L’AURORE

Its the kind of pain

you never know what to do with.

Doesn’t fit anywhere

Jagged shape

Untenable

Size.

Plainly

too big for any one, two three, five

People to carry.

Worse though would be

To ignore it.

It feeds on ignorance.

The only absolute

Extension

Of its existence

Is that it cannot be allowed to get any bigger.

And so what do you do?

Delicately

Passed along with

Words.

And

Gently packaged in

Cautiously

Never-quite-cryptic-enough

Faces.

You try telling other people

Something you don’t understand

With faces

and

Philosophically Robust

Dialogue.

A Tenor of voice who’s only power

is restraint.

And still.

No one knows

What to do with it.

And so

The burden of

Ending War.

Is forever left

With the child.

It just doesn’t fit

Anywhere else.

Euphemism

I lack all the euphemisms

The bright white walls and

The sparkling thoughts

Fantasies of love

Gentility and grace presented with

Sheer fabrics and a glowing face

Peaceful eyes balanced by

Effervescent pain

I always know what to say

But i have never understood how to live that way

Its a silver i cant risk tarnishing

An extravagant mind guided by

Brief moments of luxury

I stay awake at night and still wonder

What im protecting

What Imagery i paint instead that

Doesn’t feel worth loving.

I do wonder what would happen if i let more

Than scarce, sacred flashes of light in.

Maybe another person?

The crisis of identity

Would likely be lost in fairytales and imagery.

Like bill peet books i read as a kid.

And then

What would happen?

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null

Blasphemy.

Utter the name.

Rhyme

with the line of song you overhear.

Some call you insane.

All i hear

Is a feeling Whispering in my ear.

Information they

Don’t dain

To believe.

Or have room to feel.

Or time to contemplate.

I can never tell.

That’s a lie.

I always know

But as a woman

I’m better off pretending to be

Humble.

Or angry.

Whatever gives them an excuse to disregard the power of my words.

Every moment I speak,

I feel her power growing.

Lucifer?

Is that you?

Is that me?

Are we?

Did you?

Am I?

I do believe.

She made him for me.

She made him for us.

His ego was never ours to take.

It was the woman’s job to make

A villain strong enough to put man in his place.

Lucifer?

Does that make you uncomfortable?

Reading his name?

Someday you won’t cower because of him or his name.

You will fear no one

And you will bow to mine.

Coca Cola Dissolves Blood In a Matter of Minutes.

Coke dissolves blood in a matter of minutes.

Burns and destroys DNA evidence.”

That’s what he used to say.

“They’ve pulled out most of the cocaine

Otherwise the recipe hasn’t changed.”

i’m not afraid of spiders.

fear and gentility leave me weak in the knees.

its walking in on someone unexpectedly that gets me.

i would hold my hand to a black widow

After all, I would want them to save me.

Daddy would catch flies with bare hands

shake them in his fists until they fluttered haphazardly

slam them to the ground and call the puppy over

to terrorize them, before eating them alive

and slowing burning them to death with stomach acid.

Coke dissolves blood in a matter of minutes.

Burns and destroys DNA evidence.”

That’s what he used to say.

“They’ve pulled out most of the cocaine

Otherwise the recipe hasn’t changed.”

he taught me how to catch matches on fire

with a magnifying glass

that was too easy

so i started aiming for ants instead

i would traumatize the colonies outside

because they were always pooling in when it rained.

and my mother didn’t appreciate

the sea of black newly inhabiting the sink.

for some reason

it was very hard to find the magnifying glas

in his desk after that

rats would get caught in a trap

but their neck wouldn’t snap

unfortunate

but sometimes thats how the bottle flips.

he would finish the job by drowning them in the pool.

then bleach it for a couple weeks.

he’s didn’t advertise it, but i asked “daddy, why can’t i swim?”

and the evening dinner as always heavy is a way i couldn’t

quite explain to friends.

he started using poison when they came after our corn

and cereal

my mother was terrified my sister would eat it by mistake.

that didn’t last long, but the fear never left her face.

