KonvictKayla
Poetry plucks petals of blooming flowers overgrown with clichés reciting "he loves me", "he loves me not". This empty darkness is eating me
KonvictKayla
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Written by KonvictKayla

Come Down

The price you pay to feel like magic is an unpleasant and painful come down. Side affects include: emotional episodes, social anxiety, gets too interested in card/board games, flat-arse, shortness of breath, high heart rate accompanied with chest pains, forgetfulness, paranoia, several hundred insecurities, hiding under the blanket and pillows, and awkwardness.

Feeling like you left your brain somewhere down the hole to wonderland. You'd rather click Dorothy's red slippers and walk through the poppy fields in oz. Then you can sleep forever and escape this shitty shit feeling that just lingers in your aura, like a grey cloud following over your head.

Convincing yourself that everyone knows you're high as fuck and is judging you -only to then need to talk yourself down because anxiety is now through the roof.

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Written by KonvictKayla
Come Down
The price you pay to feel like magic is an unpleasant and painful come down. Side affects include: emotional episodes, social anxiety, gets too interested in card/board games, flat-arse, shortness of breath, high heart rate accompanied with chest pains, forgetfulness, paranoia, several hundred insecurities, hiding under the blanket and pillows, and awkwardness.

Feeling like you left your brain somewhere down the hole to wonderland. You'd rather click Dorothy's red slippers and walk through the poppy fields in oz. Then you can sleep forever and escape this shitty shit feeling that just lingers in your aura, like a grey cloud following over your head.
Convincing yourself that everyone knows you're high as fuck and is judging you -only to then need to talk yourself down because anxiety is now through the roof.
#horror  #adventure  #poetry  #philosophy  #mystery  #addict  #love  #drugs  #spirituality  #magic  #addiction  #anxiety  #fuck  #Crash  #killme  #meth  #miserable  #kms 
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Written by KonvictKayla

Seasons

He feels like the seasons all woven in captive time.
As strong as the accretion that makes me lose my center of gravity. 
He feels like the etesian breeze as yearly summer falls. 
Orange leaves soon change,
to birch trees bordering a vast range of iced massif. 
And in the winter- when the valiant winds wash across the ocean, 
He’ll feel like the warmth of home, unbundling all your layers. 
Summertime shows he cares. 
In moments when he’s realized you’ve just put a heart note written on scratch paper, gently inside his pocket. 
Keep these modest memories present, wrapped in silk sentiment.
He’s the silver lining of spring when bumble bees sing and the ambiance of gardens blossoms with wooden pipes and metal chimes. 
His eyes keep you paused in time, capturing every ripe moment before you blink as they sublime.

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Written by KonvictKayla
Seasons
He feels like the seasons all woven in captive time.
As strong as the accretion that makes me lose my center of gravity. 
He feels like the etesian breeze as yearly summer falls. 
Orange leaves soon change,
to birch trees bordering a vast range of iced massif. 
And in the winter- when the valiant winds wash across the ocean, 
He’ll feel like the warmth of home, unbundling all your layers. 
Summertime shows he cares. 
In moments when he’s realized you’ve just put a heart note written on scratch paper, gently inside his pocket. 
Keep these modest memories present, wrapped in silk sentiment.
He’s the silver lining of spring when bumble bees sing and the ambiance of gardens blossoms with wooden pipes and metal chimes. 
His eyes keep you paused in time, capturing every ripe moment before you blink as they sublime.
#romance  #adventure  #poetry  #love  #seasons  #him  #kay 
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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse

12 Days to Fall in Love

My eyes were a foggy window shield pretended you were my wipers. You were a master of song that strung lies of love played a pipers fiddle. Through a kaleidoscope I saw a genuine lover holding too tight to a riddled undiscovered man, cursed with memories of sin from his own hands. Broken finds broken, in the law of attraction proves a perfect match. Ice thaws quicker in miserable company amongst addicts in the strawberry patch. Seducing smiles lay the direction straight to hearts free way from wishful thinking ride. You ran into me like I was a deer in the headlights. Frozen in the time I thought you held me near and dear to your heart. It was just a snow globe dream as you played the part of winter gleam; and so I forgot that seasons change. Reasons arrange the desires from needs and just like that I'm out of a snow globe dream. A Fantasy that seemed the be known for reality. Nothing but lovers play. You won my heart with cheating rules of the game. So I wrote you a poem, enjoy your fame.

