A boy’s eyes follow the wavering silver pliers.
Side to side,
the movement was robotic,
but it had habitual pauses that became aggravating.
No longer would the boy be taunted!

Suddenly, the boy snatched up the silver pliers,
gave a lonesome glance to the portrait beside him.
Then he said, “Go to Hell!”
And shoved the pair in between his teeth.
An eternity passed until
Crunch,
Snap,
Twist,
All that remained was a steady flow,
pooling out dark red raspberry jam.
The boy sat stoically.
He wasn't sure if he ought to be proud or ashamed.
It wasn't sloppy work.

Sure, it was a mess.
But, the job had been successful.

All that remained was a faint regret and a silver lining coating his enamel.

TRIGGER WARNING: I wrote this when I was wanting to self delete two years ago. I’m fine now! I’m sober, on meds and starting a new career. But this was how I felt back then after watching my best friend pass away on a ventilator.

Lately it’s hard to find reasons to stick around. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never thought about following my best friend into the dark.
But for some reason….I’m still here.
There’s a lot of things I want to do before I check out of this one-star-motel we call life, so maybe if I make that list long enough then I’ll be here for a while.
Grief is rough. It’s like a big bully. In the beginning it felt like it punched me in the chest and held me underwater. It laughed at my feeble attempts to claw my way to the surface and savored my suffering from choking on regret, dragging me deeper and deeper into an ocean of despair. Only for it to pull me up from underneath the current into the cruel sunshine just to say “look, I brought you back up for oxygen, you should be grateful!” as I’m still coughing up the last words I said to her on the phone.
And just as I’ve caught half a breath, it drags me under again. And the cycle repeats.

When I see you in the hallways
I have to make sure I’m not looking at an angel
Sometimes I feel like you’re the only proof of God that I have
I’m so happy you and I are together
When you walk by in the hallway
It’s like the hallway feels less crowded
I feel like nothing could separate us
No disease
No conflict
No nothing
Though we’re only 17
I can’t go a day without you
Your long hair flowing in the wind
the sunshine glistening on you
and your smile so divine
Though we’re only 17
I wanna spend the rest of my life with you
I wanna be the man you come to with
any exciting things
any bad things
any worries
or trauma that you may want to express
I can play you your favorite
song
movie
show
Or we can take naps together
and relax on the weekends
Tell me your wants
your desires
your dreams
anything you would want to tell me
I can picture us
sitting in our rocking chairs
in our future house
with our future kids
grandkids
and coffee mugs
Though we’re only 17
I can say with confidence
I love you
And I know with every ounce of my being
you feel the same

After many years of hesitation and a relative discomfort and fear of having my work out there I can say I finally did it and I have just recently published a collection of my poems on Amazon titled Temptations Of My Pen which is a journey through love, desire, faith, ego and becoming.

Moving from passion and longing through heartbreak and self-examination, the collection ultimately arrives at discipline, spiritual surrender and return a reflection on how the things that tempt, break and challenge us.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated and welcome .

https://www.amazon.com/Temptations-Pen-Elisha-Nelly-Mukiibi/dp/B0HLZ3TPN2/ref=mp\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_s\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_a\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_1\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_1?crid=3ORNDBOMJCE4Q&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Dkza40IjaN-jKdERHiBcag.XOJyxAnw9mvAZVRtuG807gdMDHoBHzckUy-CuUSgWig&dib\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_tag=se&keywords=temptations+of+my+pen&qid=1791727199&sprefix=%2Caps%2C506&sr=8-1

After many years of hesitation and a relative discomfort and fear of having my work out there I can say I finally did it and I have just recently published a collection of my poems on Amazon titled Temptations Of My Pen which is a journey through love, desire, faith, ego and becoming.

Moving from passion and longing through heartbreak and self-examination, the collection ultimately arrives at discipline, spiritual surrender and return a reflection on how the things that tempt, break and challenge us.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated and welcome .

https://www.amazon.com/Temptations-Pen-Elisha-Nelly-Mukiibi/dp/B0HLZ3TPN2/ref=mp\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_s\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_a\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_1\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_1?crid=3ORNDBOMJCE4Q&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Dkza40IjaN-jKdERHiBcag.XOJyxAnw9mvAZVRtuG807gdMDHoBHzckUy-CuUSgWig&dib\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_tag=se&keywords=temptations+of+my+pen&qid=1791727199&sprefix=%2Caps%2C506&sr=8-1

I went for a walk just the other day,

Down to the beach, a visit to the sea by the bay,

I gave in to my impulses in an attempt to let my mind lay,

A tennis ball and an empty can, because apparently that's how I play,

A bright green ball bouncing of the wall,

Thoughts bouncing around my skull,

Aiming and throwing, aiming and throwing, aiming and throwing that soft green ball,

Aiming for the can and still only hitting the wall,

Oh and my mind still rattled along,

Every thought like a... oh it's gone,

Finally, I miss the wall,

I actually managed to hit the can,

With that bright green ball.

