Sofia Harris

The Gambler.

He rolls the dice,

two eyes whisper him 

goodbye



And he left his chair
wobbling in the corner,

with his cards poking out of his shirt,

and his boots carving letters of treason
in the dustfilled halls

of Calico.

Your fingers
are poetry,

naked,  

they paint me,
they shape me


Le Artist,

I empty my canvas for you.

And I gave myself,



My soul
To the Gambler


The one who never feared
Living

With nothing but a hand gesture
And a sunrise awaiting.


My eyes ablaze,
Mascara ashes,

Deserted Iris.


I let him have me.



Touch me. Throw me.
But leave my lips for someone else. 

rise.

sunrise makes me shy my eyes,
I smile


for it reminds me
why I wake up
every morning



and why you


are like the sunrise.



How I wish you
goodnight

before I lay my eyes to rest



and how I wake up


and fall in love with you all over again. 

Woman.

She never spoke a word.


That woman inside of me.


All I can hear is her feet
dancing.

Tip toe over broken dreams,


her dress coming undone at the seams,

before it falls.


Nature,


and her body, flowing
like a curtain


she still covers herself with herself

and I remain still, wondering if I’ll ever get to see through her, into her nightmares.


Night wants to leave me,
Morning wants to make love to me


And the day wants to forget everything that happened.



For she is the night, dancing

through early morning rays

dividing them with shapes bold.



And I go to bed and wait for night to arrive once again

and for her dancing

to tap my mind

into life.



Secret #30

An image of a woman dancing has haunted my dreams these past weeks, a silhouette twirling around in my head, in the scenery of everything else. I do not know if she was part of me before or if she is what I one day will turn into. All I know is that I am changing, and that maybe she is the woman I will be one day, once I shed away my teenage years and childish figure.

Maybe one day, I’ll be a woman dancing, breaking the streaks of early morning sunlight with the sharp curves of her figure and hair twirling lightly around her shoulders.

Maybe one day, I’ll be a woman of the light that breaks the darkness.

Maybe one day, even stripped bare of everything I know, the world won’t be able to read me.


For my secrets will all belong to the night, and the night only. 

The Fall.

How funny it is.
Words collapse

with a push of a button.

Why is it so easy
to erase

everything

rather than create

the perfect flow?


Sky rises from the dead.
I don’t want to sleep

ever again.



Precious blue and white,
moon still lingers

like scars on your knees
from when you decided
to fall

into his dust.


No. I shall arise,
I

shall arise with knees trembling in winds
of everlasting
downfalls


and fall up
and towards the blue. The white. The awakened day

and I can no longer sleep.


I can no longer sleep
for I need the reminder of what

was


and what will always remain
as merely
a memory.

Scarred knees, and the rising.


How horribly his dust tasted
to my knees.



The longing to press erase.
Fingers dance over my life

written with the clouds over the blue outside my window,

and I see the drift by

and remember that nothing remains.


Beautiful morning,
why is it only you

that inspire?



Why can’t rising up
give me sunlight in my eyes

the glare on a picture,
kaleidoscope of drugged up dreams and fucked up streams

of consciousness.


 A button pushed.




You will never know my secrets

and the reasons

for the dust.

Midnight.

Ice cubes stirr in my glass, blend with the whiskey, crash into each other, and I can’t help but wonder if they feel the cold as they hit each other, without realizing they’re just as cold themselves.

The pages of my life has turned a soft grey, after erasing all the words I wrote wrongly. I take a deep breath, and know that this time I’ll write more colourful, never again use the same old grey pencil that you always put in my hands.

No, you are not worth anything anymore. I’m breaking the tip. And letting you go.

And I’ll take the green from his eyes, the red from his smile, and the rays of sun bouncing off of his hair and turn it all into words of comfort, and hope that you’ll one day see that I found the beauty in you that you so rarely notice yourself.

Fog covers the lands, a sign of something intense hiding behind it. I love the feeling of not knowing what lies ahead, and embrace the softness, the melancholy I used to cover myself in.

The earth feels soft in my hands as I dig my way into it, just to get my hands dirty with something else besides lies and infatuation. I’m done digging into your flesh, into your sweat, into your tears. I’l leave you there, stripped bare and craving, for somebody else to thrive with.

Your blod on my hands…it’s all in the dirt now. But it wasn’t pure enough.

No, it wasn’t real.

It didn’t come from sacrifice, despair or injustice.

It didn’t colour the earth red as it did in Africa, it didn’t feel as heavy as when I let that earth run through my hands.

No, I didn’t feel despair. I felt satisfaction.

You always wanted to stain me.

Now it’s my turn to stain you.

Red marker in my hand. I’ll colour the whole page red and tear it to pieces.

And after that….I’ll start a new page, and it will be filled with the green.

Ice cubes stirr.

Whiskey makes me dream.






it was true then.

insidious.

I am no longer human

only an interpretation.

Flowers cast shadows,

twiring lullabies

over grey stones carved and unnatural



in the garden of night and day.

I never thought sadness would be

this tempting


and then someone yelled
and the world turned silent.




Rainy days will turn to dust one day.



We will all turn

to balls of dust,




Under someone’s bed.




I wonder if he’ll care for us,

whomever is sleeping




when we all rejoice

beneath the flowers.




Throw the flags over their houses



for we have failed



to see beauty



before stars and stripes.


before hands
turned to nooses



and the gardens were filled
with lifeless blooming.


Bullet hits the world for the first time.


Someone packed up their bags
and left us insidious.

Rambles Of The Trapeze Artist

Clock strikes six. The sun glitters on my skin for the first time today.

How ironic its warmth is.

How I wanted it all day, and just about when I’m about to sleep, hand full of popcorn and Cola bottle kissing my cheek. Call me an emotional eater, or just bored as fuck.

I can’t write like I used to. I look in the mirror and see so many people, so many faces I used to paint on myself. Days become weeks, weeks turn into distant memories.

I wonder if my mind is that of an alcoholic, running, fluid, vanishing.

All I care about these days is the way cigarette smoke floats upwards, the taste of Jack after the writer’s block, how his hand fits mine so perfectly.


But fuck perfection. I’m just a mirrored image of what I used to be, just a little bit more bendy. A rubber band formed into a rainbow, stretching across the lands, making some people happy for no reason and others simply bury themself in self-pity, writing clichè poetry about the irony of the word rainbow. Rain Bow.

I used to be that person, the dark poet in the corner of the classroom, shirts with bands she only grew to love by wearing them over her heart, mascara dripping from an unsready hand, ink on my hands from the night before when I poured my heart out to the emptyness of a white page, no reply as usual. I used to imagine burning people with my eyes, leaving nothing but their irises, in which I’d keep in a box under my bed in case the nightmares came to take me. I’d change my irises for theirs, and see flowers and bees, lame messages written in mirrors with lipstick, teenage rebellion in a bottle of vodka.


Sick little poet I used to say whenever I looked in the mirror.

A fucking masterpiece.



Then I saw the light - or something less clichè than that.

See.

I’m no poet. Just a bad copy of one, ink blurred, lack of colour. Check your printer. You need more colour for me to be clear.


The only two men I feel like I can fly with, the man I want to share my bed with  every night,and the man who sings to me before I sleep - in whatever shape or form he might sing in.


Hendrix, Yorke, Cobain, Manson. Men who sing of how their hearts stopped beating or how they made other hearts stop just as often.


Sun cries out to me. I shall wobble back on my feet and smile not because I’m me, but because I’m still searching for me. My hands make love to words once again. I try to connect with them like I used to. Guess I haven’t found the word that can kiss my neck and make me smile as much as Mr T does.

Maybe I’ll find what I seek in a stupid metaphor.



Freebird. Swordfishkiss. Lolita. sAint.

All parts of who I am and who I was, imprinted in my eyes, the different colours that make my eyes misunderstood. The brown, the light brown, the yellow, the green.

I look you in the eyes, but I promise, I won’t burn you this time. Only imagine your words as you were burning.


Not a poet.


I’d much rather be called a Trapeze Artist.

I’m changing.

Life will never be constant.

I’m currently working on bigger projects besides poems.



But I promise I will not be gone for long.

Thank you everyone for your support! :)

See you soon! :)