Slow Burn: October’s Collection of Poetry

The Writer

Present are inhabitants of this earth, designed to grant more love than they receive.

This struck me once. I besought to be on the seemingly lengthier end of the agreement. Upon rationalization, I concluded that there are creators of romantic verse. Among them are the subjects—the muses.

I possess a plethora of love. It remains within my bones, ready to burst, pleading to be shared. I am unsure of its origin, but that is no matter at all. I am more than satisfied with being the writer.

One Blue Moon

He dresses on the full moon.

Stricken with grief, she lays.

He carries on without remorse,

still robbing the majority of her days.


She is unconfined within one blue moon;

no trace of him invades her garden.

He ran from fate until the inevitable,

and karma never grants a pardon.


My sun and moon are in opposition.

I can be blazing, or cold to the touch.

I can withdraw effortlessly,

or rip the shirt off of my back for love.

I may linger relentlessly,

or refrain for the duration of my existence.

When I select the former,

you will feel me in every instance.

Broken Halo

I deliberately spent the new year celebration away, for I anticipated we would not see another.

Although my ego attempted to cheat incessant fate, my soul was ever aware we were not crafted for each other.

I fell from the seeds of the stars; you emerged from a dormant volcano.

I knew an angel shaped like you who wore a broken halo.

With each new year in passing, I commend myself for resisting.

I find I still reach for her. It was never that you I was missing.


Often times, the hardest thing to be is simply yourself—

undeniably, flamboyantly, unapologetically.

There are all too many unjust standards present.

Failure to meet them is considered treason.

How I wish I was instilled with the ability

to be unshakeable in my own identity.

I suppose this is the reason I have only met half of it.

Perhaps the greatest act of treason is to arrive authentically

while the rest of existence is lost in translation.

In Syncopation

In choosing, I exist solely.

I lay motionless in the sun.

I align my vision with the blades of grass.

In syncopation, we are one.

My curvature molds to the soft ground

while the afternoon warms my back.

Motionless, I do not consider

anything I possess or lack.

Thank Goodness

Out of all this world could have assigned me,

thank goodness I am a writer!

I can uncover myself from six feet under,

with the resilience to put out my own damn fires.

Lana said it best, I am a child to no one.

I never belonged to anything,

or truly loved at all.

I have never been granted such the same.

With the lack I was bestowed,

I make up for it in verse.

Thank goodness I find understanding

in the unfaltering curse.

From the List of Noteworthy Discoveries

Every inch of my being differs. Alterations were once seemingly minute. Yet from a year in passing, almost nothing is familiar. And while I am not the happiest I have ever been, I am doing better than I ever was.


Indeed, I am dramatic. I strive to be self aware. A perspective may change if only to understand a soul laid bare.


I am not abashed to emote with depth. I prefer it over insentience. It is finer to reveal every layer than to be lacking sentiment.


Sure, I am theatrical!


I could never leave a feeling unspent. So call it verbose, call it hysterical. All the same, it makes for remarkable content.

A Hope for November

I have lived in my head for as long as I can remember.

Perhaps a fated change will pursue me too, this November.

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