Rhymecrime - Tumblr Posts

whisper

Stolen flowers from the cemetery

answer sorrow’s questions

as the thin plumage of reality wearies.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

bullet eclipse

an asylum for doubt

a saturated drought 

where your eyes spiral down

my arteries

unspoken words amble upon a shard 

of reason

of treason 

inoculation

against melancholia

palpitations

holding hands with dementia

I can now hear 

the moans of hysteria

 © Margaux Emmanuel

bittersweet

Swirling in the ashes of honey, I awake crying under a bridge. A blur of roses forcefully blooms in my lips letting faraway delusions plague me in the twilight. When the crepuscule flees while passionately kissing the horizon, when there is nothing to write, nothing right and nothing to feel, where do the lonely petals of sentiment go? The scream of silence reigns, misunderstood. My reflection in a tearful cup of tea has suddenly dulled reality.

© Margaux Emmanuel

sunflowers in the attic

to paint a tomb

in the prose of life

to caress a wound

with the edge of a knife

to write letters to the dead 

in a mosaic of hurt

to start bleeding dread

waiting for an answer 

to appease the thirst

to feel the verse of your lips

follow the prosody of my skin 

to let the streams of your tears

carve pain on the breath of chagrin

why is your name scribbled on a grave?

it channels in the streets of this morbid haze

where I can feel your cold pulse

your screams 

your presence

absence

echo in my veins

sewing a lace insomnia 

dissecting a lacuna 

searching in the emptiness of my heart

until it rips apart

breathe in

breathe out

you have blinded me

from the compass of existence

diagnosed with a troubled

broken 

spilled

pen 

the only solution 

is to burn the paper

burn me

© Margaux Emmanuel

fountain pen leaks

The moon unsheathes its sword, binding our sins and swears to the interlacement of the railroad’s bones. Meanwhile, I am in a train where a furtive moonbeam has dangled off the blade to caress the half of my smile facing the window. The fugitive landscapes that have fallen into time and motion’s arms ask me to look away. I plead them to bring me to the coastal town of last night’s dream where I can inhale air unfamiliar with the term pain, where I can hear the moan of the tide telling me that I am indeed sane.

© Margaux Emmanuel

In the remainder of the tepid alcohol languishing in the flask of your eyes, we drink to the lost silhouette of love, burn our photographs wedged into the yellowed corners of our thoughts. We settle for cemented happiness, contemplating life through its glass corridors where mold is hidden, where I can feel the cracks of our suffering, where I can sense our hands dismembering our own poetry. When empty phrases harrow insomnia, I tape blossoms, breaths of life, to the pages of our unfinished chapters. But the trees’ barks where our initials dangle, imprisoned by a blistering heart, are peeling. I have just realized that flowers wither.

to slip on drunken petals 

© Margaux Emmanuel

The way your eyes speak, hidden under those sunglasses in the ink-seeped night, where I can see the reflection of our nightmares’ neon headlights, where I can see a hanged man, life tugging at his throat, his foggy, unstringed eyes peering at the existential questions left at the gallows’ steps. Astray in the poetry of half-alighted movie theater marquees and of weeping red diner booths paralyzed under the sterilized silence of the blinding white lights interrogating and polishing the checkered floor tile, time stops. With blood-stained eyes and a delirious steering wheel, quarantine my heart and let me sleep.

roadside mirages | © Margaux Emmanuel

You ran away when you were seventeen sleeping weeping in blurry cars and in eerie inns with no address no name trapped in time bordering the highway where you wrote to me poems in Latin stamped from the basement of my mind inspired by a denuded flower whimpering in a glass bottle of Coca-Cola beside a clumsy kitchen sink. You’re a vagabond tragedy a vagabond prodigy dipped in the paint of a raw sorrow quoting Virgil sitting in a bumper car sleepily howling Roman odes at a hollow night sky with swollen knuckles swollen eyes from trying to twist a drain of logic a faucet of amnesia only to find a leak of pain. I see you lying on the thirsty sand your eyes closed your lips apart morose saliva trickling out onto your chin a ripple of water comes to stroke your feet telling you to wake up but you don’t. A broken vinyl scratched from loving too hard.

headache | © Margaux Emmanuel

A damp seaside cottage bathed in a picturesque pastel yellow paint peeling off the walls cracked windows shattered bottles screaming on the floor a story that you’ll never hear a silent porch bearing a lonesome rocking chair where tears used to stain her floral dress a sore giggling wind brings along an exiled melancholia unloaded memorabilia and then there’s you, collapsed on the dangling shingles tumbledown eyes peaking out of streaks of wet hair humming an outdated tune from the pit of a golden lacquered heart sluggishly tracing the words your mind’s waves cry. Sometimes you sink into their foam with your lavender socks and then the bitter water licks your neck and you forget the punctuation of the days that strut by and on that rooftop overlooking your splinters you shrug starved by the discolored key waiting under the doormat by the flower petals lingering around the gutter maybe it’s okay to die a little younger.

golden lacquered heart | © Margaux Emmanuel

painkiller

You drink pain from the bottle. The shower-head cries, and I sink into the half-hearted water while sinking into the wine-stained corners of your lips, and I wonder if falling out of love is not remembering the way your pale, wet, eyes would pronounce my name, not remembering the way the water rings of your bedside table would yawn for help. Sunken blister packs with your name stuck in the cardboard package bleed through heavy nights, the ink sifting into the floorboards gasping for air. In the wrinkles of the wood, I tried to paint the bullets of the human heart, but that candlelit smirk cannot be trapped in acrylic. You are an opaque sensation, a splintered heart.

© Margaux Emmanuel

Empty paving stones, tinted by loose white lace bras’ humid shadows hanging on clothesline twine, run through melancholy second hand bookshops speckled with second hand souls, mostly unshaved musicians trying to find somebody else’s life to live. A bike, chips of fern-green paint flaking off its neck, rust engulfing the bent basket at its head, makes its way through timid rays of sunlight. Adorned with a pilling yellow beanie bordering his eyebrows and an upturned leather jacket tickling his cheekbones, he somehow still feels the aching bed slats pressing into his shoulder blades, still feels the tear-coated steering wheel pressing into his arms at the grocery store parking lot.   His hollow, blistered eyes sown into a purple-skinned mysterious past would make teenage girls silently turn around with throbbing hearts in their muddy stan smiths when he biked by. He would continue to snake through the maroon bricks, not noticing, not wanting to notice. He could vaguely make out, collapsed from the lethargy of our times on a coffee shop terrace, youngsters with thick white socks hiding their calves, sipping paper cup unsugared coffee.  And he would wonder how they could be so happy, or whatever it was they were. He would slow down his pace to take a paracetamol from his pocket. He would let it sit in his mouth. He wouldn’t swallow it. It would just sit, patiently. As he would. He wanted to forget the smell of her letters. He wanted to forget his brother who died at war dishonored. He wanted to close his eyelids, sink into the deep furrows of his forehead. He wanted to feel the shotgun’s barrel pressing against his tongue. He wanted to feel a new color scheme. Until then, he would continue to bike, perhaps forever.

second-hand soul | © Margaux Emmanuel

The champagne lingering in the driveway of his eyelids ransacks the minibar of his depressive tendencies. A suffering insufferable dandy with a corduroy smile spills the cough syrup on the window sill and walks through a non-smoking floor with an unlit cigarette giggling in between his teeth. The stained carpet mutters that he’s a homeless homesick and the tears sticking to the glass table know it already. So he sits back on a fatigued settee and pours himself a dubious drink with a parking lot view. So he sits back uncomfortably with his heart a little tight and he tells himself that it’s just another sick day.

sick days | © Margaux Emmanuel