Fever Dream by Valerie Parente
It should not be hard to believe
her manifesto is written in poetry
a declaration of every insight
she finalized with the moonlight.
A quill pen in her hand
from the feather of a phoenix
and her tempo flows and flows
a silver tongue put to a scroll.
That poet’s name, it’s Valerie
a doll manifesting her fever dream
collecting lessons like mannequins
while she learns to love again.
– Valerie Parente (6-5-2021)
Obsidian Dagger by Valerie Parente
If you think about messing with her
think again,
she’s got this obsidian dagger
in her right hand,
ready to cut you up
into a celestial blend,
fall out of touch
you’ll get the glossy edge,
a ritual of writing
ready to commence,
her way of fighting
a black glass weapon,
make no mistake
it’s all self defense,
for this ebony blade
she’ll never lament,
she takes a phrase
like a witch in a garden,
praising mental states
for the efflorescence,
dare you take her art
under a false pretense,
she’ll slice you apart
then wish you the best,
’cause she comes from stardust
the same place you’ve been,
but a language monarch
can bring you back to heaven,
she’s only just begun
so due and diligent,
with that silver on her tongue
and a dagger of obsidian.
– Valerie Parente (5-22-2021)
You’re Just Hunger with Sentience by Valerie Parente
You’re just hunger
with sentience
and I’ll forever
be hellbent
on empathizing
with the energy
that’s sacrificed
so I can breathe.
– Valerie Parente (5-17-2021)
Penmanship by Valerie Parente
Your penmanship
is so personal
and I’ve been reading
with a purpose.
Now he’s writing
on the surface
with sweet words
in messy cursive,
a little overwhelming
but so damn worth it
and I don’t mind
being nervous
because anxiety
with my favorite person
sits on a page
so imperfectly perfect.
– Valerie Parente (5-12-2021)
Poetry: Sight and Sound by Valerie Parente
There’s something about using words to paint a vivid picture
while creating rhythms and rhymes with your diction.
The combination of sight and sound
is what makes poetry so profound.
Whether I’m telling a fantasy story or declaring my feelings,
I’m inclined to write it like art to catalyze the healing
and poetry speaks to my soul most effectively
and I think it translates to the reader effortlessly.
– Valerie Parente (4-17-2021)
Pixie Dust by Valerie Parente
Little nymph with rainbow wings,
sprinkling pixie dust,
making the darkness sparkle,
with her magic touch.
Little fairy with sharp intuition,
seeing auras through glass eyes,
your energy is clear to her,
even when you try to hide.
Little creature of the forest,
with empathy like the stars,
she envisions how you feel,
dividing light in equal parts.
Their whimsical spirits exceed the days,
like totems passed down the human race,
so very minuscule in this time and place,
yet endless in the sentiments they convey.
– Valerie Parente (3-8-2021)
Like My Dolls by Valerie Parente
I just want to be like my dolls
without the judgement from them all,
a mystery in the shape of a female,
representing aesthetic fairytales,
provocative yet innocent,
the way I see myself in my head,
that’s where I belong
in the silhouette of a doll.
As my peers reach milestones
full of romance and growing old
I can’t quite relate
because my timeline isn’t the same
but when I touch plastic and porcelain
I can grow without forcing
through stories propped on the wall
in the silhouette of a doll.
– Valerie Parente (11-29-2020)
The Beauty of Darkness (IV) by Valerie Parente
Make no mistake,
we are not victims.
We have been hurt
but know no division.
Because the things that bring us anguish
unite us within.
A profound understanding
of what it means to be human.
– Valerie Parente (11-9-2020)
Like Fine China Analysis
I wrote this poem, “Like Fine China“, without fully understanding what my subconscious was trying to tell me. After reading it a couple of times I realized the meaning behind the words. Fine China is the symbol for making art (something beautiful) out of sadness. The sadness is a constant cycle that manifests itself like patterns on fine China, royal “blue” (sad) details that I’ve etched upon the surface (my writing). When I have days that I break down, the porcelain breaks down, and I could use the jagged pieces of sadness to hurt myself but instead I choose to use them to build a display out of the broken pieces in the form of a porcelain vase (art from my mental breakdown) and there I show off pretty flowers (rhymes through poetry). The problem that arises from creating art out of sadness, sometimes sadness that a 3rd party might see as “old news”, is that these emotions I’ve recited are as good as dead to the world, hence why the flowers in the fine China vase I’ve built are decaying. The wonder in this, though, is that those decaying flowers offer me, the writer, solace. The cycle of sadness and creativity continues as the decaying flowers become a beautiful floral tea that I turn to for comfort as a grieve the ongoing pain I’m still in. Other people don’t see the benefit of the flowers (writing about perpetual pain), but I do. The entire process from fine china to a floral tea is cathartic, as is the artistic process, and in the end I feel okay and like I can survive my own mental state. Alas, a new day comes, the sadness inevitably returns as I am overwhelmed with reminders from the real world, and the pretty pain goes back to being “too pretty to comprehend” (commentary on not fully understanding what I was writing in the poem itself “Like Fine China”). Thus the entire breaking down of fine china (delving into an artistic outlet) occurs again.
Isn’t it incredible how art can be completely mindless but reveal something so profound in the mind it spawns from?
– Valerie Parente (10-6-2020)
Like Fine China by Valerie Parente
How can one be so strong and indestructible
yet appear like fine china, so fragile.
Royal blue details drawn on clay
art on top of an artistic display.
Breaking as I break down
a million pieces so jagged and profound.
I could use them to separate my skin
instead I made a vase out of porcelain.
I filled the china like a beautiful bouquet
with flowers that had already decayed
and everybody calls me a sick freak
because I can still see their beauty
but it’s them who fail to see
that dead flowers make great tea
and I’ll sip it as I grieve
remembering how it felt to be
like fine china, too pretty to comprehend
until they break me down again.
– Valerie Parente (10-5-2020)
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