I ask myself the question of what,
what do i want?
what is my wish?
I am almost out of words
To think of my wants
To encapsulate my wishes
Reviewing my too many wishes
Putting them together into view
My tantrums start, my head throbs
Too many wants,
too much headaches they say
But surprisingly...
I wish I have More wishes to come
After the review of the
too many wishes and too many wants
map my wishes and my wants together and view
Damn.. I am almost out of wishes
To Talk about my wants and wishes..
listen to the words there ,
I wish I want more wishes
~ Sharina~

My mother left on Sunday.
A ghostly presence walks the
Wooden stairs and flicks the finger-smudged
Spindles lining the path
To my parent's bedroom.

Clocks chime the hour, their bell-
Melodies insist mnemonic
Memories
Of her infinite delight.
She loves clocks. She'd often wake
Before us and sit in her
Favorite chair to listen to
The effect of their orchestrated
Sounds.

They have a white noise quality
More musical than whirred fans
And insistant television.
I've met this sound-off
With distaste.
Since her absence my distaste has transfigured
To homesickness.

The heart throbs in shadows.
I'm a clock whose white face has aged yellow,
Without hands to signal the hour,
With a song on a dented bell.

Pain
contained in a cell of skin and blood
throbs hard,
striking out at the walls with a thud
forlornly I stare
down at the bud
of the poem which I had wished to begin,
and wonder exactly which sin
this mind war is repentance for...
ah well, suppose it's sods law.

pupils dilate
when i look at you
bumps on skin
from a chill
i never saw coming

the fist in my heart throbs
and pains my chest
i would tear it out
as a gift for you
blood dripping in a mess

the love in my veins pumps only for you
my body waits to watch what you do

harmful yet tempting
it lurks within
the thought of it
the memories of it

it pierces your heart
with a fine needle
making a design that cannot be taken away
it throbs
pulsating throughout your entire body
rattling your bones
and sending traces of it through your bloodstream

it's venom
it immortalizes you and yet,
you like it
you covet for it
you want the thing that slowly makes you into something you're not

it's slowly eradicating your flesh
and yet, you like
the smell
the sensation
the sound that echoes within your ear canal

harmful yet tempting
it lurks within
and you don't have the tenacity to rid it from yourself

Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true
There were kids
Sitting in the soft night's semicircle
Encased in a haze of smoke
The darkness enfolding them in a cloak
Of all mysterious things nocturnal
Making it all eternal
A superficial feeling of found truth
A white aura of blazing youth
Conquering the darkness with the fiery tips of lit joints
Puffing chimeras and golden illusions
Things left unsaid yet lead not to confusion
The substance and the glowing friends
Seems to fix everything and make ineffable amends
Lends them some heightened receptivity
With some dazzling sensitivity
To the dizzy promises of life
        Wanted a woman, never bargained for you
There was blue bottles and red cups
Sloshing full of 21st century ambrosia
Every moment of the night
Is doused in glowing star-light
Different rooms, dark places
Different shadows, similar faces
        Lots of people talk and few of them know
There was music softly ebbing and weaving its way to us
      Soul of a woman was created below
Gleaming sequined pillows
Curtains ebbing in delicate billows
That no amount of reality could ever harden
In the black garden
Amidst the tangy, acrid scent
Boys and girls came and went
Among the soughs and the vodka and the gleaming stars
We are young; vodka replaces wine, blunts replace cigars
      You hurt and abuse tellin' all of your lies
An adagio of whispers travels with a florid vibration
Waves of words, swirls of conversation
High kids trying to touch
What has never been tangible
     Run around sweet baby, Lord how they hypnotize
These kids linger on towering stools and lush couches
Leaning back with careless slouches
Or wander back and forth
Breathing dreams like air
     Sweet little baby, I don't know where you've been
An elusive rhythm throbs in the humid atmosphere
Fragments of lost words hover on drunken lips
A stirring warmth flows
From bodies spilled together
Snuggled under a blanket of stars
      Gonna love you baby, here I come again
Hands take hold of hands
And fingers tightly interlace
Throbbing softly with fluctuating warmth
The room is electric, filled with tiny flowing currents
      Try to love you baby, but you push me away
In this wake of boozed up elations
All sorrows are aborted, all conscience is obliterated
Blitzed kisses are exchanged, transitory enchanted moments
Bemused nudges and tender embraces
Arms around shoulders, heads resting drowsily
All of this immediate and forever
        Don't know where you're goin', only know just where you've been
And the tipsy, blissfully mindless joy of youth
Gives them bleary yet satisfactory hints of the unreality of reality
        Sweet little baby, I want you again
The teens are flickering in and out of consciousness like befuddled fireflies
The sober ones roam the rooms, drifting haphazardly about
Simultaneously enchanted, bewildered, and repelled
By the seemingly inexhaustible variety of drunken fun,
The racy, adventurous mood of the night
        Been dazed and confused for so long, it's not true
We are all so young
So young and dipped in the dust of folly
And our laughs contain a hint of melancholy
The magic of nights like these,
When the spell of mortality is broken,
Eludes us all,
Yet we cling to them
Like moths to a flame.
Nights like these dig deep in the stuff of the soul
But there is still much to be learned

