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I wonder if she thinks about me
A selfish thought indeed
As if I was ever that important
As if I didn't wish I still was
But the mind forgets what the heart obscures
And we have lost more than touch
Time - my wonderful companion has become a mortal enemy
I wonder if she still thinks about me
A selfish thought indeed
Because I only think of her in moments like this
A fleeting feeling that can't be trusted
So infectious and corrupted
I wonder if she still thinks about me
In the morning or before she rests her head
I wonder if I cross her mind even though another may lie in her bed
I don't dream about her
(...)
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It was a cool Saturday morning
The dew from the lawn seasoned the air
With a refreshing scent that floated on a gust of wind right into our open bedroom window
She kisses my chest and gives me new breath
Everything magnifies
The slight breeze becomes a magnificent whirlwind
That gently lifts and carries two souls off into eternity –
A perpetual state of free fall
Holding on to nothing but each other
The souls' eyes never part
Never glance forwards or backwards
Never losing the captivating captivity each has found in the other's gaze
She kisses my lips and the love persists
Everything magnifies
The sunlight tiptoeing through the blinds
Suddenly bursts into enormous flames engulfing all
Fermenting two hearts to dive into the pit of its fiery warmth
To let the sensation of the heat of the moment braze the two hearts into one
(...)
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I want to love again
I want to drift aimlessly in your warmth
I want to fall as a drunkard from the sweet taste of the elixir on your lips
I want to lay my head across your chest and count the beats of your heart until it synchronizes with mine
I want that never ending
Forever in the present
Forever in your presence
I want your fingers to submerge into the roots of my hair and dance from nap to nap to the rhythm of you
I want you to tell me you love me over and over even though I know but act as If I have Amnesia
Act as if I’m hard of hearing
I want you to act like nothing but your beautiful self
I want to wake up to your beautiful face next to mine
I want you to know you’re beautiful
I want you to hear it everyday
I want you to see it
I want you to feel it
I want you to feel me
I want you to want me
As bad as I want you
Then I want you to sleep
In hope that you might have the same dream that I have
The dream were we're still in love
(...)
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At the core of poverty lies a thick quilt of malice
Embroidered in greed
And fabricated promises
Stitched by the tailor and seamstress
Whose hands,
callused and bruised by years of depression ,oppression and
Intermediate progression, thwarted by "inadvertent" regression,
threads the very needle that severs their souls and punctures their spirits
It is Unbeknownst to the tailor and seamstress that the very quilt they sew, once completed, will wrap itself around their throats, deplete their life's earnings, and render them lifeless
The tailor and seamstress, broken, aged and afflicted with angst, will be said to have had self-inflicted wounds when they discover their bodies
Investigations will find no objecting evidence
Their families will mourn
Their bodies will be buried
But the quilt
The smothering life absorbing quilt
Will continue to be threaded ,stitched, and patched
The greatest honor that any artist can receive for a piece of art is to have it render its spectators absolutely speechless
In doing so any artist has done one of two extremes
The artist has either created such a masterpiece that's its transcendent beauty and otherworldliness leaves even the most astute critic devoid of thought
The grandeur of this work of art is so intense that once observed
Its image is burned into the soul of viewer like a brand to an unsuspicious calf
"Genius!" they'll yell prematurely
And whatever other words they can find to calculate and depreciate the value of the art
Or the contrary
The artist could have created something so unworldly something so sullied something so appalling and mindless that the neat pompous critics simply brush it away as if not to get a spec of dirt on their lavish sports coats
Breathless as in not worth a single gasp of air
Speechless as if unworthy of diction
And yet this is still an honor for any artist
For in their ignorance in their incompetence is complete silence
The stillness necessary for true beauty to speak for itself
1. How do you go about respecting a man who neglects to respect himself?
2. How do you begin to love a woman who has no knowledge of its existence?
3. How can you mend a broken heart with one that has already been shattered?
4. How can you find a smile in such a vile pit of matter?
5. How can one take life from self without taking self from life?
6. How can one be forgiven for sacrifice?
7. Why must the innocent be burdened with guilt?
8. What pleasure is there in bearing the malignancy of others?
9. Why do we continually destroy what again will be rebuilt?
10. Why do we surrender to suffer?
I shall call you anonymous.
For to summon the strength necessary for your name to pass my lips; requires a power far beyond my hardly humble existence.
Dear Anonymous:
Seems like eons since our eyes met
And ages since our mouths conducted stale symphonies
Words so translucent that as speakers we ourselves became transparent
Shallow as an empty shot of vodka leaving the throat rancid and molten
A burning sensation we so despairingly longed for
Neither of us could reject it nor could we even hesitate to refill our glass
Sometimes our voices clashed
Violently
Flailing hopelessly as if drowning in loneliness
Clinging desperately to the other’s words in a shameless attempt at staying afloat
Multiple times I let you drown
Only to be framed as your rescuer
Judas is thy savior
(...)
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Beautiful Death
Thy name is autumn
Irrefutable Death
Reflect thy sovereign
Use hues to sooth those who mourn
Then ensue to be subdued to elude the storm
With death
Thou art soon reborn
Reformed
Adorned
But for now
Thou art worn
Angelic crystals cascade the skies
Covers thy blisters heals all eyes
Freezes the sadness
Lightens all sighs
A wintry madness
To which (f)all falls and dies
In the morning we drink coffee
We drink coffee in the morning
Every morning
Routine
Every morning
Systematic
2 teaspoons of sugar to add a little zest
For a three hour drive to a job we detest
Is that it?
Every morning we drink coffee
We drink coffee every morning
Every morning
Fixed
Every morning
Engraved
Half a cup of cream to add a little color
2 cups at lunch and 2 more at supper
Enslaved
We drink coffee every morning
Every morning we drink coffee
Every morning
(...)
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Ride into The Night
Ride into The Plight
Stop for no victim
Stop for no light
Ride into The Pleasure
Ride into The Release
Rejoice in The Freedom
Until it’s revoked by the police
Ride until the sirens
Ride until the tyrants
Then Ride in cuffs
Head up
In silence
Ride into the station
Ride in amazement
For The Ride has just begun
The Ride to Salvation
The sky was clear blue
Save one angelic cloud
Danced as the wind blew
Amazed the snowy owl
A maze of beauty
So elaborate
White feathers shed
As the owl sped after it
Its black beak pierced the mist
The iced outer sphere
As complacency set in
It retreated out of fear
What if it rains
What if it storms
What if the cloud changes
Its beautiful form
What if these feathers are too thin
Too bright
And too long
(...)
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