Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.


She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.


Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.


A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.


Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.


Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”


The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.

Photography* is poetry using light.
Poetry is painting with words.
Painting is sculpting on eyes.
Sculpting is music for stones.
Music is writing through feelings.
Writing is pottery with thoughts.
Pottery is photography of clay.

Where do you go when bow your head and shuffle past,
with your hands deep in your pockets,
and you feet in the faults of the earth,
and you head in the sky?
When the sky is dark
and the trees are a hazy silhouette against your wearied trust,
a colorless horizon,
can you still see the sun?
Through an open window
or under the door,
a crack in the wood,
splintering you in two -
Light.
To go away,
find a place
veiled under a map,
hoping to find answers,
but instead
there are only veins and roads and vines
twisted together
until it's impossible to see which is which.
You found a cave where you can bury yourself
under a blanket of soil,
and sleep until the light awakens you.
Under your skin are moon beams,
effervescent,
refulgence.
Unread
Untouched
Unseen.
But behind your eyes -
nothing
and everything.
Still searching for
something,
somebody,
but finding nobody
being anybody
least of all yourself.

My whole life is about ( dy\dx) now .
that reached me out to think what if we were one function and  you was my own derivative , a part of me that can't handle for a second derivative . and all these chapters are discussing the problems between us .
the question is : are we both good at calculus enough to figure this out yet or am I to late to ask this question ?

My mothers beginning to worry
I don't eat enough
I'm glad to know she cares
But it isn't love

My fathers asking me if i'm alright
And I tell him a lie
I'm just as close to him
As any other guy

My friends don't ask
They don't see the signs
They don't look for sadness
Or my scarring lines

So I keep my fake smile
To keep them all away
Because even if I told them
They'd all leave anyway

<font size="22">“Can’t **** every day” is what he said
Hello, we don’t even.
Formal French frankly thrown away
Shock. No.
Scenes of SM and secret desires swirl to me
Wave of pleasure, literature of the flesh as well as poetry
All gone with the air of his breath. Breathe. No.

Can’t withdraw the ideas of fantasies
Can’t fight too long against love’s urges
Can’t deny to ignore them sometimes but
Can’t pretend to love him when his pride
As a male is destroyed, because his walking stick
Is askew, I’ve walked my path from California to here
Can’t always shush my fantasies’ atmosphere
I’m upstairs typing away my rage
On the from the start sensitive and ****** page
Wrote a book of poems full of mysteries and furies
Thought he knew it burned, bright.

Lyon, May 4, 2017

The red eyes
And snot stained
Sleeves

The shudders of
Emotional agony

The cement stones
Standing in rows

The tears of strangers
Without homes

The raggedy man
With years of grey growth
Holding a sign
So you know
That he needs help

The elderly man
Spotted skin
Wrinkling
While people
Keep forgetting him

The climate changed
Species displaced
And people running away
To find a safe place

Me, begging you to see
The suffering of humanity
While you just ignore me