The Extreme

When I again and again begged you to be
Faire and share our hearts, you handed me
A gun in my right hand and held another in yours.
Sitting on the empty floor, after you gently stroked my
Black hair and touched my cheek, we stared at our gray eyes
And slowly pointed your gun at my heart, my gun at yours.

When the sound of the guns echoed throughout the room
Of the lonely lovers,
In your transparent tears from your eyes,
In your red blood dying your shirt and my face, I thought
I finally saw what I was aching to see.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

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Inside the Limpid Box of Isolation

The Soul selects her own Society—
Then–shuts the Door–
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—
– Emily Dickinson

Wherever the lady traveled, whenever she stayed,
The box, invisible to everybody else’s eyes,
Surrounded her body from her head to toes.

The men who saw her brown long hair and brown
Eyes led by her casual smile
Told to people, she was the pronoun for beauty.

The women who glanced at her well-grown bosom
Underneath her red dress
Shouted to the world, she was promiscuous.

Inside the limpid box, her passion burned.
She reached her hands to the brush and the pallet
And depicted her bare heart on the canvas, alone in the
Basement. With yellow and white, she painted the full
Moon symbolizing her love that would never to die.
Behind the full moon, she painted the sky

Of black shaped after her hatred towards the man and herself.
She was abandoned into the emptiness, in pained, which
Nobody else would ever to unvail.

After the three decades of seasons, the lady,
With her own hands, ended her life, when the cold
Rain drops colored the January morning and melted the box.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

The Definition of A Poem When I Was Twenty

A poem is…

Something like,
The sounds of rain during June,
The red glow in the morning sky on the New Year Day,
The tears of last night,
The very first heartbreak at the age of fifteen-

Or
When
The moments,
The emotions and even
The senses are
Transformed into words and
Meet the rhythm of a language,

Or
When
Somebody addresses the words
As beauty and elegance.

However,
The truth is I still do not know
What a poem is.

So please, just let it be
So undefined and
So unnamed.

Yes,
Just let it be the riddle
Extended to eternity.

© 2016 Kiara Belle

I Can’t Write.

Here I confess: I can’t write.
For a long time, I do suffer.
Two mugs of coffee later, still a blank page on my iPad screen.
In my head, dead boring words.
Frustration growing- this ain’t me.
Work and responsibilities- emotions blocked by rationality.
Me- 31 years old.
Innocence reduced- so darn stable.
The background song: Ellie Goulding
Intuition, here I follow.
Still I confess: I can’t write.

The Twelve-hour Sleep

It is the escape from your reality,
It is the cure of your mind,
It is the reward addressed to you
Until the short hand of the clock makes a circle.

No need to drink, No need to eat,
No talk, No argument, Just-
Let your eyes closed,
Let your mouth breathe,
Let your heart beat,
Let your body live in the dream,
Let your idleness be the luxury
For the twelve hours.

Nothing more is necessary,
For after the twelve hours,
When your eyes are opened again,
It is going to be the time
To go back to your reality where
You are forced to
Face the hours,
Face the people,
For this is where you belong to.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

The Orange from Ehime

The circular sunrise
raised by the golden wind of Ehime.

The customary desert of the elementary school
now placed as a treasure
on the cold table of Tokyo.

Gently and carefully,
the sunrise bloomed
with the petals like the sunlight
just like the day I left my hometown.

One by one,
I smell and taste
my hometown
where I no longer belong to.

But the sourness of the sunrise,
still gently welcomes my return.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

Unrequited Love

After absorbing the air,
She blows up
Into the red balloon.

The more she blows,
The more it grows,
Larger and rounder.
The more of her passion is
Swallowed
By the red balloon.

Making its skin worn,
The red balloon
Becomes more transparent,
Too visible, too naked.

Her red face, so breathless,
Can’t tell, Can’t speak.
No word can be voiced.

With full of her passion,
The red balloon is
About to explode.

Soon, it will.
Even if he never knows
The existence of the red balloon.

Soon, it will
And will disappear,
With the blast,
Hurting her.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

The Grandmother’s Hand

The grandmother looks at her hand –
The numberless wrinkles breathe under her loofah-like skin.

The hand is betrayed by lies and pleased by sincerity.
Hugs and handshakes forgive sins,
But pain is still in the fist.

Flame of war, cancer’s scars on one-breasted chest, cheeks of granddaughters,
The hand always remembers the touch of all.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

Lala on the Sandglass

Very very long time ago, the hands of the God
scooped the Sahara sand and dyed it as blue as the
Pacific Ocean to measure the time of this world.
Still long ago, Lala, the great great great
descendent of Pandora, sat on the sandglass, with
the prayer to Aphrodite and the hope in the box
and watched over the hearts of the other mortals.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!

The Emotional Part of Ordinary 

The sleepy-eyed girl walks to the washstand and faces another in the mirror, completely forgetting that the sunlight is awake hours before her. While she does so, her sweet mother or generous roommate or faithful lover already prepares her breakfast on the table. The regular delicious smell awaits her as usual, which is what she never even realizes. Like that, when she is so dull about the tiny tiny pieces of her everyday, the girl next door is about to kill herself, craving for a reason to live. With the sleeping pills spread throughout the floor of the room where no lights are on, her wrist and soul are bleeding. Too many tears are wasted. And, the man on the other side of the earth is dying by the sudden car accident. The red lights, the drunk driver, the late ambulance, there are too many causes to be blamed. While everybody is somehow lived by their lives, the nameless French poet, sitting on the dirty street in Paris, pours his emotions into the details of his ordinary life. He verbalizes them on the paper, moving his favorite black pen in his left hand, and creates beauty within the dramas of lives. So many emotions are shined by his left hand.

© 2015 Kiara Belle * To subscribe on your Kindle, please click HERE!!!