Something is drilling between my ribs.
Freedom swings to guilt.
*justify, justify, justify

Love me, he said.
She tried
And failed

I'm sorry
I did not let go
gracefully.

The poetry is coming back.
I can feel it.
Maybe because home is so close,
and the bitter-sweet taste of leaving
is closing in.
Home? Which is home?
Some wandering blood in says wherever my head rests,
clinging to the heart-strings
I've tied round the trees here,
Or the ones I left unraveled
far away.

Your truth is sweet.
Mine is sharp.
I cut away at you, without meaning to,
my hands are scissors,
yours are feathers.
Icarus, do not let me be your sun.

Us and all our lonely ghosts
shells, empty,
trying to fill the gaps in
with lover's flesh and ink.
Whiskey to warm our ribs,
seal us air-tight,
and drown the monsters
we can't write out of us.
Suffocate the **** things
before they learn how to swim.
Haunted, but not horrified,
we've seen ashes before.
We only wait for the March winds
to blow them away
and light
just
one
     last
          spark.

They say that one can lead a horse to water,
but one can't force him to drink.

Indeed,
this must be true.

However that may be,
I've never seen a thirsty horse
refuse good water.

I imagine that Jellaludin would have
something very witty to say about this.

I simply will say,
let your heart be like the horse
who never refuses sweet waters.