I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

censored

We don’t see the carrots to be cut,
We see the sharp knife that could cut us.

We don’t see the bridge,
We see the other side of the railings.

We don’t see painkillers,
We see medication we could drown ourselves in.

We don’t see the train,
We see the tracks we could lay on.

We don’t see the nice view,
We see the cliff's edge we could jump off.

suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option
suicide is not an option

In you,
I've found an appreciation for the ones I've hurt
I've found a new reason to scorn the stars
For all their bright, unwavering light
For all their fragile grace they scatter upon us
I've found no way to leave my winter bones behind
To make peace with the new, and growing
I've found no reason to move on
And too many to stop

My words became
knives.
A paragraph,
a sword.
And when I
made
my first speech,
the room
                was
                        hit
                             with
                                            a
                                                    grenade.

Don't get too close if you forsake immortality -

consider this your first wave of yellow warnings.

I am still my mother's child, I remember every thing;

and with carved words like these and my bragging heartbeat,

watch me as I seal you in all my letterings,

until you find Death on his knees, calling me a ***** cheat,

no grave can keep you buried if you leave it up to me

to adorn you in forget-me-nots and singing elegies.


Copyright © 2022 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.

All of this time, I was discovering you
For such my arrogance assured
All of this time, it was you guiding me
In my self made mist, myself obscured.

Took my hand, my arm, my stride
Your eyes gazing into my soul
Softly, I spoke your name
Yet immediately lost control

I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

you’ve stolen so much of my soul,
i’m still trying to remember who i was

Love is like taxis
They're everywhere when you don't need it
But nowhere to be found when you do

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,
when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...

your name is
forbidden in
my mouth
or in my heart
because when
i think about
you;

i'll cry a little more,
hurt a little stronger
love a little softer
because you no longer
make me feel sober

i'm drunk on the
memory of you

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."

I don’t know how to love you.
He broke me down like
the longest math equation.
But, in the process of solving he found
no solution. Only lost numbers
memories stuck on the chalkboard.

You say you’re too broken too.
But now you’re here.
Confused and softened possibly
afraid.
Definitely afraid.

And in this moment my mind
flushed with all of the feelings I kept in
my little locked box.
The cherishment I have for you and the
care and want that come along with
you. I wanted you. I want you.
But my brain tells me I don’t.

So my words are broken but my mind
is made up.

I want to be with you but you
don’t want to be with a
f—- up.

I cannot draw faces but if I could,
I would add every detail be they
proper and good.
I would trace all the lines, and
the dimples to boot. Not forgetting
the eye's with an aim when they
shoot. The nose and the ears put
down in good style, the chin and
the mouth with a beautiful smile.
The neck would be long and pretty
to kiss, when you called her name
you would first call her Miss. You
would be amazed when you saw
her take form, the gleam in her
eye's will make you happy and
warm. This would be a face created
in spring, her long black hair
would entice you to sing. When
the picture was done and finally
through, I might get the notion to
draw a picture of you.

When I say
that you are my Sun,
I don’t mean that you are
Luminous,
Brilliant,
Gilded,
Beautiful,
Bold,
Warm,
Or even the center of my universe.
I simply mean that
I cannot look at you
Without hurting

it has been years
you didn't write nor call
i slithered from the church
for reach out to you
my savior, my redeemer
like an evangelist
im waiting for you
to come in a beautiful dress
and baptise me with your luscious kiss
so that under my spell
you can tell me im the chosen one
i can tell you you are the one i've been waiting for

The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

keep me in the
pocket of your jacket

love me in the
corner of your heart

dream of me in mantis shrimp
colouration.
think of me when doth
shatter thine heart.

if i could be
what i would need
myself I lose;
myself I dream

A tree falls in the forest,
and it doesn't make a sound.

A man yells in the forest,
and local wild life forms a mob.

A man falls in the forest,
and he doesn't make a sound.

A tree yells in the forest,
and we all run like hell.

it wasn't until the sun rose
that I realized
just how much
I was in love with the moon

The 19 murdered and martyred children and the 2 murdered and martyred teachers who taught them in Ulvade, Texas were a collective  Christ. They, like, Christ, were crucified, but by an endless stream of raging bullets that pierced their hearts and souls, killing all of them. **** Trump, Cowards Cruz and Abbott, and other members of the American Fascistist Party (formerly the Republican Party) also used the same trigger that has now murdered and martyred thousands and thousands and thousands of Americans. Indeed, all other members of the American Fascist Party have implicitly  been pulling the same trigger. The Second Amendment was drafted and ratified to protect the right of all citizens of the United States of America to possess legally muskets, not AR 15s. America is now apparently not only dumb, but also, and most egregiously, numb.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  is to what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.

To write words over and over
To explain what it feels to love you
To express what you mean to me

No words can be enough for that
And so I always end up erasing them

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

It's like the entire world feels right
whenever I see you.