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  • chudley_cannons 2w

    strolls beside a brook

    midnight says you have enough time to dream up a morning where you do not wake up feeling hollow. you can talk yourself into believing that your charcoal eyes can be scumbled into a foggier semblance of something more poetic and there is nothing to be afraid of if they turn red. 

    you can pretend that the dialogues dancing on the walls are not just scrambling to get their syllables in order - that the fires lit outside cannot touch you when you're trying to drown. somewhere in the conversations you've had while teetering on the brink of a quixotic fall, you have realised there is more to your songs than you let on.

    you try braiding your poems in your hair, wanting to keep them to yourself for a while longer. the music flutters softly on your lips and in the gentle notes of a carefully worded ballad, you sing to sinatra on how you're a fool too.

    midnight says you have enough time to build a waterfall in acrylics and let your shoulders fall apart in the blurred daylight. you can almost see the azure cutting through the winds to reach for your hand--and it will be okay. 

    - abha

  • chudley_cannons 5w

    10:52 am

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    she says that further down the line
    there are only a few words
    trying to find you before you
    start looking for them --
    a clockwork poetry stumbling
    on chipped stilts and in time,
    the seconds drown out the song.


  • chudley_cannons 9w

    songs for a smoke screen

    (tell me what you're thinking
    and tell me if it's true)
    there are shallows creeping up to your bare toes, your calves shivering in the wind and the water curling softly beneath your feet. the fire in the distance is a blurred halo and all the screams get drowned out in my ears - why can't i see you anymore? - your eyes fade back somewhere in the dark and i think i hear you whispering. do you hear me too? do you hear me at all? 
    (does the sunset want another verse?)
    chopin plays in the background and the keys wail a discordant medley of noises on a broken pianoforte - why is your hand so far away from mine? - a lone birch finds home in the winter breath and sings the song of a traveller passing by. there is so much i needed to say.
    (the vagabonds reach a haunted tavern
    and there is no sound. not one.)
    skating through the icy lanes and picking at the sleeves of my threadbare coat; my fingers swallowed in the gloves knit to graze their edges; my cheeks turning different shades of red and blue, unable to decide on one - why? - my head falls back as i wait for the bit of snow that will never fall.
    (rickety bridges and does the
    sea call for you still?)
    there are so many walls and so many doors and so many people belting out the notes to the composition i wrote this morning (torn apart, the pieces lost - paper boats and paper flowers) - am i still not making any sense? - my lips tremble and maybe it's the cold. i hope it's the cold. rivers flood the gates of a rundown barn and the sky turns a misty blue. there are frozen seas trying to mimic winter fjords and i wonder if it's really just the cold.

    - abha

  • chudley_cannons 12w

    i write for you until i can't.

  • chudley_cannons 16w

    pretentiously untitled

    the music lulls the heart like a numbing distraction and there is so much fear in that moment when the distinction between the walls in my room and the ones in my head is a tangible ghost, telling me that after all is said and done, that after all the ways i write and rewrite my pieces, maybe i'm still a liar.

    that the fancy words can only help me for so long. the rain drenches my shoulders and i pretend as if it can change me. the sunlight filters through the braided curtains just right, and i almost believe that it's going to be a good day. 

    the music tells me there is nothing to be afraid of. that i do not have to bite my tongue to keep my voice from cracking. that i do not have to stare blankly at people as their words get lost somewhere in the blur because my head told me to stop listening.
    there is nothing to be afraid of.

    the bones don't always have to turn to stone; 
    the pages don't always have to burn in the shadows;

    every new prose does not have to be a poorly disguised repitition of the ones before it--
    but see? i'm afraid. so forgive me if my metaphors are getting mixed up and the words aren't making sense because hurricanes do not always find themselves crammed in the fragile bodies of broken people and i don't feel like myself anymore.

    - abha

  • chudley_cannons 17w

    or maybe a rant.

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    almost a poem

    this is not a conversation you are willing to have with a strong voice and a quiet heart.

    the words in the air are way too polished for that when your mind is a stuttering poem and your body is a ship in chaos - the mast shredded to pieces - on its way to losing itself to the storm.

    this is not how you break down in front of an old friend. you do not smile with the corners of your quivering lips singed in the wake of your tears, only to look up and find her leaving.

    maybe you're just a little deranged in your madness. maybe you've started to know yourself just a bit more.

    this is not how you ignore the panic coursing through your arms, dangling down with your wrists that have punched through one too many mirrors.

    you do not tear out the hair from your scalp only to find yourself unchanged in the morning - the nails still brittle in places where you tried to pry apart the paint from the walls.

    this is not how your anxiety cripples you from within - you do not feel your hands trembling in a strange juxtaposition with the numbness in your heart only to pretend that it's all going to be fine.

    maybe you're just a little defeated in your loneliness. maybe you just don't want to know yourself anymore.

