Not long ago,I used to write
about myself,the life I lived
life was dark, the soul was white
I'd be the best,I so believed
Played with words,called it art
sharp they were,truth they said
to the ears sweet, feelings they hurt
to the highest bidder,price they paid
Peak of Everest, challenge I took
Each at a time, I took steps
lower the grounds,up the hook
higher grounds, I slid the depths
Now in vain, with no touch I reach
Hear no sound, a muted world
A throat of silence, lacking peach
chained to earth, in dreams I'm furled
Disaster is imminent
shout the popular press
and the anointed
from lofty pulpits. Wars,
pestilence, earthquakes,
divine wrath are about
to be visited
upon a wayward world.
Meanwhile, a lovely still
has settled on the surface
of the river and has become
a canvas for a pair
of swans on which to trace
their brief passage across
a mirrored morning.
Beauty seems so fragile,
tethered to a moment
when the sublime manifests
itself through a tear in time
and gives pause
to the march of armies,
the self caused calamities
that rush towards
our little, insignificant lives
and illuminates
the sad distances we have
opened up between ourselves
and what burns brightly
at the centre of things -
these lovely mirrored mornings
to which our stiffened backs
are turned.
grievous immoderation ,
satiric and fanatical .
their tenaciousness can invite
inflationary feminization ;
hallelujah !
voider
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 3–9, 2026)
Cold floorboards groan beneath
the weight,
Of shadows trapped inside the gate.
The walls are bleeding memories
past,
In rooms where dying breaths were
cast.
A sudden chill, a phantom stride,
With nowhere left for you to hide.
The staircase creaks without a
foot,
And all your courage turns to soot.
The mirrors distort a twisted face,
That claims this dark, forsaken
place.
You hear the latch, you feel the
dread,
The house belongs to what is
dead.
It is not merely blood that moves,
A rushing, quiet river in the wrist,
But time’s own cadence, rhythmic, absolute,
A sudden, startled joy that I have missed.
I trace the map of veins, a slender road,
And watch the crimson tide begin to rush,
A silent drummer in the quiet night,
Bringing the noisy world to a solemn hush.
So let us take a moment, soft and slow,
To feel the thrumming, the vital, living tide,
And romanticize the pulse, a sacred drum,
That carries all the love I hold inside.
It is the only dance that does not end,
A fragile, perfect tempo we are given—
A heartbeat’s song, a soft, insistent whisper,
That turns this mortal flesh into a heaven.
So lay your hand upon the quiet vein,
And know that we are here, entirely free,
This steady, thrumming life is but a pledge—
A song of you, and a song of me.
Wish making
is a very twisted game
either leading to
a trail of gratification
or to a highway of despair
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it is only air~
a slight disturbance in the ordinary,
the way a moth’s wing bends the dark
without meaning to.
Then, the ear catches it~
not as sound, but as the ghost of sound,
a rumor passed between shadows
too thin to hold it.
It travels through the ribs,
settles where the pulse is weakest,
where the body keeps its quietest fears,
its oldest hungers.
By the time it reaches the mouth,
it has changed~
no longer just a breath,
but a blade, a key,
a confession wrapped in smoke.
And when it leaves you,
it takes something with it~
a name, a promise,
the last unbroken thing.
Frosted star fragile and fanciful
a constellation of delicate crystallized filigree whimsy
graceful symmetrical feat of geometry
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
too many choices
whispered voices
nagging doubts
indecision sprouts
anxiety flips
paralysis grips
nervous breakdown
brain shuts down
lowered into the ground
world yet goes ‘round
I take the blade
like a sculptor takes his chisel—
not for art,
but for erasure.
Skin is too quiet.
It wears my face like a mask I never chose.
So I slice,
deep enough to silence it,
to watch it speak in red.
Each cut a sentence.
Each bruise a thought I couldn't hold.
I dig through muscle and memory
trying to find what part of me
deserves forgiveness—
but all I find is rot.
Nails tear at the surface
when the blade dulls.
Teeth, fists, anything
to feel my hatred echo
through blood.
This is not performance.
This is penance.
This is punishment for waking up
in a body I never asked for.
They say:
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
As if it’s hurt.
As if it’s not relief
to open myself
and let the poison breathe.
I mutilate
because I can’t kill
what’s inside.
So I tear down the walls
again
and again
and again.
Not to die—
but to make the pain visible.
To show the world
what it did to me.
To make it real.
To make me real.
If only for a moment
before the blood dries
and the shame returns
wearing my name like a crown.
In 2013 Amélie Ségarra danced on a Grand Piano with knives
taped to the tips of her feet.
The room is empty apart from a single man in a music box
He wears a black an white suit buttoned up to the collars with bronze cufflinks,
To get up she uses an old Woven Rope in brown
You can see her nipples as she looks up, Adam's apple following her gaze
along with everything else.
She starts dancing.
From above the waist her arms jut out, grabbing widely at air and trust
But below it's easy
At times it looks harder to be the piano.
Remember how close she got to the edge.
Rapidly tapping the tips of toes, taped into shoes,
Screwed onto knives.
At times the screech was louder than the music.
Engaging her hips she’d lift up her thigh, bent at the knee
The arch of her foot seeming to just hang there.
Before it drops she makes the sound of a boxer.
Something only rooms with loud figures giving orders to lots of people
doing the same thing in repetition can bring out.
The music has stopped, so now all you hear is knee engaging ankle,
Holding up a foot wrapped in pink ruffled straps.
Smalling down an into
a seemingly endless
Grand Piano.
Within the cage, that which surrounds the core
There is much to behold
Muscles, ire, veins, blood
And one eternal liver
Selfishly withholding a wisdom that very few reach
Burrowed there, betwixt skin and bone,
Like an aesthetic for solely the inquisitive to admire
Worldly standards hold no weight to that which is concealed in the flesh
It is a flowing existence with no true shape or form
Yet the beauty in it is generous in kind
As blood is something we all possess
Still, it strikes a desolate fear in the hearts of us all
But those born of a much stronger seed embrace the warmth of this life bearing crimson
They show their appreciation with the blow of a dull blade
And a grin that exceeds past the teeth
What is love really, do we understand?
Is it some feeling or our heart's screaming?
For someone it's ephemeral, for some its transitory.
Some say 'live for whom you love',some say 'be ready to die for your love' .
Some say 'if its true love, it will come back', some say 'if its true love, it will never leave'.
For some it's a blessing, for some it's is a lesson.
People come and go in their ways
But how they made us feel, forever stays.
We start to fall for memories not for the person,
Darling, Love is something which wearies you, without any reason!
your silhouette
bleeds
a background
of tears
inside me and
flowing out
of me the
pain of ages
held in rages
my soul in cages
your hand-print
touch-less
yet pushes me
to the
breaking point
like stapled glass
no true fix
for the pieces
you've left me in
broken child
meek and mild
none the wild
your empty boot
doc martens
though maybe
endlessly
crushes me
my will ground
under such
an empty
sole as you
what shall I do
but wait
for
the other boot
to drop
imprint lies
self despise
no big surprise
why can't I see
you are
what I have
built you to be
an empty form
an ink-less print
a weightless step
all kept alive by me
fake anatomy
©SamHarty
First date
went great
'Til G.O.A.T.
ate plate
Second time
was fine
Then she
broke spine
Third time
paid bill
to her
Hos-pi-tal
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