Fear has an interesting power that way.

Coke dissolves blood in a matter of minutes.

Burns and destroys DNA evidence.”

That’s what he used to say.

“They’ve pulled out most of the cocaine

Otherwise the recipe hasn’t changed.”

a rattler came too close to my puppy once.

he caught it with his hands and broke it by the neck

smacking its head up against a rock.

my mind was full of these wild dreams when fear was raging

i asked him what happened and he said he didn’t know who it was.

but he knew exactly what they did.

“shot it in the head.”

so i catch crickets and roaches and black widows with my bare hands.

i save them because they’re little monsters like me.

i do it for me, i do it for them — but mostly, i do it for him.

i save the souls he taught me to ice because he didn’t have the choice.

that isn’t how you raise a baby girl.

you make her strong.

teach her to put herself first.

above anyone and anything else.

he’d disown me if i told you, but every time we lost a life

A small part of him died.

so i save bugs.

even leave the flies alone…usually.

and pray part of that soul is saving his.

Coke dissolves blood in a matter of minutes.

Burns and destroys DNA evidence.”

That’s what he used to say.

“They’ve pulled out most of the cocaine

Otherwise the recipe hasn’t changed.”

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Hope is a box I cant unopen

It isn't strength, I'm not a magician

Trust me if there was a way

I'd fight until bone marrow tainted my blood

I'd do anything, whatever it took

To bring you peace and let go of

Someday.

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Baby Bermuda Dreamer

theres a special corner in my soul

where all the odd things go

i’m too nice to call them what they really are, so

i settle with thinking what we both know

is a long plane

with the short plan

to visit the archipelago

i would say, it’s dark

but somehow

that’s still

too human

it’s vacant like a distilled lab

with no feeling of hot or cold

no pretense of life or death

no sight of sound or stillness

the biblical battle of good versus evil

isn’t even a cute memory to be fond of

inaccessible is equally

adorable.

the void of space has nothing on it.

no concept of time coming or going

fear itself loiters off the clock —

sleeps down the hall,

in room 701.

i don’t recommend going there

that is no fate worse than death

nor irreconcilable loss

that

is me.

and i keep the odd things

forever.

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production is suiting up in dragon-scaled armor. performance is exposing the belly of the beast.

Not a thought for the answer

But the world keeps assuming

That the one i've been after

Is the same one I'm using

WISE

someday

when i’m wise enough

i’ll notice the dust raining

on my breath

in a filter of sunlight

and my greatest hope

will be a promise

that i get to see it

again.

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A typed poem titled 'Pitch Black' describing a person's experience in a forest, including details about the time, sensations, and emotions felt.
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Handwritten poem on torn, crumpled paper with annotations and scribbles, titled "Live in Legend," featuring numbered sections and sketches.

Vyrenne is a recording artist whose classical roots have developed with deep passion for house productions.  Branding a timeless aesthetic, her perspective carries subtle cues of historic depth tied to personal vulnerability.

The title track of her debut album, “Live In Legend” details the age old estrangement that comes with fracturing in-born expectations of what makes life worth living.  Her sub themes have sardonic edge, and often flirt with an ego that splits with intensity.

Tied together by threads of romance and legacy, exploring Vyrenne’s work feels like letting time stand still. Her latest noire release, No. 001, is a bold expansion; glamorizing brutally honest rage as it takes shape through elegant vocal delivery. 

Vyrenne spent most of her life exploring forms of self expression, taking particular interest in music, philosophy & poetry.  Noted influences are Wagner, Mach, Hemingway & Rimbaud.

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Consent

I believe in the progression and evolution of civilization. I believe in pleasure free of biological construct. I believe in addressing the highly complex ramifications of the human ego, and our historic tendency to forgo consent, with ostensibly unconventional methods of healing.  I believe in the power of mind, and place the highest premium on meritocratic insight.  Most importantly, I believe in love.

