Tag: mystic poetry

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January 17, 2026

My Goodness.. Last night X took care of me. I had the day off, so I poured into Love, Lust & Lazuli. We were supposed to go the gun range, but his case was extended. I was disappointed but expressed little. I ache in silence, especially with a lover. He catches my scent though. He offered to cook dinner for me. I obliged. I picked up my sun; we were blessed with a ride home. I picked up herbs and incense. We headed home— which is next door to his. My sun was welcomed to play his video games. X made a deliciously cozy chicken pot pie. A hug to my heart. Nostalgic and so simple, and beyond me with a childlike ease. It was wonderful, even my sun liked it. I was able to make myself tea. I ate till full. Put my sun to bed.

 Within a few hours, I had wandered back over next door to him. I was soothed by the meal— ended up rocking myself while laying down trying to soothe further. The night was smooth and I was content. He noticed. He is observing me. He adores me. We held each other and I felt small and safe in his arms. He began to massage my back and legs – gripping whatever he could reach. He began to stretch my body. He pulled on my arms, and I felt like I was stretching my wings. Pressed his thumbs into my hands, tugging on each finger. I felt what it felt like for the body to trust—to believe it can melt. I did not have to think. He made my body do what he wanted and I let him.

I rolled around to face him. He wanted to do the other side. He pulled and pressed. We kissed. Kissing turned into something long awaited. More warmth. Everything about him is warm.

He planted kisses on my neck,

collarbone,

neck,

breast,

all over my back,

up and down my spine—everywhere. My moans were sonorous. I was gasping for memory. This is what I fantasized about. He planted kisses- everywhere. My breath was taken. He commanded me to lay on my back. I obliged. I am still in a hazy state of bliss and ecstasy. The things he did. How he touched me, how he took his time. He said he “knew it was going to be like this between us” while nuzzled between my thighs. I did not expect any of that, but I was delightfully surprised. I — my body lit up electrified. In ways I have only ever imagined. He did what I wanted him to do. He kissed my palm. This too stood out. He was waiting to do this. He was tender, gentle, strong, healthy. He asked for nothing.

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Souls’ Teeth

i weave tension

as eyes made contact

as our stare shapes

fantasy and eruption

we are careless

we destroy out of delight

our passion with walls poured pride

we became one another’s prey

i am dancing on the world

you built it with the grit

between our souls’ teeth

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Benevolent Cruel Season

an angel from the sun
who knew when to be lost
she’s benevolent
a cruel season
she began only to end
one day with her
was worth searching for
nothing about her was linear
she ran intoxicatingly
cold plunging into the hearts of her prey
she was found on the last eclipse
making mosaics
writing poems about it
what an imagination she is

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Crystal Clear Confusion

The center is a labyrinth.
We close our eyes to seek it
It likes to absorb itself
in hues of the abyss
Our fragments hide and seek
Bend at the pond
That foreign transparent center
Crystal clear as confusion

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Flesh

She was
a woman of flesh
pacing
back and forth
softened down
till her belly aches
chaotic to escape
with everything to lose
and those summer blues
lived
to consume her
she
adored being consumed
after allowing herself
to turn stray
hmm
maybe someday

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The Alchemy of Ache: Poetry as Portal, Memory as Ritual, Writing as Survival

I sometimes peel myself for fun
forgetting I am dripping

I devour this holy pomegranate
for my last meal

While the world makes love
to cope with flesh
I vow to touch the earth
with the courtesy of life in mind

Through every door
every portal
I walk
fall
burn

and come back
to myself
again
and again

– Freegrandmaa



—

I’ve never been a tidy writer. I don’t write from outlines. I don’t plan.
Because pain rarely makes sense while you’re inside it. Because memory doesn’t arrive in full sentences. Because healing isn’t clean. And neither is truth.

My hands have always been frantic, scratching, scribbling, collaging, bleeding. Before I had language for what I was feeling, I had survival instinct. My chaos moved through my fingers. I drew. I cut. I self-harmed. I wrote. It wasn’t for performance. It was so I wouldn’t drown.

When I finally found poetry, it didn’t feel like art. It felt like company.

I remember sitting alone by a stream in Ohio. I had followed a lover to a place where no one wanted me. Not him, not my family. Isolation cracked me open. Trauma rose in the silence like smoke. I was drowning in rejection, misunderstood and invisible, waiting to feel like someone again.

That’s when the butterfly showed up. It lingered. It saw me. It didn’t save me, but it stayed long enough to let me feel seen. And in that moment, the words came like a river. Unfiltered, unconscious, mythic. The poem didn’t try to make sense. It just felt real. And for the first time in a long time, I felt real too.

I don’t write logically. I write neurologically. I write like the body remembers. Trauma doesn’t give you stories, it gives you sensations. The brain breaks memory into fragments. You remember a sound, a flinch, a smell. Not a plot.

My poetry mirrors that. That’s why my lines come in flashes. Why my metaphors feel mythic. Why there’s no narrative arc, only spirals, symbols, sobs, silences.

Writing that follows the rhythm of memory, not structure. Writing that reveals the subconscious, not logic. Writing that bleeds in a language the nervous system can trust. I didn’t learn this. I survived into it.

I am what I call an underworld translator, a shadow scribe, a nervous system medium.
I write from inside the burn.. I speak from the parts of the self most people try to avoid. The underworld is not hell, it’s the unspoken. The grief you buried. The version of yourself that exists beneath the mask. The shadow self waiting not to haunt, but to be integrated.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just romanticizing it all. If shadow work is just another addiction. If I’m still self-harming, but this time with metaphors. If I’m scripting pain to feel in control.

But this is also true: there is no light without this walk. There is no peace without knowing what almost destroyed you. And writing is how I know the difference. If I let it be ugly, feral, fragmented, then I know I’m not hiding anymore.

Because when you don’t face your underworld, it doesn’t disappear, it mutates. Into numbness. Into avoidance. Into loneliness. Into cruelty. It passes down. What you refuse to integrate, your children inherit.

I write because I didn’t

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She Will Return

You’ve inflicted a wound
down the length of her spine.
Sabotaging the currents
to maintain her movements
give way to the wind.

With the immense distance it provides,
she will carry on.
Her skin sticks and glows a little,
glistens in the sunlight.

She’ll return
and destroy all that you are,
leaving behind
trails of ash and stains