No temo a la soledad del desierto,  
ese vasto espejo donde el eco  
se devuelve intacto,  
sin máscaras.  

No temo al amor ausente,  
a ese fantasma  
que otros persiguen  
con redes de palabras huecas.  

Mis ojos no retroceden  
ante sonrisas apagadas,  
esas que fueron faros  
y ahora son luciérnagas muertas  
en frascos de nostalgia.  

Las supernovas no me asustan.  
Yo mismo fui polvo de estrellas,  
resto de un Big Bang  
que aún resuena  
en mis costillas.  

Nunca regalé piropos  
como monedas falsas.  
Respeté los jardines ajenos,  
aún cuando mis manos  
se secaban  
por falta de rocío.  

Así aprendí a caminar:  
mirando primero la tierra,  
luego las siluetas,  
por si acaso  
alguna sombra  
quisiera ser mi dueña.  

Los ojos azules no me cazaron,  
ni el cabello café  
que huele a promesas,  
ni esas manos  
—suaves jaulas—  
que solo buscaban  
aprisionar  
lo que el viento  
se llevaría.  

Sigo esperando el barco  
que no tema anclar  
cuando las nubes  
se vuelvan puñales.  
La que prefiera mis olas,  
aun las más bravas,  
a los mares tranquilos  
donde solo flotan  
corazones de plástico.  

Mientras, navego  
en aguas prestadas,  
náufrago de mí mismo,  
mordiendo sal  
y escupiendo versos.  

Las estrellas,  
esas cobardes hermosas,  
huyen del amanecer.  
Yo no.  
Me quedo  
a ver cómo la luz  
me desnuda  
sin piedad.  

Mel Zalewsky.

My comfort zone smiles sweetly, like cheese in a mousetrap - harmless, until it snaps.

A programmed robot;
Designed to be loved by all,
Never to love at all.

I wear my grin like porcelain—
polished, perfect,
cracked beneath.

They see the shine,
not the spiderwebs
that threaten to split me clean.

I laugh on cue,
walk the line,
but every step feels like a dare—
will I break,
or bend again?

No one notices the hairline fault.
They only see
a masterpiece
that never asked
to be displayed.

But here’s the twist
they’ll never know:
I dropped the real me
years ago.

Pointless and inane.
Words said of my existence.
They don't define me.

a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...

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the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?

the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?

instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from

morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies

words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia

means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed

and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the

first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just

yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
*descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past^

You looked in the eyes and
Though there's tears rolling down
You still fed me lies
You tell me it's okay
But you don't hear my cries
You don't understand
I'm losing sleep at night
Don't tell me that you care
Because you're never really there
You don't even see
You're already hurting me

There are scars on my heart
Surrounded by ribs whittled and carved.
For so very long,
I have suffered at my own hands.
My work, it was gentle enough
To survive —
But torturous enough to tell me,
That I, was still relentlessly,
Alive.

Love breaks your heart.
As it has done from the start.
It tore us apart.