there are so many books
scattered, unread, overlooked

throughout my bedroom
and it fills me with gloom

to see the untouched art
created from the deepest of hearts

left to linger on the cold floor
for the rest of their days, unexplored

The letters I never sent still sit and collect dust.
An novels worth of thoughts filled with you.
The time taken, conveying something not so easily read aloud.
If by the time I do send these letters your thought will still be present.
Sealed with the accordance that I imagined your lips before licking and sealing it shut.
Of course not every letter is of a serious tone.
There has to be some silliness somewhere.
Smiles scribbled to and from the end of the flap.
Letters nicely tucked, a hint of cologne still lingering about.
Words floating from one page to the next.
Hoping you see my face in every line in the letters I never sent.
Simplifying the significance of how much I thought of you.
Facing a blank sheet of paper soon to be filled.
Attempting a million and one ways to confess all the unique and special
things that make you, well.
You.
No one is you.
Remember that, as by the end of this letter I'll imagine placing my lips against your forehead.
That's enough for me.
As the letters I've never sent will soon become a novel devoted to the many times I've sat and thought of you

Books of novel are tetra-packs.
Fruits of society are manually picked up
crushed, mixed in neat proportions
and sealed to make fresh fruit juice.
Goodwill achieved by the presenters
put wings to the packages.

It's a different world in the dark interior
There are dreams of sun, rain, summer,
and the colors and tunes of spring
present a mirror world
full of butterflies and pests.
Each pack waits to tell its inside story
to an expectant connoisseur
and waits eagerly for a sigh of relief.

As the wind rolls on
cloned and genetically modified fruits appear
new entrepreneurs present newer packs
modern people enjoy never-before taste.
Every now and then new vistas open up,
the two worlds spin side by side.

As the water birds lifted from the morning tide,
I found myself being lifted from an unconscious
state to the dictionary by four unfamiliar syllables

like the many poets before me, searching for
the meaning of nomenclature. Interestingly enough,
it could have been me on the other side of a poem

that I would come back to after sundown: an old,
scientific word who first appeared in 1610,
whose roots grew, naturally, like the hidden

interests of a loved one, from the Latin
nomenclatura (the assigning of names).

But instead, I ended up on this side of the poem,
sitting before an empty screen and a dictionary
in a Yankees ball cap and denim t-shirt, slowly

piecing together a poem about a 17th century novel
while trying to include the sudden interest of my
loved one: French parenting literature on healthy

eating, all while slowly tying the loose ends
of a poem without meaning together.

Lie down and eventually bury yourself
Twenty pages, your mind is someplace else
Marry your mind to the old bookman font
Escape to a reality that will never haunt

Caricatures of your imagination
Yes, probably a big white hoax
But cults&planets; couldn't have been unearthed
If man stayed under his 'real' invisibility cloak.

6 | 31 Poems for August 2016

Here I stand, gradually disintegrating just so I can remain whole.
It’s interestingly sad to see how many people that are alive feel dead to me.
Your kind words are smooth like a fresh cup of latté but I need something stronger to battle this heartache.
Got nothing to read except the words I effortlessly wrote last night and a few James Patterson novels.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
The sincerity of my words is embedded in the movement of my metaphors, similes, adjectives and verbs.
I love waking up whole to the bonfire of a warm and loving soul.
But you will eventually grow tired of me, somehow they all do.
Everything is slowly falling apart, I just wish I had full control.
All I can do is sit and helplessly watch while the debris flies over me.
Here I stand, gradually disintegrating just so I can remain whole.
I love waking up whole to the bonfire of a warm and loving soul.
But I hope that you never grow tired of me unlike how everyone did.

So we write,
about this world,
about this place.
I write about somewhere we haven't gone.
my mind,
going into hysteria,
yet i feel euphoric.
Someday,
i won't have to wait for you,
so i write novels
to tell you,
i'm not the same person you knew.
Because i write novels in my head,
to tell you;
regardless of everything that has happened,
I've dedicated this part of my novel to you,
to say,
ILY you too.

//KZ.M