noticed all the more.
What a regretful live to endure
out of love.
Fangs masquerading as wings from above
and other, more regular things.
Then time stepped in, a bell truly rings
and the comet no longer sings;
It’s gone as soon as it arrived.
All that’s left is endless lies
and nothing more to blame.
Just a burnt up name
and the damage of its crater.
Nothing less but so much greater.
Nothing less but so much greater.

#emoetry regretful
#vss365 crazed
#2wordprompt regular tail
#BedroomEyesPrompt Out of love
#BraveWrite Wings

There was no sound, but it was always personal.
Your mind burning lines,
mystified at how you lied,
how you’d let us down and leave the town.

There was no sound, but it was always personal.
Your roots rotting in the damp,
those tears in which I always swam,
the divided house in which we drown.

There was no sound, but it was always personal.
You range of fear that fibrillates,
surrounding hearts with beats of hate,
those warnings of unnatural ground.

There was no sound, but it was always personal.
Your energy is your confession,
that mark of voyeur's true obsession,
the patterns that you cannot hide.
The wishes God cannot abide.
The lonesome life in which I cried.

There was no sound, but it was always personal.
And all the hate you’ve ever sown
was forever be what is best known.

Lies ensnare in brute trepidation,
a predator lying in anticipation:
imagination masquerading as judgment.
I noticed it almost but at once went back to the same state of disbelief,
as if ignorance could provide relief
instead of the corrosion it bakes into souls that make no sound.
If only the truth could break through the profound
twists of limits and lists,
of evaluation and conflagration
of protection and pain.
If only love could refrain
from seeing self as a patina to strip away-
if only this voice could stand up and say
this is all terrifying, not my fault, and not what I deserve.
If only I could ask when life dared swerve
and create this new fate
instead of blaming this mind in means most unkind.
If only the lies weren’t so bold,
if only this heart wasn’t so cold
to itself.
If only I could improve this health
rather than wear icicles for armor,
the kind that harm her,
that child inside who just wants to be warm.
If only anxiety never did swarm.
If only reality took some kinder form.

Memories bend a little in this life,
woe to love and love to strife
as pale differences fade further still
when they succumb to memory’s will.
Leaving gaps and saps and moments keen
on keeping what we wish we’d seen:
lovers where true fights began,
kisses under reprimands,
a trusted blade’s thrust as love is only lust,
uncertainty en route to immense glee.
But immense delight disintegrates in truth’s great light
and illicit dreams would be revealed as schemes
if moments were recalled correct
and ego could not vivisect
these things we call lives
where alibis and lies thrive.
I journey still within it’s will
and but see no thrills with this new skill:
what bitter display is death’s dismay
when living with only today.

The parrot spoke much nonsense,
that type that only hates,
while the loyal dogs lay watching,
considering our fate.
Their names were past and future-
two domesticated wolves-
who learned from one another
while the parrot played a fool.
Then one day that strange bird
did try to escape his own cage
and the loyal dogs lay watching,
refusing to engage
as it flew right to the window
and fell quickly at the glass
the loyal dogs lay watching
as another regime passed.

If you see me walking by
towards daffodils and endless sky
know the journey is what’s best for me:
an end to this ferocity
that beckons self to vast revision-
endless Doubt’s most blatant mission:
rain upon the moors that stain
imagination with our pain.
Know too that in what I’ve been through
I’ve carried dear a part of you,
a garnet in an urban knot,
resonance of what we sought.
And if I do return reborn,
free from living’s endless scorn
release the arrow once again
and let Cupid remember when
he had some power over me,
for now and then I will be free.

$The ghosts are terrified by these new shades, creeping in with what was made within Spirits of ambivalence. Spirits flowing freely with gargantuan fealty to something less divine, something screaming “mine, mine, mine” but never ours. Watch it grow while cowards cower, feeding that hunger that knows no end. Has no face. Has no grace. Has uncivil disobedience to all it should remember. The last of love’s embers. That final chance to fix this society of sticks and piety. That call to find light from the darkness. To meet hate with the starkness of action, rather than this adherence to factions of fractions. Rather than this reduction of life to numbers and strife. Rather than this choice of money over voice. Honey, the ghosts are terrified by these new shades, for true horror is what humanity’s made.$