#dark acamedia

I wake up awash in titillation,
Your sweetly animalistic fragrance
Suffuses me still, and
My heart paces
As I cling to oneiric
Creation.

I wake up trailing
Soft linens — your hair,
Toward
A crumpled duvet — your shoulder;
All the worried while my heart begs:

“Hold her”;

Nothing matters more than
Keeping you there
Where I can still have you; love you…

A kiss in the aether, there’s
Nothing I can do:

I wake up.

—
10-5-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

26-4-2022

Hysteranthous

One flower left amid the green of newgrown leaves. It almost seems out of place, this pristine star, showpiece of the magnolia. I bought it when I was in love, or maybe because — I was smitten, that’s for sure — and now, years later there’s a lesson to be taught: 

The beatitude of the flowers in bloom I so easily mistook as the prime of this life, proves to be merely its prelude. The green, I now see, in these humbly unfolding leaves; destined to breathe, has nothing to do with eyes being caught, star-struck. Nor with the initial excitement of allurement; the many thrills of buttoning seduction. It has nothing to do with the awe of interstellar travel, imagined, and experienced by simple virtue of perceiving. 

These humbly green leaves depict the days of roots deepening; of growth, development, and branches strengthening; of proof and reassurance, that it is here that life thrives, and is nurtured. These are days depicting all that makes sure this life remains. 

I think about a love that stays. 

We bloom too, and so, spectacularly, before the emergence of the humbly green leaves. It seems, we favour flowers over roots, and all too ignorantly. So often already blowing with the wind without giving a chance to the following spring. The flowers must last forever. A preposterous concept. I look at the one flower left; the flower I do cherish, as it withers. Then, I shiver.

Plastic. What a gruelling ideal.

—
25-4-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

i really need to remember that sometimes studying isn’t always possible. we’ve all gone through a lot the past few years, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with having a drop in productivity.

writing poetry is truly a cathartic experience. it doesn’t have to be good, and you don’t have to allow anyone else to read it: just the outpouring of emotion is enough.

i feel like people don’t talk about burn out enough. studying 8 hours a day can seem like a great and aesthetic thing in theory, but in practise it can leave you completely drained, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking a break.

More patreon art for your eyeballs

✨There’s also speedpaints available only for patreon peeps✨

Goodbye, my almost lover.

Goodbye, my hopeless dream.

Your hands on my back,

Slow tenderness to soothe me.

How did you learn all this?

I keep remembering- I keep remembering.

My heart has no pity on me.

Shameless and callous I love you.

Out of indifference I love you.

Why are you full of rage?

Because you are full of grief.