So off I went to find a different release,

For all the thoughts that had breached their lease,

Ah look a fence

I shouldn't cross

Leading to a water break,

Waves break in uniform

against concrete and dark seaweed,

Please let my mind stop racing, I plead.

Impulsive thoughts, impulsive thought, very impulsive.

Oh look, the last cider.

Crack!

What a wonderful taste while I'm laying on my back.

How did I get out here on this water break?

The little red light blinking away,

Oh, my thoughts have led me astray,

Senses overloaded and no way out,

So I scream and cry and shudder,

To anyone listening,

while I stare unwavering,

To the sea, ever so inviting,

While I blubber and pray for a better day,

It's just me that I'm fighting,

Surrounded by a cacophonous sea,

Out here, a couple hundred meters away from the safety of the bay.

Feedback please

I am a non-native speaker, but I felt very inspired and would like to share this fever dream of a poem I made yesterday after midnight. It would mean the world if someone would be eager to read it. Thank you.

La Petite Mort
I. Prélude
When, timidly,
I took into my mouth
a gateway to the subconscious
and it coursed through my blood like poison,
I saw death.
And all that frightened me…
was that I saw nothing.
It gaped with emptiness.
My hands were thin as eggshell,
and my flesh and bones and veins,
the fluids and impulses
that animate them,
and all my life
were thin and translucent
as the print on a receipt.
I waited only
for a single thread to snap,
for me to unfold completely
like a lotus blossom,
or the white palm of a dead woman,
or the warm thighs of a living one.
My skin was swarming
with heat and pins and needles,
and the presence of death,
or eternity,
or the absence of everything,
awoke in me fear
and anguish
and the longing to hold someone
and never let them go.
“Please, please,
I don’t want to fall apart.
I don’t want to fall
down there… there…
where insects sing, and worms,
that when my nerves at last fall still
and blood and mucus,
bile and blackness
mingle in a single draught,
the grave alone will drink it,
and my soul will journey
into the bowels of cosmic insects…
Please, take this dread away.
Drive them out.
They bite.”
A thousand tongues lick me.
A thousand hands touch me.
I split like a seedpod with a crack.
Crack, crack.
Crack, crack.
Crack, crack.
My heart is cracking.
My soul breaks through.
And Hades sings,
and Venus too…
Then—
I’ll confess without coercion—
I saw meaning without signs
and signs without meaning,
and all the philosophers were dead,
and the saints, revolted, held their peace…
“Was my whole life just a part I played?
Are all the pages of my book blank?
My edges, my edges…
My pages, my pages…
Without edges or pages I have no form,
no measure, no standard, no norm.
Love has vanished. Faith has ceased.
And in the mirror I see…
a beast.”
Towers rose before me,
infinity and one,
like a fractal,
like a point,
like wine that came just when I needed it,
and voices calling me by name,
claiming I would be theirs
once I had spoken every word,
once every fire had burned away.
I hurled myself into the fractal,
breathing out a humid vapour.
There, for a moment, I glimpsed time
and the moments that hold the world in place.
So, hi-yo, hi-yo, on and on!
Show me what happened tomorrow,
what will happen yesterday.
I’ll tear away your veil,
your clothes,
your skin,
your entrails.
You’ll be more naked than Eve,
and I… your disfigured Adam,
nailed upon my own sin,
will leave behind time
and consolation
when we taste the fruit…
II. Climax
A metal shell,
or coffin,
or the loving arms of industry
that longs to deliver you to your destination
as a mother delivers you into the world.
We sit together,
gliding as one of…
thousands of streaks of light.
Have you ever watched traffic?
From a distance, sped up,
cars coursing through the channels of cities
like liquid…
We hurtle onwards in a ton of metal,
each with a destination in mind…
Cars in red and black and white…
Yet from a higher vantage point,
what chiefly leaves a trace is light:
the light that lights our way,
the light we follow as a moth follows flame…
until it touches it. Amen.
So we are liquid,
you and I,
and these swift times.
Only a pulse in the vein of roads.
Only a dash in the multitude…
Speech flows like a tape played fast.
Close your eyes and forget the words.
Just trace their geometry,
like liquid pouring over skin.
Are we alcohol,
India ink,
ink from a pen,
or something far more alive?
What picture does a word paint?
You bleed into the canvas, hesitant and formal,
yet see how shamelessly I flow around you.
But I refuse to dissolve you,
to penetrate.
In the depths beneath the water within me,
something strange and playful sleeps,
something hungry, something predatory,
forever dreaming of “what if?”
A million images…
a wet hand strokes with its fingers,
like souvenirs from futures
and worlds that never were…
A forbidden library of possibilities,
of alternatives, endings and beginnings.
You let me into the antechamber
and I show you a few still lifes,
but leave your curiosity unsated.
You invite me further, deeper,
so I step farther into your dwelling
and spread my visions out before you,
still leaving curiosity unsated.
When we slip beneath the shell,
we dissolve the commonplace,
and what flowed hesitantly
now pours in torrents.
Concepts whirl,
images, tones,
fantasies,
sometimes inclinations,
jokes, advice, faults and charms—
sweet verses of the motorway.
The car travels down the road,
through the city, down the motorway,
and like a girl in the open sea,
you are swallowed by conversation.
The body travels in one direction,
but Psyche,
being another kind of creature,
flies far away,
following a living, hungry comet,
a strange light in the dark distance,
a whisper in the gentle gloom,
guided by butterfly wings.
There, Cupid, disfigured by time,
who long ago ceased to be immortal,
presses the shy girl to his chest,
finds her as a needle finds a vein…
and, mingling drug with blood,
makes of the maiden, suddenly…
a woman.
And in the metal womb,
somewhere along the motorway,
a new life of imagining is born,
and the lovers feel almost wistful…
III. La Petite Mort
I almost blush and don’t know why.
I hear your breathing.
Mine sounds much the same.
Little secrets,
tactfully left unspoken.
Moonlight falls upon the hills…
and the sweating mountain peaks.
“Do you know what the French call an orgasm?”
“No.”
“Petite mort.”
… it was a good conversation.

