Connie Song

It matters not if the sky is perforated with drops of rain,
or radiant, golden beads of sunlight,
I wake each day to breathe the ruptured air
and climb onto my toes to reach new elevations.

I am like the needle pulling thread,
the thread that mends,
the soul that heals,
the heart that needs stitching
since it’s been broken now and again,
my thoughts torn and unraveled,
hoping that happiness will come along
or that I will stumble my way
through the downward drops
and messy puddles,
to play joyfully in the rain,
wondering if I am the needle,
the thread,
or the unwoven fabric.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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by Lost Poetry

Photo by Artem Gavrysh on Unsplash

Know thy enemy or be forever lost
in hidden echo chambers
and flaming arrows of mirrors blurred.

Two hundred and six bones in the human body,
four chambers of the heart,
but how many billions of neurons blast around the brain
driving you to the brink of epiphany?

Hold on to your dreams
let them not perish
or be hijacked by those who think
they know what is best for you.
You have only yourself and a million stars to paint the scaffolded sky.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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poetry that haunts the soul

Photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash

Through a needle’s eye, kingdoms come
and kingdoms go, the palate cleansed,
when word is word and ash is ash,
the skeletons thrown thoughtlessly into the trash,
and we wear our sin like a proud badge
waiting for the gallows.

Life is a revision, told in sheer derision,
by fools who hobble through labyrinths
designed by delusions of the mind
that we suffer for our art, brick by brick,
stick by stick, we plunder words to make them fit
a universe so scarred and shattered that we try our best to understand
until the walls come tumbling down.

Thank you to Lifeline publication and to editor Sahil Patel for a place of wonder to read and write. The world needs an oasis for the soul, and I feel I have found one here.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Poetry that bites

Photo by Marc Clinton Labiano on Unsplash

In the end, we are nothing but moon dust
swiping left, swiping right
and if we remember the footsteps leading us back home
we still stumble in the doorway
losing consciousness after midnight.

We were fools to leave what was comfortable
screw the talisman that robbed us of our innocence
like the grime trapped beneath polished nails
that pin us to the floorboards
invoking our rights and revoking our wrongs.

And if your lips speak discourse dripping from the tongue
I will gladly spend the rest of eternity
lost in your tainted remnants of microwaved truth
and my perceptions of the gravitational pull of our ill-begotten stars.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Connie Song

Connie Song

I write until it is time to kiss the moon and tuck in the stars. Medium Top Writer. Poetry. Editor of Purple Ink. Twitter Connie Song 10.