my inbox is a wonderland
a rollercoaster;
an amusement park itself!
four years ago
said the time stamp
he said "hi"
no matter how much i boast
on my way with words
most times i'm just lost.
my inbox is a wonderland
a rollercoaster;
an amusement park itself!
seven years ago
said the time stamp
she said, "you're not my friend."
no matter how much i boast
with my way with people
every relationship comes out with scars.
my inbox is a wonderland
a rollercoaster;
an amusement park itself!
five years ago,
as indicated by the time stamp
my friend told me, "i hope it gets better for you"
no matter how much i boast
about my big heart and love for them
i always forget to tuck them close.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC
I said a million things in my life,
maybe more,
but most of the things I've said have been ignored.
I don't consider myself a medical expert, by any means,
but surely this must be a sort of disease.
I keep trying to talk, waiting to express who I am,
but what I failed to realize is that no one really gives a ****
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
Oct 26, 2017
Oct 26, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky.'
'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.
So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.
We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
who insists his playmates run.
Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
should inflame the sleeping town.
So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.
The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.
Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.
Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
joins his enemies' recruits.
The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:
Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
cycling phoenix never stops.
So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
away our rationed days and weeks.
Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
there were spaces where there should have been dots,
a million things since but thickening the plot,
distance between bodies,
mighty oceans of memories,
the weight of our world was more than the weight of your words.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
where once there were words, now there is nothing.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 2:32 PM UTC
I don't believe in anyone, so I say,
yet here I am being consumed, just another prey.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 2:30 PM UTC
i dedicate my time
on your blog and social media
you dedicate yours on writing
about your soul mate;
the one who got away
(and of course, i'm a pouting mess
but i still read them nonetheless)
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC