My Collection of Poems by Eva Domenica Modly de Jira Hurst
My name is Eva Domenica Modly de Jira Hurst, I was born in Tunis, Tunisia in 2004 and I have lived in Korea and Turkey and I am currently living in Germany. I am Hungarian-American but my mother tongue is English and I have a large family extending from America to Sicily. I have a passion for horror novels, gothic literature, word play and philosophical discussions. I love poetry and have experimented with many different types such as rhyming or freeform. I also have other passions in music, science and humanities but I love all forms of literature.
Why must you torture me so?
Is it something I did, I honestly don’t know?
Sorry to interrupt your scheduling but you have them,
You just pop up whenever especially during my REM,
By the way my sleep thanks you for taking their shift,
But I don’t! And your creating bigger rifts,
Between me and my friends, you always speak for me,
I stutter and massacre words so much my language is gory,
You’re the ultimate emo, black, edgy-edge overlord,
Is there a reason you’re doing this, or are you just board?
My morality’s mixed, my logic is nixed and I still need to find ego’s body,
My stabilities rationed my sleeps on vacation and my overall confidents shoddy.
So, let up a bit, if you could go away faster,
I could avoid my mind’s mental, misery movie massacre,
Cause everyone in my mind is a mess,
I’m losing my sanity, ego and rest,
I tried to fire you but it didn’t work,
There’s no way to hide from the places you lurk,
I’d like to say I’ve lost you but you’re still on my shoulder,
And every day I grow, I get older and older,
I am truly glad that you’re keeping me safe,
But my logic is murderous and fear is misplaced,
Honestly, I already figured I’m crazy,
You keep me from getting to happy or lazy,
But right now, you’re just making me fear, oh dear,
So dear acute anxiety,
You’re not that cute anxiety,
Is dead to me,
And lied to me,
Your tantrum, teasing, topples, totals teens,
Rule of thumb all you’ll ever be is mean,
And between my obscene mind mess in widescreen,
You make ego preen, and envy green,
My personality doesn’t need practicality it needs,
Emotional factuality, vitality,
Is not your obligation,
You are not my mortification,
Puts you on probation,
I must ration my patience,
To make the declaration,
Through my narration,
Notation, restation, consideration,
Sayonara, Ciao, Bye-Bye, we’re through,
P.S It’s not me it’s you.
A Tale of Two Kings
As I sat I spied a pool,
It’s water, clear and smooth and cool,
Two tiny figures I did see,
Two black ants fighting viciously,
A winding, binding spiraling thread,
Tangles them, but up ahead,
Is a spiraling, darkened, looming hole,
As revenge is sweet but has a tole,
It’s too late when the danger they find,
Their petty wars’ run out of time,
And fear dilutes their sheltered brains,
The thread has bound they can’t refrain,
And they go gushing down the drain.
The Repertoire of the Doleful
I have a secret everyone knows,
But like a breeze it comes and goes,
Like a drop of water, it will fade,
Leaving behind a blotchy shade,
True for some but not for me,
Thinking, pensive patiently,
For my lovely, bedewed flower,
As I sit and ponder after hours,
Must this be? And why? How so?
Must morning rays melt the fallen snow?
No-matter the object of my affection,
All must aby this grim reflection,
Their joyful bouts of imperfection,
But I care not for their completion,
A hundred stare as my eyes meet,
Redundantly at their repeat,
My gaze matching their disbelief,
At my apathic ears and escape of grief,
And I stand alone, polished and faded,
As passersby mistake my marble as jaded,
And as they chase it away it darts,
Why so eager to break your heart?
Bang! There it goes again,
A fizzing down my arm to my pen,
And from the ink’s black pool bled,
Drips into blues and bloody reds,
No time to continue, and I must wait,
For the shining figure to illuminate,
And so, it begins, the azure design,
I see the edges, faces, lines,
But alas these vivacious, bubbly sparks,
Have faded out against the dark.
Words to Be Said
A stuffed toy bursting at the seams,
A fantastic tale, the stuff of dreams,
An unwatched sinking, slowly filling with water,
And steam leaks into my mind ever growing hotter,
The largest words melt on my tongue,
My eyes are blank and mind is rung,
It drips out my ears, a runny leak,
As tensions rise and reach their peak,
I want to speak, what should I say?
Instead outcome jumbled words like child’s play,
As my brain is dripping down my arm,
To the caustic, angry, unappeasable alarm,
Then the ground shakes as I scream,
The fantastic tale and stuff of dreams,
But all of this remains in vain,
Drowned in lightning, thunder and rain,
Words are broken, burnt and bent,
And meaning lost in the livid torrent.
The air turned to ice darkness and filled the room,
With the smothering smog of hopeless gloom,
The girl tried to run, to laugh, to hide,
But the ice and dark came from deep inside,
Inky liquid rose to her chin,
And hands grabbed her to drag her in,
It filled her mouth, her throat was marred,
Blood was frozen, lungs were tarred,
She sank and sank could not swim,
And vowed to never let them win,
Finally, under, almost drowned,
Her world twisted upside-down,
And she lay gasping on the ground.
The delicate figure sits alone,
Has gone away,
And fled in a flock of doves,
Where has she gone?
I never know,
Where else she goes,
Down with the pastel dawn?
For those who find,
Their reason and rhyme,
Their place in time
Gain peace of mind,
To reflect, I try,
Now I’m alone,
With thoughts overthrown,
And attempt to satisfy,
And wonder why you aren’t here.
Tiny Clay Beads
Tiny clay beads that roll and clink,
On cheap, white string, but yet you link,
With muted, glazed earthy shades,
And feel your textured, glassed suede,
And while your simple, lonely beads,
Your form’s a facile comfort to me,
But silky, milky, pure white thread,
Has turned a bloody, rippling red,
And by the time I had awoke,
My clinking linking beads had broke,
The Voices in My Head
Two in one and one is me,
Vocals, voiceless aimlessly,
Wander, wonder in my mind,
Echoing like church bell chimes,
A thousand patterns drip and splat,
Across my mind like tiny rats,
And some cry, some sing, some laugh,
But like a paper torn in half,
A single voice out of the chorus line,
I guess the loudest voice is mine.
And why again?
There is no ending.
No logic to logic.
No reason for reason.
And to consume. To move.
If I stop…
No. I can’t think to think when I think.
I hear fireworks.
I see everything.
And understand as much.
And chase the serpent’s tail.
To consume myself to gain.
Oil is to Water
Garrulous. Their voices fill the room. Their whimsy and ignorance as repugnant to me as rotten animus. And I am to them as oil is to water.
We clash, we expel, I doubt that any of them could even consider me as a precursor to their arrogance. And I am to them as oil is to water.
Precocious, their ego and folly only goad me to continue to belay. And I am to them as oil is to water.
So clear, so pure, so plain. And yet I shine in a multitude of colors, beautiful, Delphic. And I am to them as oil is to water.
And yet, they form, they change into icy towers and light graces them in the splendor of others. They are necessary and I am repugnant. And I am to them as oil is to water.
And I fear the day their confusion turns to fear and hate. It always does. Then I will not shine, I will rot into darkness but remain present in consciousness. And I am to them as oil is to water.
Useless, slimy oil.
Mary Made a Mistake
Mary made a mistake.
A great, big, terrible mistake.
And everyone saw her.
Then she started to cry,
Big, fat, snotty tears.
And everyone saw her.
She ran outside,
Panting, whiny, whimpering breaths.
And everyone saw her.
I don’t care if it was small.
I don’t care if it doesn’t happen again.
I don’t care if she feels bad.
I don’t care if she fixes it.
Mary made a mistake.
Through the Shutter
I spy an eye,
Down the street,
Black as peat,
Red as flames,
Filled with shame,
Through the curtains,
Like Tim Burton,
Up the stairs,
And past nightmares,
Then whispers leer,
Beside your ear,
Hear the mutters,
Through the shutters.
© Eva Domenica Modly de Jira Hurst