Obsession, The Series

Obsession, the series

Archive #11 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Here is the abstract and all three poems combined. I personally feel like there is a difference to when you read the poems separately, versus reading it all together in one sitting. Let me know what you think. I actually have a story inspired by these poems, if you are interested in me posting it, let me know! Enjoy :)

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Abstract

When one compares their dependency on an item or being with an unhealthy tendency to forget the importance of being their own person. A siren is known for the obsession she produces just from singing; while a place of holiness can be known for saving those that have no other place to go. Obsession and adoration are two separate things, but sometimes the siren can be merely adored… while the building is seen as a cult designed for obsession. The comparison of the siren and church to the human's dependent heart is a wake up call for those who allow themselves to serve no other purpose than living in someone else’s life. 

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Obsession

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Woe the building that falls

To seek a soul whose pictured as gold,

makes artless mortals sway. 

The siren theory is embodied as a place— 

that is known for its embrace…

of worship, importune and obsession.

But to pray to who is equivocal… 

they’re merely a god, merely a question.

You can’t treat a person like a church possession—  

the inner walls creak and moan

against the protest and crack of bone. 

Nicknamed Dulia for its glory, 

but it drowns those who try to adore thee. 

The plafond above our heads sing in pressure– 

haunting the thought of being crushed. 

Whilst they cry for their successor,

dust floated towards the exit as if being rushed. 

The sky tends to fall away; 

clouds imitate a chevet. 

The sight itself creates much dismay,

but time is an illusion…

oh, such betray.

But what a church with no heaven?

Sky, empyrean, and the ether

don’t judge a star's demeanour! 

Aperture with glass framework– 

edging feelings with a smirk.

Reflection shows a shining gleam,

but true colour is never seen. 

The sun has a shaded costume 

using the moon as hecatomb.  

It may use perfume as a facade…

but mien flares hearts exerting ballade.

If darkness plummets beneath our feet

may I pray for a deathless greet.

The devotee, 

limp in their extremities, 

served one purpose…and failed.

It drifted into sea like a dead anemone– 

with no avail or memory. 

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Infatuation

Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush— 

wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.

A church, the ocean and the utter devotion 

such words that are unremittingly

used and mentioned.

You must be annoyed and sick of the voices

telling you about the, oh so many choices…

that you can take. 

It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents

you’re trying to break. 

Hundred of shouts turns into a song

while you still can’t get along—

with yourself and the image

that you portray as a sailor, paying primage. 

You can’t love a siren,

moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in. 

They didn’t draw you in with their beauty, 

they were just on death duty.

Artless feelings are sweet and dependent 

until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted, 

not to the loved one but to the church—

a place of worship but for a search…

of pathetic purpose. 

Arson ash that coughs up the lungs

makes heartthrobs hold their tongues. 

It’s been so long since the reminiscence,

but existence with omniscience means that

one can’t help those that don’t want it.

Sailors should save those words for those who admit it. 

Repetition shows a mind not working— 

hiding behind the words of formal glory. 

When the time comes that you consider your fate, 

please stop placing your heart on a plate.

Not everything is worth dying for, therefore

realise this before you bleed even more. 

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Siren's Curse

The feeling stills,

located deep in the heart and

washed away by emotions that don't depart. 

Such betray hasn’t been seen

in years and years, oh it’s been centuries. 

It’s not about creed

nor about faith, 

but why does the siren continue to retaliate? 

They don’t seek will or adoration,

but only sailors' shallow empty emotions. 

Thus, greed is not a problem, 

just a solution with an astrobleme. 

The star-shaped wound within the heart

drowns out singing and works of art. 

They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting

rather than just forever self-changing. 

A place verses a person can be quite the personification

for a future naive adorer’s destination. 

You compare a holy place

with a person that has no proper face.

A sailor counts

and so does a siren,

so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.

Yet you put them on top, as if an angel 

told you that evil is an archangel.

Connections from siren to god

is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade. 

Love yourself for what it’s worth–

not for the punishment of your birth. 

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Unnecessities.

Archive #17 | copyright of saturnfairycat

Author's Note: this is your sign to let go. (enjoy!)

Unnecessities

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Suitcase.

Suitcases.

So much luggage for weak arms to drag, Your shoulders heavy from the weight of the world. Chains and restraints can't stop you from shuffling your feet, Moving forward, pushing through. Dragging the dead weight behind you like pig to the slaughter. More than one suitcase would end up as murder, Blood vessels burst under pressure, But coal crystallize into diamonds.

Forced to move on, Keep moving. Death trials those who are slower, You're moving too fast, They will notice. You appear stronger than others, Would you hold my suitcase, too? Death is at my door, please lift this weight from my flesh.

Luggage.

Unnecessities.

Would you kiss your snow globe goodbye if snow never visited? Summer is not just sea glass and flowers, Your heart can only take so much hayfever. Beat up with floral bruises, Prepared to arson against snowmen. The remembrance of black ice is harder Than recalling the heat waves. Warmth from hugs are lethal. Oh, Poison in these bones.

The need to pause, When is "stop" too late to say? Your lungs burst from the shortness, Your skin flourish from the silence. Death hugs those who suffer, Are you strong enough to decline?

A suitcase of packages from your mind is poison to these bones.

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Star clusters of pasque flowers, the series

Archive #13 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: NEW POEM SERIES MENTIONED RAHHHHH!! Anyway, this one doesn't have an abstract (too lazy to make one). But basically look forward to the next following days because we got three new poems coming >:D

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Poem names:

Fairy salt

In truth

A human in a mushroom house 

Notes from poems:

Themes: meadows, jealousy, dreams, saturn, hail storms, attic, sunflower, fairy

Themes: winter, romance, moon, skies, star clusters, spring, pasque flower

"I am a stained glass window in a place with no light." - saturnfairycat 2024

"I am shakespeare but as a teenage girl" - saturnfairycat

Him.

Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!

Him.

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He would’ve read my work. 

Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through. 

Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not. 

But he read it anyway, he always did.

I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.  

Would he ever miss my writing? 

Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet. 

Does he even remember half of what he read from me? 

To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time. 

Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?

Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much. 

Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–

Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style? 

My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all. 

And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.   

Would he be damned? 

It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.

Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”

But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table. 

I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness. 

I’m not alone.

I’m far from it. 

But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum. 

Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like. 

And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?

Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily. 

Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to. 

He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh. 

What a joke. 

Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.

Why?

Why not? Why else? For I will never know. 

Because it is not worth knowing. 

Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place? 

Does he remember the puncture wounds? 

Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?

Would he understand it?

…

Sigh

…

A fresh wound appears.

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