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Nali Mc Poem
You
You squeeze my organs until they're ponds of drying mud
You steal my sight and leave me helpless without
You gnaw at my lips with the force of desert winds, chapping
You hollow my legs for sink holes to look below through
You command my circulation elsewhere, my wrists to be tingly and numb
You destroy my body for unforgiving entertainment
Your passionate goals leaving frantic shaved door sills and disturbed nail beds in my ceased attempts of recovery
You ruin me entirely
You do it personally disguised with love and improvement on mind
You are cruel and single sided
Yet, it mirrors
Abuse on the victim, to victimising the abuser
You are me and I am you
Our decomposing concious body no longer fights,
simply raises our splattered and stained ivory flag
for a defeat in a relationship that will not end for any pleas
I beg with my hands, legs, and voice
I negotiate with my eyes, heart, and conditioned will
You
Us or we?
Poor poor me.
Copyright © Nali Mc | Year Posted 2024
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Nali Mc Poem
Take me home, take me home to the place I desire the most.
Not my bed with a dozen blankets to bake me in like a a pie of puff pastry sprinkled in easy dreams. But to my home of comfort and love. My friends couch after a night of drinking and partying with my peers who know me too well. To the difficulty of shutting my eyes with dizziness when another humorously bad joke can be dragged out of my friends mouth any minute. To the feeling of all of them laying by me like clothes on the washing line of a humid and tiring day. Our teddies joining us all and becoming the next generation of acquaintances through stories and much too mature delusions.
Take me home, take me home to the games where sticky dice near the bottles are abandoned due to impromptu singing. Grooving bodies dance and slide side by side with our bikinis from earlier still on, revealed by thin and cheap mesh shirts and frustrating removed shorts and skirts because of lack of freeness. Everybody's tidy scars and scattered moles and root-like stretch marks on show to anger the polite social norms. To show each other how comfortable we feel and to show the outside world peering though the open windows at night that we are just and only teens in love with youthful freedom.
Take me home, take me home to our uneducated political debates and illustrated family drama. To our nights where we need a break from speaking second languages and curt words. To the hours ignored where we can spend with each other without getting bored and to soak in the platonic connections that tie us together like a historical constellational map. To the place where we can all forget the piling school work and pressuring tears that drip like a punctured garden hose.
Take me home, take me to the place where I can have company and freedom from everything and anything. To the place of relentless adoration and unspeakable filthy secrets.
Take me to my best home, I will be waiting for everyone else there when they too find the beastly world edging to close to reality. I know they would wait for me too. We will wait for our unfiltered love at home.
Copyright © Nali Mc | Year Posted 2024
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Nali Mc Poem
A bookshelf collecting dust to purge allergies is not a unique thing, but rather symbolic.
The bookshelf can somehow tell more stories then the books in itself. The books originally queued waiting in order or newest to oldest, favourite to least, colour or author. Now some not even visible, hiding behind the strength of new spines that pile and lay on their backs for that little extra space. Their sides teetering off the edge to peer looks at another world they possibly won't ever touch on the shelf below. The differences of sizes and lengths that show the owners passions and level of motivation over months and years.
Folded up bases from being in bags and resting on curled up legs. Pages turned the colour of you cigarette stained ceiling or your mother's make-up from use in the sun or age. Sand that crunches between the paper in movement that had been attempted to shake off after travel.
Little useless items surround them. Fiendship bracelets, mugs full of lollipops, receipts, glasses, and even an odd sock that was forgotten just like it's pair. These items make the bookshelf look untidy but in truth they're decoration, they're more to the story that the bookshelf tells.
The owner never looks in depth at the bookshelf once they have pecuriously stacked the most recent book on it. The owner does not appreciate the bookshelf for holding all the weight and memories they load up onto it. They do not consider the practicality of a rectangular piece of wood has and how a room would look without one.
A bookshelf tells a story of all the stories.
My bookshelf tells the story.
Copyright © Nali Mc | Year Posted 2024
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Nali Mc Poem
Terror so concealed
Its fighting for the dominance of her sight.
Her eyes stretching wide and full like plates being spun on sticks
The ferocity provoking her doings
The tempted cat in fracturing words testing if she would cross a line.
A nose curled up with a snarl of a desperate animal.
Her freckles on the bridge.
Her doings belong in a circus.
A high-pitched tent with of unexplainable show cowering behind a fee.
Frantic air being pulled into lungs like performers on a slack tightrope.
Blood rushing to her head from the screaming audience.
Will she give up already? This act has gone too far.
Fear fuels the unforgivable anger like gas fueling the flying torches. There's no refunds for watching this performance.
Copyright © Nali Mc | Year Posted 2024
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