Scoliosis
Author: dacapoalpoetry
My journey to finding myself began with music, continued with poetry and keeps going with these two blending harmoniously.
Sat in Silence
She quietly slumped on the muddy floor,
Defeated.
Countless needles pierced her ghostly skin,
Scalpels tearing at her lovely veins.
She sat in silence.
She spit out viscous tar,
Suffocating.
Burnt esophagus,
Acid-like saliva,
Blurred vision,
Stripped of lungs.
She’s nothing.
Consumed by pitch-black poison,
Succumbing to the chilling embrace
Of her handmade straitjacket,
She was bent on letting it all spill out
To neutralize her hatred-filled cadaver.
She sat in silence.
– Patricia
Blue Blood
He sat down near the lifeless body,
The stained blade boasting justice.
“What say you now?”—his vengeful scream
Was met with utmost silence,
The corpse defying him even now
With eyes as empty as his carcass.
His hardened gaze then fell upon
His trembling hands. He smirked.
“Look what you’ve made me do. Am I
Finally worthy?”—Silence.
He stood tall, pacing endlessly,
His footsteps ever condemning.
The marble floor, the white-tiled walls
All seemed to shrink and trap him.
He fought off claustrophobic thoughts,
Adrenaline still pumping
Through crimson blood—his real fault.
He knew then: “I’m still lacking.”
He came to a halt as sudden as
His urge from moments earlier,
When he had plunged the silver blade
Into the tender flesh of
The one who’d deemed him not enough,
Not now and never has been.
He turned to grab the mocking corpse,
Wanting to wipe off its proud smile,
The proof that he was lacking.
“Shut up!” he roared. The small, grey eyes
As cold as ever. He was sure:
Even in death he had disowned him.
“What use your noble blue blood now?”
He kicked the lifeless limbs. Silence.
“You bleed like commoners. Like me.”
He dipped his fingers in the crimson blood
Of the unmoving figure on the ground.
He let out a defeated laugh:
“You’ve won again, Father.”
– Patricia
October
Orange, amber, crimson leaves,
Cold droplets of soothing rain,
Torn between the warmth and cold
Of the inner and outer worlds.
Breathing in the autumn winds,
Each puddle reveals her dance.
Raw. The girl with the red umbrella.
– Patricia
Gone are the Days
gone are the days when I’d welcome meteorites
with an open heart
so that
they could warm it for a while
for they have gathered and gathered
on
top
of
each
other
and now
all I have are rocks
d
..r
….a
……g
……..g
……….i
…………n
…………..g
…………….me
down.
and I gasp for air.
but…?
nothing
seems to ease my mind
I have specks of polluted rocks
on my brain
help.
falling stars, indeed
I lose control
my body falls to the ground
dragged by an
eviscerated heart.
there goes my
hope I
am cold
shivers go down
my spine
who knew
this is what
escapism
brings along.
don’t go hugging meteorites. they’re cold.
The 31st of August
3-year anniversary. Once again, I want to thank everyone who has supported me throughout this year!
“Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.”
August
Bright red poppies, liberation,
Golden fields, murmurous springs,
Barefoot, daydreaming, reflection,
Books to read, moments to seize.
By myself, freedom, green forests,
Hiking, whispers in the wind,
Dark soils, teal skies, music,
Endless possibilities.
..
Riding on the water’s surface,
Touching blades of wild grass,
Sunset, sunrise—peachy, dreamlike,
Wildflowers and soft green moss.
Lively cities, friendly people:
Sonder. Sun. And wanderlust.
Crickets chirping and birds trilling,
Golden sand and azure seas…
This is August. This is home.
July
I lie down in the summer meadow,
Hearing its endless calling.
Blue daisies dance in the refreshing breeze
Of summer winds. The music
Of countless locusts soothes me whole,
Their chirping—so surreal.
The scent of emerald blades of grass
Invites me to stay for a while…
The cowbells of the grazing cows
Fading away on distant hills,
The burning sun, the golden corn,
This is my home forever…
– Patricia
Depleted
The restless city knew no sleep,
For it had known a three-month slumber,
And now its people wanted to feel
Alive. But with no sense of wonder.
Only the very few who’d learned
What it had meant to have less freedom
Had come to cherish each new day
With all its sunsets and beginnings.
And thus, the busy, crowded streets
Were no place for the tiny beings.
No, they were to be found up there,
On slender telephone lines, dreaming.
Dangling their feet above concrete,
Their eyes glued to the pearlescent symbol
Of Hope amidst the worst of times,
Eyes glued to one celestial being.
The crescent moon was their escape
From endless suffering and trials.
When nightfall came, they hopped up there
On slender telephone lines, sighing.
Fixing their gaze upon their Hope,
They wished the sand would stop its trickling…
For one night only… Maybe more…
The hectic world had left them weary…
How fine would then be everything…!
If they could dream and drink in magic…
If they could have the time to breathe
And get back to their truest selves and…
For now, one night was just enough…
The tiny people kept on gazing.
The chirping crickets, the linden trees…
Oh, it was June! And they kept on dreaming…
– Patricia
May
Oh, May has been so good to me:
The sun, the freedom, serenity,
The rain, the fresh smell of the soil,
The chirping birds… Yet mortal coil,
Yet there was turmoil, endless pain,
Yet down fell tears on my face…
Though May was wonderful, it hurt
To experience it as myself.
The vibrant cyan sky filled my eyes
With gleams of hope and paradise…
The moments when I stopped, breathed in
Brought mindfulness. Escape from me.
But I am constant in my pain:
I feel relief, then I regain
The burdens I carry. Linden May…
It hurt to experience it as myself.
– Patricia
Da Capo al Poetry 