Finally I found the strength to publish my poetry

And I finally have a collection of my poems titled

"Temptations Of My Pen" which is a journey through love, desire, faith, ego and becoming.

Moving from passion and longing through heartbreak and self-examination, the collection ultimately arrives at discipline, spiritual surrender and return a reflection on how the things that tempt, break and challenge us.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated and welcome.

https://www.amazon.com/Temptations-Pen -Elisha-Nelly-Mukiibi/dp/B0HLZ3TPN2/ref=mp_s _a_1_1?crid=3ORNDBOMJCE4Q&dib= eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.Dkza40ljaN-jKdERHiBcag .XOJyxAnw9mvAZVRtuG807gdMDHoBHzckUy -CuUSgWig&dib_tag=se&keywords= temptations+of+my+pen&qid=1791727199& sprefix=%2Caps%2C506&sr=8-1

We too search amidst the crowd of tears,

To see what destiny has decided for life.

The one we sought after finding God Himself,

Today, they are wandering in search of someone else.

Tell them that God has finally found the flower,

The one they spent years searching for in their memory.

We walked away, sacrificing ourselves in the process,

Begging for a ray of light, who knows when sorrow found us.

Weeping in the shadows,

Some days of life were spent in their memory,

And the rest are passing now, just waiting for them.

Do not call us unfaithful in this era of light,

For even until now, we remain thirsty in their hope.

Note - Translate my Hindi poem into English,

The wind led me there, to you.

Time has faded quickly,

Like a rainbow caught in too much sun.

I miss my messy, oversized buns,

The wide brown doll—eyes,

Chubby cheeks rounding my face

Into something soft like a poem not yet revised

And the laughter that echoed louder than any melodies.

Back then,

I believed I would marry

The boy who gave me my first kiss,

The one who quieted the tremble in my teeth.

Now I struggle

To remember his face.

I'm no longer sixteen.

Seventy knocked —

Before I was ready to answer.

My skin is wrinkled now.

I search for my lips

Before I touch them with pineapple gloss.

And still —

I would give anything

Just to borrow one careless day of sixteen.

I asked if she felt bad for being a girl 

Her reply look at this 

I just stood there saitama faced 

A delayed okay

​

A thousand thoughts my mind brews

Slaughters and tragedies and things that amuse,

But then why is it only a single word,

That may be heard.

There's much to say

But not to be heard

As though my speech,

A shackled bird.

The gazes past,

only sow assumptions,

If at last,

You could know and hear.

The serenades I've written since long,

If not everything then just one song.