The world stopped turning
and yet our hearts kept beating;
love will never cease.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Monday, March 3, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Down With The Ship [Haiku]
If it traps you in
My lungs, weighs me down with love
I'll sink with our ship
Prolonged Suffering [Poetry]
Sometimes he thinks he's broken, and doesn't know how to
repair the pieces. He's never been able to handle a needle and thread,
so stitching together his shattered heart seems like an illogical solution.
There's superglue, but the shards don't seem to want to stick. That's when he realized
there's no easy fix.
You can't mend a broken heart because it seems like the next step
of the process. A friend or lover might demolish it and damn the thought
of the damage they've done, but that's only the prelude to step one.
He held on too tight when she shattered his heart, as if clinging to her skin
would convince her to stay and fix the fissures. He can still smell
the intoxicating aroma of her perfume and bad attitude; the latter
attracted him to the challenge. Left with pieces and pictures of what they
once were, he curled up into a ball against the glass, letting them scrape
at his skin even more.
To bend a broken heart, step one is to stand up and decide to restart,
instead of prolonging the suffering by remaining attached to the misery.
The Siren's Song [Haiku]
He fell in love with
A beautifully see-through
Soul that screamed sorrow.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
Oozing Black [Poetic Pieces]
There is beauty in dark things
If you look past the evil they bleed.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
No Blank Slate [Poetry]
The night sky hasn't changed; it remains ink stained, every night, despite its
disappearance during the day.
The sun still shines, moon sparkles alongside the stars, and the air isn't altered.
Humans shed their skin and take on a fresh layer, but it doesn't provide a
blank slate to start over. We are sun, stars, and the night sky; though
chemically we run through cycles of metamorphosis, we keep our names
and stay ourselves. The change is slow, but we don't shed ourselves
entirely. A blank slate still maintains what was there before, though
it appears faint and out of focus.
Who you once were still remains, though faintly, but that's not where I focus.
Who you once were is only a portion of who you are now, of the who
you are that makes you mine.
The past is only a portion of your present;
don't focus too much on lost time.
Made Into A Muse [Poetic Prose]
She had a messy mind and a patterned past but that was alright; it meant there were stories he could pull from her soul and streak against his empty pages. She would whisper in his ears all her worries and woes, and his fingertips would collide with typewriter keys in a haste to share with the world her tales. Not a single word went unwritten, and for that she was grateful. For with ever phrase of dialogue and demeanor he pulled from her veins, she was something less of a storyteller and made more into a muse. And she didn't mind this at all, for she knew she'd fade either way.
At least with her words across his page, she'd be solidified for all time. She would be renewed, each time she was read, and would never fade too far from the mind. She smiled sadly, thinking this, dipped down from behind his shoulder to give him a kiss, but her lips never met the stubbled skin of his cheek. With one last line, she whispered her goodbyes to the shadows, and became a mist the way only a muse could; always there, never seen, occasionally heard.
His fingertips kept the beat on their own accord, spinning the story of a girl no one knew. But somehow, he loved her. His heart swelled at the thought of her. A tickle toyed against his left cheek, and he brushed a few fingertips over his skin, imaging a pair of rosy lips there instead of empty air.
He heard a whisper stolen by the wind, pulled the words from the atmosphere and continued writing of a girl he never knew.
"I lived only for you."
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
A Draft From The Windows [Poetry]
Bleeding hearts bolt-lock all the doors
So no one sees the scars,
Or try to shatter what's left of the beating pieces.
But they forget the windows won't shut;
Their eyes scream the sorrowed stories wordlessly
For all other hearts to see.
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
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