jonathan-gabriel-salvador

My desert flower who rests on a bed of sand Softer than silk and finer than stardust, emerging like an oasis In an endless wasteland that is my own. Bloom under the silvery moonlight! Bloom when I am there Bloom when I am not Bloom until our world collides with the stars. Your immutable beauty, Endless. Wondering what your name shall be.

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Jun 7, 2014

Jun 7, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC

Untitled

My desert flower who rests on a bed of sand Softer than silk and finer than stardust, emerging like an oasis In an endless wasteland that is my own. Bloom under the silvery moonlight! Bloom when I am there Bloom when I am not Bloom until our world collides with the stars. Your immutable beauty, Endless. Wondering what your name shall be.

14

At midnight, the microwave reads "00:01" And the sound it emits displaces roaches in the cupboards. The sound of a distant freeway, running with traffic, Like the blood which flows through my veins, constant. Neon lights buzz in the background, And a moth floats, attracted to the light, Which flutters until it dies, and its final resting place is the window sill, Near a dying tomato plant whose soil is littered with ashes, From late night smoking sessions as I stare at the street below. Pedestrians are silhouettes stalking the streets at night. And when they pass under a light, you're surprised to see: The student, the migrant worker, and the mother of four, disengaging from the hourly buses which run at this hour. The microwave reads "00:00," and its beep alerts of the meal, Mostly frozen peas and potatoes, but the meat is warm, And the plastic film poked with holes slowly fills the apartment, With some sign of life and comfort.

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Oct 27, 2013

Oct 27, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC

jonathan-gabriel-salvador

The Pathetic Apartment

At midnight, the microwave reads "00:01" And the sound it emits displaces roaches in the cupboards. The sound of a distant freeway, running with traffic, Like the blood which flows through my veins, constant. Neon lights buzz in the background, And a moth floats, attracted to the light, Which flutters until it dies, and its final resting place is the window sill, Near a dying tomato plant whose soil is littered with ashes, From late night smoking sessions as I stare at the street below. Pedestrians are silhouettes stalking the streets at night. And when they pass under a light, you're surprised to see: The student, the migrant worker, and the mother of four, disengaging from the hourly buses which run at this hour. The microwave reads "00:00," and its beep alerts of the meal, Mostly frozen peas and potatoes, but the meat is warm, And the plastic film poked with holes slowly fills the apartment, With some sign of life and comfort.

17

I love building bridges just to watch them burn, Until no trace is left. And what was there is just a figment. An apparition of the past that I forwent, But you admire because We - I am no more. Your image reflected upon the river is restless. You. Removed, carried by the current. Are no more.

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Sep 15, 2013

Sep 15, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC

jonathan-gabriel-salvador

I, No More

I love building bridges just to watch them burn, Until no trace is left. And what was there is just a figment. An apparition of the past that I forwent, But you admire because We - I am no more. Your image reflected upon the river is restless. You. Removed, carried by the current. Are no more.

8

Death by water. An homage to asphyxiation. It is funny how a thing of beauty can leave such a horrible scar. Redundancy. I grow my roses in a fish tank and when they bloom I submerge them in water.

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Sep 14, 2013

Sep 14, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC

jonathan-gabriel-salvador

Death by water. An homage to asphyxiation.

Death by water. An homage to asphyxiation. It is funny how a thing of beauty can leave such a horrible scar. Redundancy. I grow my roses in a fish tank and when they bloom I submerge them in water.

3

Out of the gutters running with tears, Of the mother whose child’s blood Clogs the storm drain, Grows — A flower of carnage eating the iron. It is a thing of beauty. Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge — Lascivious lips that create Lust. Il es mort. C’est L’amour. I was dead the moment I met you. I present you with the thing of beauty. A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets. 'I'll get the vase.'

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Sep 14, 2013

Sep 14, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC

jonathan-gabriel-salvador

Red

Out of the gutters running with tears, Of the mother whose child’s blood Clogs the storm drain, Grows — A flower of carnage eating the iron. It is a thing of beauty. Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge — Lascivious lips that create Lust. Il es mort. C’est L’amour. I was dead the moment I met you. I present you with the thing of beauty. A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets. 'I'll get the vase.'

12

Have we upset this chance at true love Exhausted our emotions, experiencing so much loss A feeling entrenched, eternal self loathing With no signs of escape, or reversion An endless cycle of misfortune Take the chance and chase desires Until we venture through frontiers, Leaving gardens of earthly flowers For in the darkest light Our souls can still find flight Let us gaze upon celestial spheres We are just circling in an endless odyssey of emotions Until we find our reason For true devotions.

0

Sep 14, 2013

Sep 14, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC

jonathan-gabriel-salvador

An Endless Odyssey of Emotions

Have we upset this chance at true love Exhausted our emotions, experiencing so much loss A feeling entrenched, eternal self loathing With no signs of escape, or reversion An endless cycle of misfortune Take the chance and chase desires Until we venture through frontiers, Leaving gardens of earthly flowers For in the darkest light Our souls can still find flight Let us gaze upon celestial spheres We are just circling in an endless odyssey of emotions Until we find our reason For true devotions.

15