Short Incisions Poems

intaglio
delicate incisions
in soft outline...

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spiky
   abstractions
in 
    fantasies

subconscious
  random
incisions
      painterly
expressed...

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Whispering heartache unfolds in torture
Incisions decorate the outside of you
See the river of lost hope unfold in a pond of red
How many will know you are dead...

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Precision incisions put holes in our ears
    our noses, our foreheads and tongues

  As for me, I had enough holes in my head
    to last me a lifetime when I was but young...

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The agency of touch
fell before you.
You receive it like warm lush rain
sinking ever forward
into your next terrain.

I am the blue bull.
the one who makes decisions.
I'm the careful surgeon.
The one whoe makes incisions.

Square my light into roundness.
Immerse all life into oneness....

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Try and try to forget,
Such things need no regret.
A heart that has endured,
A pain still obscured,
Forevermore enlightened,
By a hurt so heightened,
Of a once true feeling,
Now ever so concealing.
Black and white visions,
So many incisions,
Lies make me blind,
Soon, relief I will find....

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Chromed blade promptly
With adroit, raw incisions
Separates toxic, mounting mass

Unsterilized weeping fears
Tourniquet burnt
By caring eyes separated

Self-victimization 
Flooding the dark room
With febrile infectious tears

Incessant wakened hours pass
The phantom poison 
Remains flowing...

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Variscite and seraphinite scythes slice the upper spheres with precision,
As their blades rub their rainbow ribbons in the boreal breeze,
Their surgical incisions of incandescent crystals cauterize the carnelian excisions,
Letting breathe once more the solar winds which whistle in its throaty wheeze....

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Your words are
a series of tumbling incisions
that contour
my dovish frame,
before your lips
swoosh across
and slice
this canvas of
marrow and bone,

Lo!
How each utterance
metamorphized into
stippling strokes
that hue my corporeal parchment,
as gushing scarlet rivulets
gallop to fill the void
left behind
by your blade’s
final adieu

...

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My heart broken
Sliced
Cut 
So deeply
Tiny incisions
They hurt the most

Paper cuts 
Thinly
The pain lasts longer that way
The loss I feel
Seeping out in the quiet of the harrowing nights

You break your heart everyday
The moment you wake up
And live without her
Now from inside
It does it of its own free will

My heart is crying
Dying
Disfiguring
Disforming
Birth cord cut like at birth


My Mum died......

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With age comes acceptance
Happiness cannot squeeze itself
Inside the sadness of my head

Winter when its crisp
Tiny morcels of occurance
This will do for me instead

When I feel virtuous
A definite elation
Has surely begun

Shooting down
Incisions of sadness
Forcoming, delaying, outdone..

Embracing visions
Too many, a futile sensation
Natures own allowance that I breathe

Encapulates for me, my five minutes of elation.....

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Eupora something you look forward 
Captivating incisions trauma puzzled 
Visions armed with indecisions durations 
Completions inner visions peace is hungry 
Let it be fed less discipliness bleeds,  it's coming 
Coming to a head there is a new nation called... Heaven 
And Jesus is the King, let us relish and all come together 
In devotion in praise and worship Him

10/12/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020...

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Reality pangs my existence,
Every breath chokes my dreams.
What am I without you?

Nothing but a lone...desolate soul,
Living in a scraped sheet of skin.
Marked with incisions of past hurts.

I feel completely alone,
Abandoned in the corners of reality.
Numb...longing your affection.

Here I am once again...
Crouched on the bathroom floor.
Knowing this is the last time I will miss you.



_____________________
*Note: A poem on suicide...

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The fourth dimension, on me, has left its mark, 
Before the coinciding of my dreams and visions,
Cumulative years have made life become stark,
Pre-dating a scarred heart from life’s incisions

Once, without fear, of actions being thwarted,
Would come a subtle wink, then a deep embrace.
Now with eyes shuttered, I’m being transported,
Back to earlier times where age allows no space;



Age will always find you 
Better or Bitter!
Tom 
...

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Dull reflections in a vibrating shallow,
vibrant greens glow against neutral grey.
I find shelter to feign calm stillness,
the trees roar their dissent.
“come to me prophesies, come all foreboding, come
sprits and visions.”
Yet the mused well-spring is hollow,
a confused pubescent male in the Rites of May.
Branches convulse and mutter, roots in silence. 
The May Pole is entwined with the serpent.
Water in, Blood out, comes all life from
fissures and incisions....

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