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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse
12 Days to Fall in Love
My eyes were a foggy window shield pretended you were my wipers. You were a master of song that strung lies of love played a pipers fiddle. Through a kaleidoscope I saw a genuine lover holding too tight to a riddled undiscovered man, cursed with memories of sin from his own hands. Broken finds broken, in the law of attraction proves a perfect match. Ice thaws quicker in miserable company amongst addicts in the strawberry patch. Seducing smiles lay the direction straight to hearts free way from wishful thinking ride. You ran into me like I was a deer in the headlights. Frozen in the time I thought you held me near and dear to your heart. It was just a snow globe dream as you played the part of winter gleam; and so I forgot that seasons change. Reasons arrange the desires from needs and just like that I'm out of a snow globe dream. A Fantasy that seemed the be known for reality. Nothing but lovers play. You won my heart with cheating rules of the game. So I wrote you a poem, enjoy your fame.
#romance  #poetry  #love  #12days  #rehabromance  #strawberrypatch  #kay 
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Written by KonvictKayla

Mother

A mother- magical and dark.

So silent, busy at work.

A mother pretty caused calamity.

A house with a light from the forest.

A mother I need.

Light on lace.

Moonlight needles cannot make you useful.

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Written by KonvictKayla
Mother
A mother- magical and dark.
So silent, busy at work.
A mother pretty caused calamity.
A house with a light from the forest.
A mother I need.
Light on lace.
Moonlight needles cannot make you useful.
#nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #adventure  #poetry  #mystery  #addict  #love  #mother  #family  #drugs  #addiction  #mom  #night  #moonlight  #fight  #needles  #pocketofpoetry 
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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Pyromanic

My mind clouded with a canopy of emotional overcast that veils callously above a narrow canyon pass. A wall of mountains is formed from the destructive chaos and broken hearts that render rejection useless performing protection.

Play with fire and you'll get burned.

Us addicts have always shifted the blame to others. Deflected any and all shame in hopes of hiding from our loved ones and their rejection.

We have no choice.

Once you're an addict, you can never get enough dope. We're only riding the pink cloud in a daze as it floats further and further away from reality.

We are outcasts in society, relating to the short end of a wishbone, all dried in its traditional ritual to be pasted along. We try to build a better life- one for a home, but our worst selves won't let us go.

First we need to out ourselves- accept that we are no longer controlling our addiction, it controls us. Then to put ourselves under construction with picketed caution signs that read "speeding fines doubled while workers present".

Our thoughtlessness has polluted an already damaged batch of goods.

When we've fastened our seat belts we're set for departure, our arrival is critical to the facet key of cynical cruelty. As our addiction turned to abduction pieces of ourselves were murdered- yet innocence still lives. Now it's survival between the fittest and the wisest. Wrecked responsibility rerolled overused cotton balls leaving trails of tears hoping someone out there could understand their fears. Who are we without the drugs?

The last of us will die too young and disappear while the rest endear a pseudo face carrying practices smiles in bandoliers. When we choose to face the train head on we will overcome all our wrongs. But if we turn the other cheek will result in failing to complete the battle we have tried to retreat. To win war we must climb the mountains peak, frosted with catastrophe. The Palace of Lost Souls awaits, where only the unlovely find unaccustomed company in empty echoes and overgrown memories.

Fear is used as a corrosive catalyst to these over-buried, festered treasures found in a rum bottle chest that's been weathered and eroded by tears, scarred with jaded bruises faded from unclear heart lost at sea.

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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Pyromanic
My mind clouded with a canopy of emotional overcast that veils callously above a narrow canyon pass. A wall of mountains is formed from the destructive chaos and broken hearts that render rejection useless performing protection.
Play with fire and you'll get burned.
Us addicts have always shifted the blame to others. Deflected any and all shame in hopes of hiding from our loved ones and their rejection.
We have no choice.
Once you're an addict, you can never get enough dope. We're only riding the pink cloud in a daze as it floats further and further away from reality.
We are outcasts in society, relating to the short end of a wishbone, all dried in its traditional ritual to be pasted along. We try to build a better life- one for a home, but our worst selves won't let us go.
First we need to out ourselves- accept that we are no longer controlling our addiction, it controls us. Then to put ourselves under construction with picketed caution signs that read "speeding fines doubled while workers present".
Our thoughtlessness has polluted an already damaged batch of goods.
When we've fastened our seat belts we're set for departure, our arrival is critical to the facet key of cynical cruelty. As our addiction turned to abduction pieces of ourselves were murdered- yet innocence still lives. Now it's survival between the fittest and the wisest. Wrecked responsibility rerolled overused cotton balls leaving trails of tears hoping someone out there could understand their fears. Who are we without the drugs?
The last of us will die too young and disappear while the rest endear a pseudo face carrying practices smiles in bandoliers. When we choose to face the train head on we will overcome all our wrongs. But if we turn the other cheek will result in failing to complete the battle we have tried to retreat. To win war we must climb the mountains peak, frosted with catastrophe. The Palace of Lost Souls awaits, where only the unlovely find unaccustomed company in empty echoes and overgrown memories.
Fear is used as a corrosive catalyst to these over-buried, festered treasures found in a rum bottle chest that's been weathered and eroded by tears, scarred with jaded bruises faded from unclear heart lost at sea.
#romance  #poetry  #mystery  #addict  #drugs  #sad  #addiction  #truth  #addicted  #pocketofpoetry  #bang  #notalone 
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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Killer Stare

