MY SPINE
a crooked tree and you the moss that covers it.
A blanket of comfort encloaking my mind and numbing time.
How is it that we admire trees yet they are not immune to our plague of advantage?
and neither are we to the sickness of adjustment,
slowly accustoming our eyes and minds until what one tree used to awe us with a forest could not excite.
SO YOU
are not only the moss but the avid rain.
Feeding my growth and cleansing my
rotten,
crooked
spine.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
The greatest sign of love perhaps
is taking the words out of your mouth,
and stringing them across my shoulders for all to see.
Like a chain of verbs and linked perceptions
stuttered to anyone and everyone who has the time to listen but
rarely do they have enough to understand.
A declaration of dependence
for the sake of our sanity.
A dependence on declaring
for a reason unknown to our egos.
and slowly these premeditated meditations will sink into our skin,
tattoos of our words engulfing the private eye.
Ones that only we can see.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I hope it’s not obvious.
My eyes glazed over with admiration.
Bloodshot with determination.
My mouth parched from an open mouth smile,
Unmotivated except when you’re on my mind.
I can’t live above your influence.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
The effort's mundane and we are dedicated participations.
A simple string of words exchanged,
Letters beamed up to satellite and scribbled on page.
Numbers and lines decoding our blind conversations.
Proximity proves that the heart is immune to location.
A scratch in your voice and a beep from the other line,
Pixel-ized faces only numb the passing time.
The lack off emotion masks a lonely frustration.
We are lacking what our connection needs most.
A fickle flicker that exchanges what we need to know.
Doomed by imprisonment behind screens and phones,
and I am acting as the predators host.
I vibe what should be felt up close,
The most transparent thing to see.
Commonly focused on something other than me,
the eye has no agenda to boast.
Utterly infected by this exuberant virus,
holding my court,
preventing distort,
I am the Iris.
(possibly, maybe, not finished)
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
My moral compass is delicately crooked,
always pointing East even when aware of the descending sun.
I need to deconstruct this internal locus and reassemble cell by cell,
until I am unaffected by the magnetic people and their vigorous pull.
So subtle is the change of direction that happens every day.
So obvious is the need for control in solely my own way.
But to reject all other poles is irrational,
because in the end,I would be a slender silver needle spinning wildly with no direction.
Even the voluntary can seem controlled by an unspeakable force,
or the nudge of a voice whispering the next move into my ear.
Should I follow the South of my ancestors or the East of my peers,
the West of society? The North of my fears?
A push one way fails to answer any questions,
disorienting my lead and un-aligning the poles.
For now I will pause in the grey area of each direction ,
silently waiting for a queue from within
a neutral force in a battle I can not win.
Yet, I can not wait here forever .
Eventually the needle will stop spinning,
and the navigation will begin.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
I am a lover.
Falling in love every day.
The stars are the flirtiest, constellations constantly reeling me in,
and the people on Earth who prove me wrong with their inviting charm.
I am a teacher.
Erasing the corrupt.
Making attempts to prevent my mothers ways
and instructing never to think of tomorrow.
I am an artist.
Either that or I have no taste.
For I find beauty in almost everything,
and would be lost without a pen and paper.
I am a dreamer.
Even awake, my reality is stretched.
I rattle the sane thoughts out of my head
and replace them with the unknown.
I could tell you my thoughts, yet you would be confused at best.
I would paint you, but you are alluring even without this test.
I could inform you to what I've discovered, yet to you it might be bad.
I would love you un preventably, much to my dismay, I already have.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
A pale yellow butterfly weaves in-between the legs of Plai-Jum Pui.
In the middle of the Thai jungle the hard sun beating down,
it tempts this angelic beast with its life.
Trusting in an elephant not to step on you,
Rocking back and forth on the bones of his back.
I guess I've done the same.
A Boeing jet, double decker.
Five hundred and twenty five people balancing on its wings.
The turbulence cradles us back to sleep,
finding motherly comfort in the foreign flight attendants reassuring words.
Having faith in aluminum sheets,
we all drift back to sleep.
A knock on the door and a call from the neighbor,
complaints of boundaries being resisted and property abused.
Fences acting as a seam to a fiery feud.
Guardian of their own selfish wills.
The worst war is fought from within,
a fight with your own kin.
A naive creature is spared its life,
confiding in the unsure and unreliable.
lacking trust for each other,
and burdening these winged seraphs and mothers.
The assumed minor species rely on one another,
having no need for metal protection and a religious buffer.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:45 PM UTC
This was there own personal Neverland.
A place where they lived like adults, but had the responsibilities of kids.
The ultimate freedom of a no strings attached kiss,
selling a bit of their souls with each sinful purchase.
Oh how bad I wanted to be a part of it.
Take me to this corrupt Neverland,
this place of spoiled childhoods and sad futures.
let us dance and laugh and play,
until we die or get sent away.
Utopia seems so reachable while standing in your shoes,
Out of all the worthy people,
I hope I am the one Peter will choose.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
The unspoken words and thick air always lingers but never settles. No
senses can reach this message, I want them
written on paper, murmured in a coy way, tastelessly forced upon me to devour, sung until the music notes are so bright
that crows toes curl at my squinting wrinkles.
What scientists can’t prove
is the nothing of human connection, what hearts tend to lose
is instinct without dissection.
I have no proof and it’s all in my head so the unspoken words and
thick, choking, air,
squeeze out of my lungs. escape from my mouth and into
evidence.
Instead.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
A million faces I don't know
this feels better than home.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC