DIANA MARIN

Tag: poetry

  • Various poems

    Catatonic state

    I feel your ashes
    like quicksand
    I’m sucked into
    so I’m standing still
    trying to enjoy the view.

     

    Your faith

    I never confessed this but
    your faith helped keep me
    anchored in myself
    whenever the currents started
    hitting from all sides.
    I just wanted to thank you
    for still existing in my mind.

     

    Extensions

    Extensions of me
    are ramifying under
    your skin.
    Does it hurt when
    I unravel your bloody
    nightmares?

     

    Discrepancy

    As you weed them out,
    slowly, the space between
    you and the other you-
    both mental concepts-
    will become smaller
    and smaller
    until they merge into one
    at which point you will look
    around, filled with life,
    no longer tainted, you will
    open your eyes and see
    the discrepancy is abolished
    but so is everyone else.

  • A poem: A smile among ruins

    All dead things are
    resurrected
    by the phantom smile-
    you conjure it
    when the world collapses:
    that lovely,
    foreign yet familiar
    equivocal smile
    your mind translates into
    life and pure hope
    stays engraved in your memory;
    through mirroring,
    you borrow it
    and unknowingly pass it on
    to someone else-
    that is the sweet beauty
    of connection.
    –

    Alternative ending:
    that is the bittersweet beauty
    of apparent connection.

  • A poem: The Rite

    Her face aglow,
    she performs her rite
    gracefully, like the snow
    in the silver lunar light;
    deathly hair, startling eyes,
    soul-enhancing
    white night purity, necromancing-
    nude porcelain skin,
    beauty within
    whispers of sin;
    knowledge sought after
    flirting with disaster
    secrets held in astral shells
    uttered in diffuse spells
    the occult- her only master.

  • A poem: Face to face

    Face to face:
    eyes locked,
    staring into each other;
    seeing your reflection
    in the dark lake of her iris.
    Hand on hand,
    praying together-
    not like those bible verses preach-
    no, praying to the abyss,
    hoping it won’t swallow you whole;
    understanding at first the irony
    and then the futility
    of your act.
    The abyss has wet black lips,
    kissing you to compensate
    for chewing pieces of your soul
    and spitting them out
    because they were bittersweet.
    Now they are soaked, slippery,
    no longer sticking either in or to the puzzle,
    which is why you don’t make sense
    except in the silver,
    face to face,
    where your soul is pure, whole,
    and wholly unleashed.

  • A poem: Unfiltered

    Clinical,
    surreal emptiness.
    Chocolate-scented wood.
    Smell of new and
    non-alcoholic intoxication.
    Life as art for art’s sake.

    Neon light flickers as you blink
    infected by dizziness.

    No longer tone-deaf to the harmonies
    of your own soul,
    you don’t shrink for someone else to grow.

    An invisible corpse in the plastic bag
    winks at you from the corner-
    madness, it grows
    in sanity.

    Lifeless but intense:
    you don’t pray for another,
    you prey for yourself.

     

  • A Poem: Bloody act

    Two bodies wrapped in an embrace
    in a tomb of glitter and frost-
    the blood lingers while they kiss,
    then it pours gently down the legs
    of the cradle surrounded by mist.

    The lake of tears reflects the moon of sorrow-
    trembling, fluid, unpredictable;
    their red eyes locked, unblinking,
    while eternity replaces the morrow.

  • A poem: Echoes

    A silhouette merging with the unknown-
    all that is left is your breath in the cold air
    as you exhale in slow motion.
    I speak in shadows,
    you respond with specters of light,
    haunting every word-
    making sense of it all;
    I choose to live in the now,
    but if you whisper in my ear
    I will take decades to figure out
    why you chose to disappear
    that day
    when I ran down the hallway-
    gargoyles staring from above-
    for a second I thought I could hear
    another set of footsteps
    under a different weight
    even after I accepted your longing
    for the netherworld.
    The statues were grotesque,
    threatening, demon-like in thunder and lightning,
    and still, I hoped that hallway would never end
    just so I could hear the sounds again and again
    and convince myself they weren’t merely
    echoes of my footsteps into the unknown.

  • A poem: Afterlife

    I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
    admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
    above vapid black circles surrounded by
    red on translucent white.
    Dark hair, itchy like rope
    against my neck,
    frozen hands trembling,
    features particularly thin:
    I forgot how to live,
    yet I laugh at my own sin.

  • Train of thought

    You said to yourself that it was too cold and that was why you could barely function. It was either that, or the weeks-long stagnation of the spirit.

    One day you will no longer think of your own passing, or that of those closest to you, no longer delving in scenarios of unhappiness out of masochistic urges, or in abyssal streams of consciousness.

    The city, oh, the city. Sometimes you are the city, sometimes the city is in you, sometimes the city does not exist, or is something so detached from who you are, even as you pass right through its heart. The city in daylight and the city at night – such peculiar dualism to which your mindset adjusts, and which appeals to different beings within you, with different dreams and different nightmares.

    You need success and fulfilment in order to open up. Is it right? It might be ingrained – inherited or caused by nurture. Unfolding at your most vulnerable seems impractical anyway, what a silly thing to do. Put up walls and let flowers climb them.

    I ate everything I had in the house -red and purple fruits and chocolate, then I took the first train and stopped at the station where my train of thought decided to let me go. The station was all empty, I smiled to myself, and nature witnessed. There is a journey ahead.

  • Shiver

    That tender memory
    of snowdrops,
    dreamy air,
    and spring dew
    made my world shiver this morning
    once again.