Eyes stare...
Into nothingness,
The jigsaw of to be’s,
Arranges and rearranges;
Into an appeal of mirage...
Swelling the oasis of life!

And when the glare pierces,
Eyes blink;
The jigsaw settles,
Synchronized with reality;
Strengthening my mind...
To derive the quirky balance -
Between the could be’s ;
And the one that is!

Red were the roses, the ones I left on your casket,
Orange were the leaves, the ones in your tree,
Yellow were the bruises, the ones that covered you head-to-toe,
Green were the stains, the ones left on the hems of your jeans,
Blue were your lips, the day you were found in your noose,
Indigo was the night sky, that night that you died,
Violet was that bruise, the one you wore around your neck

Father figures through out my life
they fall to pieces for my mother,
only to get swept out by her broom
when the floor the family is depending on
gets too filthy to dwell in.
Blame this on the fact that Pisces
is in Saturn in my birth chart.
It was never in the cards
for me to have a father.
I no longer have to play the role of a daughter.
My age has outgrown that possibility,
my mother could never keep a man
in the house for too long,
on the surface she is strong
but my mother makes us sleep
in her bed for a reason.
I came from a male chromosome
that came from a body
that has yet to perish
but dead to my existence.
I don't mind this,
except nights when I'm pure tragic
madness, and he pulls up in front
of my house while I'm drinking wine
and puffing chemicals.
Hello, you made me
but we don't speak.
Strange sadness but mammals don't
need parents to fend for them once one hits
a certain degree of awareness.
But I thank him anyways for giving me life.

her words can tickle your ears
her words tickle more of you than you wish you'd hear
but tell me this
without a twist

what have you told her?

We know so little,
so little, almost nothing
and this is only truth,
when and from where?
from the fissure of infinity
and the unreel of time,
lonely splinters
we wander on dreamy travels,
and the truth a flowing shadow
and it call us,
but the call still is not heard,
nor does the caller reveal his face,
and people voicelessly love and die,
because the truth dosen't speak,
but dance in the harmony of unity.

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

Endless field of tulips,
Many out of my reach.
The one that withered was more than 30 kilometres away,
Yet the sadness of the farmers I do not know was felt in such a way.
It was a beautiful day,
Tulips sparkled in the sun rays.
Yet it felt like it was pouring,
And the silence was roaring.
It wasn't my tulip to know,
But when it withered I felt the cold.
It's a perfect day with no snow,
but the day has lost its glow.
A withered tulip in a distance,
And I felt its fleeting existence.