And if looks could kill, you’d die once at the mercy of her piercing stare, which with a single blink could wash the sun up-up and away on the orchestras silent shores of baneing ballet. You’d live a thousand fiery nights-only to find her eyes light fixated behind magnifiers of truth as she’s searching for her own. She snips small fractions of tarnished cloth clinging to tables edge of those who are of higher power- kvetching incessantly upon each hour completely senseless, neglecting the nectar of life’s sweet and fragile flowers- she’s sewing in considerations and threading validation through archaically flawed carnations, mended by feeble fingers of men for centuries of generations.

Those with swift eyes avoid confrontation and obliteration, but those with mysterious wondering globes may find themselves tangled in rope, as their mind deliriously ponder hope.

Then to be revived through a pair of looking glass eyes inescapably entrancing and empty with questions, reading novels and fictions of faille souls like braille, turning pale complexions of page less faces heavy with rage filled realizations of the people and the places destroyed to create us. All for a better tomorrow.

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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Killer Stare
And if looks could kill, you’d die once at the mercy of her piercing stare, which with a single blink could wash the sun up-up and away on the orchestras silent shores of baneing ballet. You’d live a thousand fiery nights-only to find her eyes light fixated behind magnifiers of truth as she’s searching for her own. She snips small fractions of tarnished cloth clinging to tables edge of those who are of higher power- kvetching incessantly upon each hour completely senseless, neglecting the nectar of life’s sweet and fragile flowers- she’s sewing in considerations and threading validation through archaically flawed carnations, mended by feeble fingers of men for centuries of generations.
Those with swift eyes avoid confrontation and obliteration, but those with mysterious wondering globes may find themselves tangled in rope, as their mind deliriously ponder hope.
Then to be revived through a pair of looking glass eyes inescapably entrancing and empty with questions, reading novels and fictions of faille souls like braille, turning pale complexions of page less faces heavy with rage filled realizations of the people and the places destroyed to create us. All for a better tomorrow.
#fantasy  #romance  #adventure  #poetry  #spirituality  #culture  #nature  #kill  #killer  #mothernature  #looks  #stare  #pocketofpoetry 
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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Up a Creek Without a Paddle

My foreheads a front yard

And people seem lean so hard

They imprint tracks on my mind

So often that I cannot find,

Myself anymore.

I'm washed up on the beach shore,

Of the ocean in the skies,

Eaten by the notion that all men's words are lies.

My hands are tires tired of turning,

But I'm learning,

How to read the concrete cracks,

On sun scorched streets and abandoned paths.

My hearts a clock that ticks off beat,

Trickling time trying to meet,

The standards that society keeps,

So impossibly out of reach.

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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Up a Creek Without a Paddle
My foreheads a front yard
And people seem lean so hard
They imprint tracks on my mind
So often that I cannot find,
Myself anymore.
I'm washed up on the beach shore,
Of the ocean in the skies,
Eaten by the notion that all men's words are lies.
My hands are tires tired of turning,
But I'm learning,
How to read the concrete cracks,
On sun scorched streets and abandoned paths.
My hearts a clock that ticks off beat,
Trickling time trying to meet,
The standards that society keeps,
So impossibly out of reach.
#romance  #poetry  #sad  #metaphor  #society  #hate  #boat  #pocketofpoetry 
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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Reckless Reflections

Mesmerizing words molded into metallic melodies,

accompanied by a dancing silverswooned tongue-

performing frivolous pirouettes on a spoon shaped stage.

Lavish lungs webbed with guilty gossamer, folly regrets and self-justification for every fruitless bruise and unnoticed laceration overlooked by ignoring eyes...

Those Incandescent shades of brown,

halfway drawn-

Inhaling intrepidity, exhaling rays of the sorrowed sun through curtains of ignorance.

Amon.

A breath deeper than the oceans shallowest soul,

Silenced with the clinking of porcelain,

Toasting to tall tell truths.

Ringing like a phone-

unavailable.

Angst and anxiety boiling to the brim-

edging effervescence.

Cashmere crests

echo through the nadir alcoves

that embrace the offset of fizzing fury..

Washing over me

leaving stained glass with a blood-orange sea of tattered tangerine lies,

hand squeezed and palmed by pretty ties.

Reveal yourself-

as am I.

I am a seamstress,

with a torturous twist.

Tallying relapses above sleepless wrists.

Brushing the dust of dalliances away from bruised crevices-

Threading twine through wine colored veins for every time you told me you loved me

but uttered her name in whispers below my neck

that crept up ear steps

To the attic of my mind,

To torture my soul and trickle our time-

all to find...

she wasn't the one.

You're back in my arms but my veins have scars they beg for more but my arms are sore green and purple from three nights before.

...

You said the fight would end. That I'd never have to ignite again.

Reasons started to smear across reflective eyes it wasn't for the sadness nor the sugar coated lies it was for the feeling- the intensity of the rush, no longer for infidelity or misery's mistrust.

Honestly, the honesty is lacking in your eyes,

And truthfully, your sympathy,

Doesn't mask your lies.

Chronically I question thee,

But the fact remained unveiled,

With apathy,

I angrily,

assume what's been exhaled-

I thought the love I had for him was promised to prevail.

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Written by KonvictKayla in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Reckless Reflections
Mesmerizing words molded into metallic melodies,
accompanied by a dancing silverswooned tongue-
performing frivolous pirouettes on a spoon shaped stage.
Lavish lungs webbed with guilty gossamer, folly regrets and self-justification for every fruitless bruise and unnoticed laceration overlooked by ignoring eyes...
Those Incandescent shades of brown,
halfway drawn-
Inhaling intrepidity, exhaling rays of the sorrowed sun through curtains of ignorance.
Amon.
A breath deeper than the oceans shallowest soul,
Silenced with the clinking of porcelain,
Toasting to tall tell truths.
Ringing like a phone-
unavailable.
Angst and anxiety boiling to the brim-
edging effervescence.
Cashmere crests
echo through the nadir alcoves
that embrace the offset of fizzing fury..
Washing over me
leaving stained glass with a blood-orange sea of tattered tangerine lies,
hand squeezed and palmed by pretty ties.
Reveal yourself-
as am I.
I am a seamstress,
with a torturous twist.
Tallying relapses above sleepless wrists.
Brushing the dust of dalliances away from bruised crevices-
Threading twine through wine colored veins for every time you told me you loved me
but uttered her name in whispers below my neck
that crept up ear steps
To the attic of my mind,
To torture my soul and trickle our time-
all to find...
she wasn't the one.

You're back in my arms but my veins have scars they beg for more but my arms are sore green and purple from three nights before.
...
You said the fight would end. That I'd never have to ignite again.
Reasons started to smear across reflective eyes it wasn't for the sadness nor the sugar coated lies it was for the feeling- the intensity of the rush, no longer for infidelity or misery's mistrust.
Honestly, the honesty is lacking in your eyes,
And truthfully, your sympathy,
Doesn't mask your lies.
Chronically I question thee,
But the fact remained unveiled,
With apathy,
I angrily,
assume what's been exhaled-

I thought the love I had for him was promised to prevail.
#romance  #horror  #poetry  #addict  #reflection  #love  #drugs  #addiction  #hate  #art  #reckless  #pocketofpoetry 
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Written by KonvictKayla

Recycled Art

Talking to you tastes like old cigarette butts buried in your drawers- dancing with lighters in an array of unorganized things.

It smells like gasoline and cigarillos, corrupted with sounds of sirens and planes that soar in rings of air through the sky. Like cringing when I hear the sound of nails scratching fabric.

It feels like my chest has pulled through a parking garage and I'm afraid you'll crush me.

Tightness.

Talking to you looks like a picture I think I've seen for the first time,

But I'm reminded of amnesia in the bliss of thought and mixtures of memories- How they walk a thin line between insanity and serenity.

I've been visiting the same gallery for years, only giving my admiration to the masterpieces inside. I have loved and let go.

I left that display with nothing but dried painted palettes, damp paint brushes, and clean palms.

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Written by KonvictKayla
Recycled Art
Talking to you tastes like old cigarette butts buried in your drawers- dancing with lighters in an array of unorganized things.
It smells like gasoline and cigarillos, corrupted with sounds of sirens and planes that soar in rings of air through the sky. Like cringing when I hear the sound of nails scratching fabric.
It feels like my chest has pulled through a parking garage and I'm afraid you'll crush me.
Tightness.
Talking to you looks like a picture I think I've seen for the first time,
But I'm reminded of amnesia in the bliss of thought and mixtures of memories- How they walk a thin line between insanity and serenity.
I've been visiting the same gallery for years, only giving my admiration to the masterpieces inside. I have loved and let go.
I left that display with nothing but dried painted palettes, damp paint brushes, and clean palms.
#romance  #poetry  #poem  #love  #sad  #heart  #art  #breakup  #recycled  #russ  #pocketofpoetry 
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