I. (The Gone).
They have gone.
Why does it bother me so?
A truth,
only a handful of gems
stay bright,
all others
faded
like pencil on paper
until a faint mark remains,
what was, what now is.
Names in conversation,
a drive down the alphabet
then and now,
clotted recollections
breaking apart
each time, stalled
in silent traffic.
A few, needles I suppose,
a shot in the arm
again, again,
I cannot believe
how many times
their voices
painted everything,
but long gone,
no abrasion or impact
to consider, to revise.
On occasion,
a stretch into fog,
icy melancholies
but not always
a echo,
moments to inform
me they can return
if they wish.

II. (The Bare Feet).
So, it is night.
Whorls of cream
came through the door,
sleepyhead next to me,
ragged, tired,
out of juice.
I can only say
‘I knew you would.’
This is not your home
but we’re not far away.
Lipstick less rosy,
sound of drums
still throbs in our ears
but it was worth it,
for confetti,
flecks of gold
whirling around
you, the crowd.
Peachy lights
spray across
your face,
piano black eyes,
warm bare feet.
It is not real
but we can touch,
we can speak.
On our knees,
we look at each other,
I hold you,
the minutes
stutter past
and for a moment
only silence,
silence is all
we need for our words
are used too much.

III. (The Next.)
It took
over a year
but we saw
each other again.
Since the end
of a grey June day,
two years
elsewhere,
forty miles the difference.
He quit,
the right choice
he tells me
as we reminisce,
that’s what it is
these days,
now he looks
for the next stage
and soon
it will be me
who must fully
step into adulthood,
like a foot plunged
into a bath,
too hot, too cold.
Did we expect this?
If we could see
next year
would we smile
or scowl?
Tell ourselves
it’s just the way
things go,
on, on, on.
Now, as I look
out my window,
the faintest tinge
of orange
descending,
I know, he knows
we don’t know
what comes next.

A fire ignites
Inside my very fucking self

Pain unjulates
From each nucleus
Of every single living cell
Out through my tattered bones,
To my skin
That burns to the touch

My sinews
Feel severed
The pressure from each step
Shoots electricity up through my spine
The release of each step
Throbs with each heartbeat
I can feel my blood
Rush through my veins
And even that
Steals my breath

My tread
Breaks tempo
With a limp
I drag my throbbing feet
Weighted by exhaustion
And hours of constant
Vibrating hurt

The doctors say it's in the neurons
Of my brain.
They misinterpret
Touch as pain

So I live in constant
Chaos
Wondering if there will ever be a day
Where my cells will silence
And I will find some relief

I pressed my left heel down to get it into the strap of my sparkled sandal--bought from the cheap version of the rich girl store; I got them more than half off.
I'm a fraud.

Sliding my foot into the shoe,
the way I've done so many times before,
I lose my balance.

And there goes the first one.
I knew the nails were coming off;
I'm not all that wealthy.

I have to wait until the last minute to cough up fifteen bucks to get these things re-done.
I thought it just popped the nail straight off,
but it throbs and is begging for me to pay it some attention.

I peer down at where the once perfectly manicured nail (baby blue tips and all) had sat upon my index finger.
It has left a bloody mess--jagged and imperfect.

I can see my real nail drawn up next to my cuticle like a smile.
Placed on top is a half moon of hardened acrylic until it breaks off near the soft doughy point of my freshly exposed fingertip.
Edgy.
Almost.

The blood lines the rim and trickles it's way down
curving its way around the smile;
highlighting the crescent of my own fingernail.
It throbs.

“Fuck.”
I say wanting someone to hear me.
“FUcK.”
a little louder.

I just want to complain lately.
I want a little attention for the suffering I put my own self through.
As I wait it throbs more.

I wipe the blood away just to watch it refill.
I walk down the stairs,
and they take care of me.
They give me my oohs and ahhs and owes,
put some ointment on a paper towel because we don't have bandaids,
wrap it with tape,
and I'm off to sew my dress back together for dinner.

My sister's dress;
my sister's dress that she got from a nearby neighbor
who stuffed it in a trash bag and left it there for us to take.

Maybe I will get a discount.

ive seen depression,
many times.
felt the knife,
watched my loves hold
it their hands.
told myself never to feel that way.
not supposed to see loves that way,
not supposed to see sweet boy that way.

felt depression.
felt the hurt in my hands.
truth:
not not want life,
just can't feel now.

being isn't helping.
it's an ache that ebbs and flows,
and now that you're gone,
it throbs and holds.