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impressionableif i could claw your voice out of my earsimpressionable by Hfeather53
with a single fleshy-pulped fist
FrogI went on a wander todayFrog by necropoetus
Passed the crowded market
The peasants displaying
Vegetables and fruits
Traces of dirt marking
Flies circled them hungrily
In the sticky air
I wiped my forehead of sweat
And there, in the shade
In front of the fishery
Where the salty smell of the sea
Scorching in warm water
With a bloated up belly, yellow
Lay a dead frog in a rectangular
RockstarBlue lights shine through the artificial smokeRockstar by necropoetus
Like pale blades
The crowd roars and sends high-pitched screams
Buzzing into my ear
And I believe I'm deaf from the pain
I smell the sweat that glues on our skin
The suffocating odor of cigarettes
I don't feel my body
All I see is your face
Unorthodoxly painted black
Arms covered in pagan symbols
Sinful Hades of the flesh
Reaching to you
I lose my hand in the bright colors
As silence engulfs me
Separation He found me sitting by myself in the darkening classroom, gazing out the window at the rain clouds that were slowly taking over the sky and the dying, golden rays that cut through them probably made my silhouette look like a shadow to him as he entered.Separation by necropoetus
I heard him open the door, recognized his footsteps and the way he set his bag on the table. But I didn't turn around. I wondered if we would ever recover, if we'd be the same. He crouched in front of me.
"Let's have dinner together," he suggested trying a smile and I took note of how the light subtly changed the colour of his brown hair and made his eyes shine, radioactive. I felt their power in my chest like a lump. He'd changed.
I nodded silently and we pressed our palms together in the air. His hands. They were still delicate, frail but his skin was rough because of volleyball.
"Do you remember the la
Baptism I wish I lived by the sea.Baptism by necropoetus
Mainly because of its intimidating beauty and the tremendous fear it sparks inside of me. The sound of the crashing waves, smooth and powerful alike, eating away at the sandy shore, makes my stomach cringe. But I understand now, things that hurt us, that have the potential to crush us, to kill us, fascinate us. The wind here still carries whispers of those who've given in to its mystical lullaby. That's why they worshiped it, personified it. Called it a God by various names. But maybe it's just me.
Maybe I'm self-destructive.
And maybe I love the sea because it reminds me of your eyes during the cold winters. Dark grey, vibrating with veiny streaks of green like the murky water when thin, golden rays seep through the air and the heavy clouds split open revealing a belly of silvery needles.
Needles. Purple bruises and scars that make my arms ugly and alone.
The sea brings back memories from the deep and washes away the
*When he died, grandma told me after I had enquired her knowledge on the subject with a pressing attitude, the entire village had been relieved of their fears. Although he had helped establish the village back in the day and had fought alongside the army to protect it from invaders, there had been strange rumors going around ever since his first wife died in childbirth.* by necropoetus
Anatoly Evanoff married another woman a few years later. No one knew anything about her past, nor had she ever brought family members to the village. But the common folk had loved her. She was beautiful with her light brown hair neatly combed and slightly wavy, big, warm eyes and freckles spread across her heart-shaped face. She was kind and found pleasure in small things.
My grandma was but a little girl with dirt on her face and under her fingernails, running behind the crowd, with her two older brothers, that was carrying his coffin to the graveyard on the outskirts of the village. Old women with a few rot
ReflectionI found a couple of old photo albums in my attic. They were thrown away in some cardboard boxes and forgotten. Somehow I avoided looking through them. Whenever I came up here, it was for the sole purpose of writing without being bothered by anyone.Reflection by necropoetus
But today, the curiosity seemed to be a bomb at the back of my head, waiting to explode.
I sneezed several times as my hands opened, grabbed and took out everything from postcards to books and letters. Even clothes. Hidden away, I found a smaller wooden box. The paint was scratched off and worn out making whatever had been once drawn on it, barely recognizable.
I put it on my writing table and opened the oval window. It was cold outside, but sunny. The stinging kind of cold that hurts your skin, dries it, and makes you feel like you can't breathe. The streets were empty. The lack of sleep made my mind float. Creativity comes easier when I'm in this state. Words tend to flow without effort. I hadn't slept all night.
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