the Prometheus death fit for humankind, take it then take it and see how we are born, see how we’ll die.
dried leaves rustle like fading nightmares, an urge to suck in colors before me
the tea cup shatters only once
blood and sweat makes the seed.
I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
I, a radiohead hear voices I hear peoples screams live peoples nightmares water board cruelty splints under nails
A hyper-sensitivity of feeling your art connects across the senses The roughness of ancient bark beneath gentle fingertips A kiss from rock-pool water warm against bare ankles
I put myself in a reality equaled only to repudiation. The world in its deepest corner effused my bone.
think, with all the indentations in the death bed of poetry
skin on hand lavender rises hugged by madsuns
The fields sluiced with rain on the leafing of memory, On each rock and scree living in the Appalachian breeze.
This band of amateurs coming after me to carry me home on sweat-soaked shoulders, shirts cotton, buttoned down
It was an honor collaborating with Devika of My Valiant Soul on this piece.
Boxer, can you see through bloodied vision? this conflict born from all of Adam's sons subterfuge meets necessity in life's arena
silent to my blood along the bone garden I have known the women, living and dead
The dead die young Ernest Albert Bett your concrete grave is a trough with no pigs yet in it just convolvulus and ivy
https://youtu.be/T9Ztg-Pxsc0 For further work, visit QueenMaya Rose on YouTube or her site.
EPTIRE is now accepting submissions for poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction, articles, artwork, and photography. They are a youth-led magazine and are based more politically, as well with a focus for opportunities and awareness for all.
In Memory of Jesse Washington (1897 – 1916) I am crawling on my knees rolling in the dust and the cinder ashes of this tragedy, coals to my feet Spittle hanging from my chin my eyes swelling in their shrinking sockets
If I was the poet with a thorn in my side, I was; I brought another drop from the gardens on these hands and this body of stone;