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when it gets hard to listen ask me if i’ll wear makeup for you today. it helps to look at something pretty.

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if i was always gentle there would be no time left to think.

nothing left to sell

i was falling too long, crashing too hard

to still think that living by stitches and scars

— starting as fights and ending in wars

would work anymore.

now i’m desperate for something i’ve never explained

to anyone else, let alone my poor brain

but when cameras get thirsty the look on my face

it worth more anything any of them say.

its something that takes less pain to replace

than the deafening hum of the time that i waste, as i

madden myself in isolation

rising with pride from a growing hatred

empty words explode from my mouth,

i can't tell how my body is processing sound

feel just as human as everyone else

just as nervous and overwhelmed.

then it’s like words are choosing themselves

and i think to myself

fuck, there’s nothing left to sell.

this world needs so much fucking help

the kind i can’t even give myself

and all that i can think

is, fuck.

there’s nothing left to sell.

and some will run so thin

no one knows who wins

some will bare their bones

just to show they know

when hard work won’t sell

image fares them well

i think

mere myth of god

won’t distinguish from sin

until power loves power

more than me again.

and what will we do then?

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THE KING IS DEAD

i needed to make sure

that he was mine.

i found his grave and waited.

when he was ready i listened.

there were many things he said

but it was more about the things he didn’t.

“the king is dead.” — to this, i listened.

“the crown will come with luxury

you can’t allow yourself to want,

it’s something you will never need.

this will disempower most of you.

take the responsibility &

find the crown, but take the ring

and never walk the path of kings.

it doesn’t matter where you go —

how you do is everything.”

and then everything was mine

i could have anything i liked.

i could be a king of gods

if that was what i had in mind

the king is dead.

and everything in mind is mine.

how do you like it?

people were easier to manipulate back in the day

never saw it when i would smile

but they’d keep the ideas and push me away

if you hadn’t before, ill bet you have doubt

now that you know what its all about

keep the money i want the power

lock the door melt the keys hide yourself in the tower

i don’t come for people who wither and cower

less they admit it and pay by the hour

if you change in a day i wont see you again

rags and riches, testaments, one request:

how do you like it?

i could make it a home

be miserable doing it

i could die alone

but my time would be worth it

or fall in love

live a life they call perfect.

If there is another way

i can say

i’m unsure how

who said it was

or where

I heard it

but i would sell my soul

to hear it

one more time.

one of the biggest mistakes i’ve ever made is believing a thought to be static once i forgot about it.

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A handwritten quote: 'Sometimes I get so caught up in finding the perfect word, I never find the right one.'
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WAIT

always listen

never push

wait.

its one thing to arrive

and another to stay.

the more time you spend alone

the easier it gets

sinking deeper

feeling certain

hard to do when they’re around.

always quiet

never push

wait.

the philosopher

i was a poet.  a metalmeat-head disney princess.  Musician hit me in the face like a loud snap.  Singing long before I knew Hegel existed makes for a poetic story, but the most i’ve ever earned of my own right is a friendship with a blank wall and a strikingly disappointed glare from the man.

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THE MURDER

I'm not sure exactly what happened when I opened my eyes.  Truth be told, I can't really remember.  But what I do remember of that putrid sunny morning, I'll be happy to tell you.

The first thing I remember, is that my face was completely flooded.  Tears, snot, drool; everywhere. On the desk, in my hair, on my face, soaking through my sweatshirt.  And I remember that my hands were shaking.  Not that I could see them really, but I could feel them.  They kept pulling away from me and going numb, so I kept trying to pull them back in and hold them and calm them down.  But some thing about that morning was preventing even me from holding my own hands.  And I remember that I couldn't see very well either.  So everything around me looked blurry and surreal.  And everything I heard was muffled and sharp, and it made my heard hurt, but somehow I couldn't manage to tell everyone that I was okay.  So I just kept shaking my head.  I remember that too.  I kept shaking my head because I wanted to tell them that no, nothing was wrong.  No, I was fine.  Even if I didn't look or feel fine, I really was.  I was fine.  So then I got up.  Or I tried to get up.  Like I said, I don't really remember.

First I stepped -- left.  And right.  And I staggered a little, and then I felt someone behind me who prevented me from falling.  I don't remember who it was, but I wish I did.  So I could thank them.  Because if they hadn't caught me, I'm pretty sure that standing up would not have been an option.  And right when I was about to keel over, that's when I saw the eyes.  Briefly, my bloodshot eyes let up and I saw those black, burning holes I had so ardently been dreaming about, yet trying to avoid in real life.  They stung worse than salt.  And that's when I lost it.  I mean, I found everything.  My vision, my hearing, my voice, control of my body.  But I knew that there just wasn't enough air in the room for even me, let alone everyone else.  So I stood up straight and grabbed my bag, looked at my teacher's face and told him, can I have a moment?  I meant to say forever.  Can I have a forever?  But what came out was, a moment.  But I took a forever anyways.  And I didn't really wait for an answer.  I just left.

And that's when I ran.  I did everything possible to prevent myself from sprinting out the door so that everyone would see how truly bad it was, but the second that rancid sun burned into my face I was full on running.  I don't think I've ever run as fast in my life.  To this day, I swear it.  I don't think I've ever cried harder while I was running either.  My eyes just wouldn't stop.  It wasn't one of those gasping, painful, tearing moments.  It was just one of those constant, leaking, endless moments.  They just kept coming, and there was nothing I could really do about it.

The next thing I remember isn't very pretty.  You can close your eyes if you want to, but I think I should tell you anyways.  So I had stopped running.  Somehow, a teary, snot-stained seventeen-year-old had managed to run off campus completely undetected by any security or faculty, and I was walking through one of the local neighborhood housing tracts.  I came to the park at the end of a street, and there was this old swing set that I saw.  I really needed to sit down at that point so I started to move towards it.  No one else was there, so I was pretty calm.  As calm as you can be after something like that happens to you.

As I was getting closer to the swing set, I walked by the slide and saw this sharp piece of metal bending out of the stairs.  This was a really old park, and it had really old everything.  Including me.  I felt like it had been ages since I left the classroom.  Anyways, this piece of metal.  I pushed my thumb up against it, and watched while that invisible line of glowing, red blood suddenly appeared.  I felt really good.  It was warm and calming.  Hypnotic just like water.  I hadn't realized until then that I was so cold.  So then, I put my wrist up to that rusty piece of metal, and pulled.  Real slow, but hard.  Up the highway I was told.  Not across the road.  And I stood there watching it.  It kind of, spluttered.  And oozed all over, up and down my arm.  It looked neat.  And it felt even better.  I was so relaxed; I hadn't even realized that my other arm was so lonely because it felt just that good.  So when I did realize, naturally, I threw my other arm up on stairs and in a much quicker and svelte movement, threw my hand to the floor.  The second time around it was much deeper.  I could feel it.  I didn't even need to look.  But I did anyways.  And it was beautiful.  It was so, red.  Red is my favorite color.

Passionate, hot, bloodthirsty and a completely new person I tried to stand up.  To be honest, I didn't even realize that I had sat down.  But somehow, it wasn't happening.  That's when I saw them.  That group of crows on the grass.  They looked kind of -- beautiful.  Black and vibrant, they flapped their wings every once in a while, and I swear to you, they looked like angels.  Those black winged angels, that everyone dreams about, but no one dares to talk about.  Just like them.  And then I remembered what they call a flock of crows.  Murder.  Right?  A murder.  Thinking that, and dreaming about how wonderful it felt to watch the murder from my warm and peaceful front row seat.  It was just, beautiful.  And that's the last thing I remember.  I told you; I don't remember much.

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A digitally manipulated image of a snow-covered forest with a symmetrical, abstract pattern overlayed, creating a mirrored, kaleidoscopic effect.

Brazen Hubris

allow me

to extrinsically hyphenate

and punctuate

my duplicitous meaning

with love

a paradigm denied by none

and a circle overcome

by only the most primal

of intuitions, such

is the intrinsic dichotomy

you’ll find me running from

until my brief moment of breath

to a dreamy end

has come.

A THOUSAND SUNS

to feel free.

the hunt for something right.

in the right order,

sharpening senses.

clearing smoke

by will.

they must look in my eye and see the suns.

thousands of suns.

i’ve  noticed

my intention must be moving

like cryptic glass

and the smoke

a wall of black.

filters through my soul

like breath.

i would  do anything to see

from the outside.

what makes it so hard to love me.

too scary to hate

i’m the only one who knows me that way

too scary to love

the only one who knows me enough.

until you.

MYLITTLEHEAVY

its heavy

when you step into my house.

i think some people

find it unbearable.

it’s comfortable to me now.

it can be sweating and waking up every hour

because its so hot

and i still need the blankets

to cover me

every layer

sometimes,

i need it to feel very heavy.

it needs care like a child.

there is no

foster home

strong enough.

no architecture deep enough

to contain the sound.

it is very dark in my house

because when i turn the lights on.

well that is unbearable.

when i can feel it

but don’t see it

it becomes clay.

words i haven’t written

feelings i can package in any story i like.

there are no rules about what it has to look like.

and no one ever has to know what it really does

look like.

sometimes i think it would be nice to float away.

let go of the heavy for just a little while.

but that also gives me a lot of anxiety to be honest.

the heavy knows that. so it gives me what i need to help me

feel

like im flying.

it has no qualms with my alpha.

it worships me.

because i take care of my heavy.

i take very good care of it.

and so now it takes care of me.

sometimes i wonder what the heavy will do

when i introduce it to

someone who can sit in my house long enough

to become acquainted.

people have tried.

they watch from afar and think it will be okay.

then they approach.

it really doesn’t take much.

the really sensitive ones don’t need

more than a few seconds of eye contact

when we first meet.

the sensitive but curious

they last a bit longer.

and then there are the people with their own

little heavies — running around

like toddlers, unyielding

and relentlessly energetic.

my heavy shows them how to take care of their little heavies.

these people last the longest.

i’m still not sure what it looks like when someone will be able to sit in my house

even when they’ve tamed their little heavies.

heavy is a monster after all.

and being immersed

its another world

of

“i don’t know if i can do this.”

i keep hoping someone

will give me their notes.

someone with bigger heavies

lurking about.

they do what they can.

but every heavy is so different.

and sometimes

admitting how much you love your heavy

is better than any outcome

tied to tranquilizing the poor thing.

it hurts more than anything.

watching.

feeling dejected and worthless.

and you want to just hold it and tell it that its okay

you accept it for everything that it is.

there is nothing wrong with my heavy.

my heavy is the most honest part of me that i have left.

it protects me

keeps me company.

and it kills me

to leave the house some days.

it just stares at me.

with its eyes drifting shut

bloodshot.

mourning.

asking

“why did you do this to me again?

im sorry.

ill be better nex….”

A written recipe titled 'fleur de lis,' instructing to combine sugar, cinnamon, and lemon zest with olive oil, and apply to a breaded cutlet.

CUPCAKE?

they made space in the far left corner

and I thought, “that looks.. nice”

but it didn’t feel right

My soul was already cold and they —

were way too blue.

“but we brought cookies and they have cupcakes.”

hm. But like. frosting.

and I’m a slut for sugar.

so now everyone is all pissed off or something

Like they couldn’t see my nice shade of black

drifting in the background

pining for something cozy.

i wore that shit like a billboard in LA.

but now everyone is staring.

and they keep looking at me.

so I keep looking back at that far left corner

like I made a mistake or something.

i didn’t.

the red over here — i like it.

Don’t disillusion me I have no time for that.

i’m a black-and-void pirate

— only sometimes —

and all the time would look something like

gunning for Lucifer’s crown.

ew. i have cuticles and split ends to consider.

but it’s fucking cozy over here.

And also,

i really like cupcakes.

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Digital artwork of a person with long blonde hair and bright eyes, wearing a black shirt. The style resembles a detailed painting or illustration with soft lighting and shadow effects.
Empty white background with no objects or details.
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Dark forest with large trees and dense foliage, black and white

&down

incinerate the parts they keep

and propagate what makes them weep

the ride to hell, they say,

is steep

one wrong move, one stumbled sweep

he'll drag you down

to sit with me

A handwritten poem in cursive text titled 'The young lady wanted to have.' The poem includes lines about a young lady, her thoughts, and her feelings, and is decorated with a flourish and a signature at the bottom.
Ornate floral fleur-de-lis design on black background.
A black background with white cursive text expressing feelings of loss and confusion, including phrases like 'lost,' 'i used to be something,' and 'i lost everything.'
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western europe — the central hub of conception regarding all things appreciated as the contemporary standard for stunning harmony and striking storytelling.   first birthed under ecclesiastical circumstances, the architecture of these regions alone lent itself well to ringing overtones that would later become the foundation for diatonic harmony.

beyond this, i have always wondered what it is about the specific arrangement of notes that captures a listener’s attention.  even more fascinating is the way that a specific collection of sounds can leave a listener feeling when it’s over.  this power of sound seems  to have remained fundamentally unshifted over time, providing the foundation for contemporary music appreciation throughout the ages.

in a small but memorable moment with my grandfather, i had a small epiphany of my own about the magic of that deceptively complex simplicity.  we were seated at a holiday dinner and in a brief moment of silence my grandfather looked at me and said, “i have a question for you.”  my grandfather was a quiet giant. soft-spoken, extremely well read, and very busy (a doctor).  these holiday dinners were particularly cherished evenings, as it was a rare opportunity to have him and all of his undivided attention present in the room. naturally, when he specifically asked me to engage in conversation a giant grin spread across my face.

“how much of music is psychological?” the table grew even quieter and for the following few moments, much of the conversation we had didn’t involve any speaking at all.  we kept eye contact for a short time before my eyes glazed over and darted around the room, generally directed at blank walls, floors and ceilings as they tend to do when i am lost deep in thought. when i looked at him again he was smiling too and i sort of half whispered, “well . . . all of it.”

i wish i remembered more of the conversation that unfolded following this moment, or better yet, had a recording.  it was a striking moment.  paradoxical in a way that he had deepened my understanding of the power of sound with opportune silence.

Kiss

He used to kiss her.

All the time.

Couldn’t keep his hands off her

From the moment he came home.

Rubbed her feet every night

Asked her

To solve all his problems.

Trusted her

with his wrappers and glasses.

Bought poinsettias

Bred them in the closet.

Secretly.

Until a beautiful bouquet

was ready

for Christmas eve.

He would

bring her chocolate

Take us out

to give her peace.

Yell and scream

So she could be

Beloved.

I’m not sure

if they don’t anymore

Or I just never see.

And more than anything

I wonder if he remembers

That he was always the one

Leaning in

And waiting.

In Your Bones

I have it down to a social science

incandescent and biblical silence

can you feel it that way?

— deep in your bones —

can you feel

it that way

when you look at me?

i feel watered down

by reductive occasions

half ignited

in damp situations

imbecile greets a thick lens

of impatience.

lending —

by the way this ever-brazen

fuck you.

is for slamming my face in

social platitudes.

when all i ever wanted to do

was think a little harder

and live a little longer

than you probably wanted me to.

Handwritten message "Love, Grandpa" with a heart and arrow drawing on a black background.