All I ever really try to be in my life

is genuine.

And I refuse

to be influenced to feel

that my effort to be so

is a fault

that means to be fixed.

Here I sit,

amongst a silent chaos.

Desperate to find that

poetic literary justice

to my current life.

Yet,

here I sit,

finding nothing-

but feeling everything.

"Hatred" is the thing with claws-

that slices through us all.

And leaves a wound without it healed-

then, captures for it's thrall.


Torn by it's embrace with pride.

It infects all that it leaves behind.

But love could be it's mend

that keeps our hearts enshrined.


I've seen it rip and tear lives-

and play with them like prey.

Yet, never, in experience

it suppresses love with it's pain.

** Based off an Emily Dickinson poem

I try to tell you

in the most subtle of ways

of how I struggle,

my dear beloved,

of why I am pained,

of where that I go when my mind has gone,

of what I want from you,

in these subtle ways

that doesn't compromise

with my own dignity.

That doesn't also expliot

my very dependency

on what I need,

of what I beg of you.

You have pleaded to me

a time before,

to tell you,

to show you.

But, I have tried to tell you,

my love,

in the most subtle of ways

Yet,

you do not hear me.

You will not hear me,

will not see me,

in a way-

Oh my dear love!-

that would also

spare me my dignity.

A dull, exhausted flame

deep beneath my skin,

hiding within a sheltered

part of my heart

that clings desperately

with its embrace-

begging not to be extinguished.

The flame flickers,

pulsing with the beat of my heart,

waiting, urging to blaze.

Ignited only from this lost part

of my soul

finding its way back home again.

The lost part of me wanders

in the desert void of distractions,

sails through the endless sea

of demanding expectations.

It beckons it's siren call.

But the pleas are muffled by

the mountains of piled sand,

swallowed up by the crashing of

the tidal waves.

I see a friend in the face of a stranger,

but I let the stranger pass me by.

As quick as a cold breeze

brushing against me in the empty night.

A glimpse of a person

whom could have been

that piece of a soul who could

connect with mine.

A connection brought out by love

that is also not love.

An innocent love fueled by companionship,

of two souls recognizing one another.

Not as the conjoining of one

but as if journeying side by side.

Like that of children,

conjoining only in the soft comfort

of two, gentle hands.

I've seen a friend in the face of strangers,

but a friend is still yet to be.

In the loneliness, I wonder,

does the stranger see the face of

a friend in me?

When you are the persona of strength

it always seems people view you as if

you are sitting high in the heavens

on this light and effortless cloud

with large, white wings flowing

out of the bones in your back-

no regard to the ground below.

Your smooth skin is covered in

diamond platted armor-

impenetrable to

inferior forces.

You become invincible

in the eyes of them.

But when that persona starts to crack,

like sharp, jagged edges of

broken crystalline glass

that glorious veil starts to lift,

the cloud turns to crashing thunderstorms,

your wings wither to dark ash,

your bones start to brittle,

and you become fully aware

of the ground below.

Scar covered skin,

vulnerable and exposed

to, now, superior forces.

You are no longer invincible

in the eyes of them.

You are no longer invincible

in the eyes of you.

You are now

the tragic truth

of a revealed illusion

on what its means to be

the perception

of strength.