    - Abha

  • chudley_cannons 21w

    lingering in the
    wrong memories

    it's may 20 when you write about being ostensibly dramatic and almost cringe at your pretense of magnanimity – jigsaw truths are festooned in all the wrong places to the point that they could almost pass as lies.

    (do you remember the first time you tasted the ink from your fingertips and realised that you're not a poem? that you cannot add a few good words on the sidelines and make it all a little better?)

    it's january 11, and sometimes you are a weeping bluebird. short tales trail behind an empty casket while the tombstone reads the same obituary over and over again -

    (there is no such thing as a quiet love - you feel and there is chaos - you haven't yet brought yourself up to saying things that should have been shouted out loud a long time ago.)

    it's september 1 and skeptical eyes scan the tattoos curling on your tongue - you tremble because you've never been more honest, yet felt more like a liar.

    (do you skin your knuckles against the sidewalk as you try crawling into wavering cracks? you've been wanting answers for a while now and it's still so very silent.)
    - Abha

  • chudley_cannons 25w

    half-baked monologues


    the little kid in the corner won't care if you ignore him. he wouldn't know if you laugh as they laugh. he wouldn't know if you cry as he cries. in secret. in the shadows.

    the little kid in the corner won't care if you find him in the periphery of your vision but never the centre. he wouldn't know if you leave a lone daffodil beside his pile of books. he wouldn't know if your feet stutter as you trudge past him in the bustling hallways.

    the little kid in the corner won't care if you don't see him.



    your teeth biting down on your fingers don't hurt half as much as you would want them to. they leave red crescents in their wake but they do not really bleed yet so it's all good. there's no pain.

    your teeth biting down on your fingers rip open sinews of a stormy afternoon and you're dragging your muddy boots up the stairs and down the corridors; you don't recognize these faces anymore. it's so quiet in your head, you wonder if the rain stopped a while ago.

    your teeth biting down on your fingers read an elegy to empty classrooms.



    the poem says that the soft caresses on the small of your back find a way through the walls of your heart. the songs run on gold vinyls and the symphony hides behind a silent garb.

    the poem says that there is a filigree snowflake on every syllable of your name, weathered trails searching for home in the burn of an autumn foliage - cold days find my hand in yours and somehow, it knows. it knows it belongs there.

    the poem says that the writer has started wrenching away words out of thin air and they still aren't enough.


  • chudley_cannons 28w


    (you say you know where the sky ends)


    my words are a deliberate effort to be heard in times when the cacophony is an unrelenting truth and the whispers a guttural lie. it's been two weeks and four days since my anxiety began pulling me apart, a restless shadow in my bruised knuckles (you say i've not been myself).

    is this how writing works? that i spend hours mending the cracks in my spine just so it can break again trying to mould itself into the warm fallacy of poetry?


    you tell me that sometimes my silence makes you wonder if our conversations ever really happened. it's been seven years since we laughed in tandem and did not feel our innards crippling into nothing - your smile cuts through tapestries of all that is surreal but those tapestries flutter back and here we are - in love with words intangible.

    is this how epiphanies work? do i sit alone under the midnight drizzle, waiting for your secrets to undulate on the creases of my palms?


    the first time we met, you were a flustered poem fidgeting with your iambic sleeves and eyes darting across the room in a fumbling scrutiny. it's been fifty-three minutes since you stormed past me with little more than a rueful glance and i wish i could have said it all a bit better (i wish i'd held you for a bit longer).

    is this how regret works? that the angry scar on my chest splits open, giving way to the reminiscence of an erstwhile wound that never truly heals?

    - Abha

  • chudley_cannons 29w

    [3:09 pm]

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    your thoughts are tethered
    to a rusty candelabra -
    a hundred marbled cracks
    telling stories of each fall
    on a dusty linoleum floor.

    a dusty linoleum floor and
    daylight is a lazy poet writing
    verses of nothing in the air.

    a cracked candelabra and
    midnight finds your whispers
    caged in a bottle reeking of blood.

    - Abha