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Angela Corinne Poem
i fear that i become the love i once afraid to get
the affection i had left behind—
the roses i gave in
without any expected return
because a gained respect for them
is a disgrace of my own
i had to beg for answers to be answered unsure of
an explanation i didn't even know if the question
i had asked, or just another curiosity that i'd think of,
you're maybe enlightened i feel this way
a cry of prayers, silent scream in pillows
"please, hear my agony. i am begging to be truthful to love"
for only if could sell my soul, i am six deep under of what you're standing on.
i wish i did that, anyways
i had regrets about how my innocence ate me whole
that even my heart became blind when i told her to heal
but then hurt someone else's soul,
God, rest thy soul,
i was fearfully and wonderfully made
but i made me to love fearful to them.
Copyright © Angela Corinne | Year Posted 2025
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Angela Corinne Poem
if my lungs were unable to inhale the air from exposure of rottenness, let me speak while confessing about how the smell is. i have to describe the air circling through my body, and how it aches my insides.
the air is the same with my body— how it flows freely through the bodies of matter. with just a touch of sensitivity, the air results in being confused and wanders.
curiosity of the particles will kill its own habitat,
leading it to blend after a while
it won't fade away,
but rather collides with the moving wind.
really, you can't distinguish the air that makes it unfamiliar in the first place, and while it's still sitting on the current, while nothing seeks to damage you.
once you breathe in it, there's no environment for you to feel comfortable. your lungs are filled with the air dependent on what it's been huffing and puffing. you suffocate: feel out of breath, for just stepping out of your place.
how can i know that the air i'm breathing is the drug i'm taking? how can it be a drug? it will crave you. the only way to get out of it is to chase for it. to still grab the oxygen that's always been crashing you.
the odor will take you out, and it also makes you feel better— not because you're the one inhaling it, but because you're already engaged with it.
but if you don't inhale, you already know you'd die through suffocation. it was the very best thing to do for you to live— to rather be with it than to die in it.
the other parts of you are surely terrified by your welcoming attitude. are you sick to enter such cruelty inside your body? or maybe you're just dying to know how sick it is to feel alive?
you will feel the decay of your internal system, it will cause you to function slowly, to pant unsteadily instead of just breathing, but look at you starting to inhale the air you think is fresh, yet somehow eats your flesh whole.
Copyright © Angela Corinne | Year Posted 2026
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Angela Corinne Poem
betrayal is mischievous,
a thief of trust, and a loser for hopefuls,
to lose a soul, but to gain a soulmate
and to hold a familiar existence
yet again, you will die from your own fate
i lost myself when i found whom,
to kneel down for God's mercy
to find myself in the midst
of someone's recognition—
i may found me in him,
through Him
as tragic as it seems to be,
i would rather pray for his forgiveness
than for me, not because i am the ideal
but as a woman that would use
every parts of me
to let him know God
for God to let him be forgiven
i may be unsure for the longing
of seeking a soul,
to bury your wholeness, to know
my identity for the nth time
to know God again
to kneel down
even if it takes my soul to decay again—
even if it takes to plead for Him to find my soulless self,
without seeking for another soul to tie
still,
to whisper a prayer—
not to ask a soul to embrace mine, Yahweh,
to let it sit with my silence,
but to let them find a place,
even if my absence
becomes the answer to that plea
Copyright © Angela Corinne | Year Posted 2025
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Angela Corinne Poem
the white nights make me feel the warmth in my eyes. the nights where i restrain myself from withering, where coldness and body heat can meet a certainty, but the moment your body grows warmer, it trembles. the wind opens your pores to scar the face. the electric waves of each force rises, so as the reaction of its tension between the body and the air, the one that makes you weak— the eye that cheats on you to shed a tear.
they say that being sober at midnight makes you restless. eyes wide open, unbothered, as the time and darkness becomes light. the dusk of the sky eventually makes you shiver, but it won't be enough to end you: rather, keeps you up all night long. fog clings to your skin, leaving you with deep breaths. heart beats louder than the wind, almost banging your ears to mute you. you're probably smelling the scent of kalachuchi in the midst of your wandering, it won't creep you out because it reminded you how fresh a flower can be without a sunlight, how gloomy the scent it is to be in the dark.
it's almost dawn. later, sun will shine, but how suffocating it is to feel the cold air inside the house. how often do i sleep with a hollowness in my throat? how shallow of thoughts do i need to rest with a steady mind?
to keep awake at night is to build a flame that almost ignites us; it traces the skin, it warms the cold nights. and still, you let it touch you just to know how much it pains.
Copyright © Angela Corinne | Year Posted 2026
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