It is sharpening crimson steel in a knife as of that, with it fingers softly bleed like care and rise as a shuttered peach in
a sturdy piece of scarlet, paid in heed.

Your foreboding onthou my skin is no more truly nor less rigid unplugging of violin strings out of a guttural chords into a straight morbid fire, and a pain structure
hardens, straightens,
embeds them forever into every light’s riddance, this trial mended.
Welcomed fireflies in a
solstice. bonfire. forest. [stygian].

Love, my dearest Love, if your ever evanescent body or voice even exists:
if I ever dare to greet in my tears music it only may be to bleed with you in one common fluid, to have my ribs torn gently by
each your promise barely for my hand’s taking,
endure time to have my truer form by you,
a sensation, clad in lilac velvet that goes
under the name of “Paper Airplane” by
my thoughts.

To keep.
Us.
Intact.
More than as rain we always are.

A child picked up a solitary chalk and sketching protruded some things by that hand & sight, some sun with injustice drawn, that elders’ words and acts
have not put up.

Some of the chalk simply lays everyday crushed.

I expect
the day when
Poetry is no
longer forcefully
mulled
over
words,
when we commit
it
as of
us,
when we
reek
of it,
or rather
Poetry
reeks
of us,
not shunned or shunning by
the traps in
word-ings.
We Poets then
will truly spurt
and raise an elegy
off
the skin.

That one faithful day
libraries and others will shed
books,
letters and papers,
like finally autumn
leaves,
our chips into small
encasings
like pearls with shells
their.

And
those who choose us
on the shelves will
receive the reward
of our dragging
into
our depths like
persistent algae,
for
a while,
or forevermore.

And I’ll finally be
able to unveil to them:

“I am one of Poetry’s
revelations.”

For now/
pay the lyrical’s heed/
in its written ways/
by the respect of every/
blank space ending/
before each and every verse/
it brings/

I don’t want
all the words

to behave

I want them
all to mean

something
but not always

what I had
in mind

they can dance
to their own

beat

create a new
sound

tell a story
I never heard

I try to give
them the space

to grow

******!
You disgusted me
Animal!
Yes, you were.

We called you family, our guardian
Who gave heavenly promises with your ***** mouth
Who quoted prayers from the holy books

You took his life
You ripped his clothes
Made loathing  scars around his flawless skin
You ate and chew him
Like the wolf in the tale we read

You were a monster and a sinner
You were ******
No one would forgive and forget
For your sins
For your scenes

bike's rusted chain
against the walls of my childhood
a new family lives inside
but what they don't see
are the notes of cardamom and burnt orange
rolls of film that my parents and I left behind
capturing sneakers over gravel
along the east river
toward the steel Hell Gate
as dad jogged beside me
his caramel skin
against the sycamores
my first time learning how to ride
they don't feel the bruises and scrapes nor
taste the paella we shared for dinner that evening
they only see what we gave them,
an empty house with matte finish

THERE'S many a strong farmer
Whose heart would break in two,
If he could see the townland
That we are riding to;
Boughs have their fruit and blossom
At all times of the year;
Rivers are running over
With red beer and brown beer.
An old man plays the bagpipes
In a golden and silver wood;
Queens, their eyes blue like the ice,
Are dancing in a crowd.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured,
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
When their hearts are so high
That they would come to blows,
They unhook rheir heavy swords
From golden and silver boughs;
But all that are killed in battle
Awaken to life again.
It is lucky that their story
Is not known among men,
For O, the strong farmers
That would let the ***** lie,
Their hearts would be like a cup
That somebody had drunk dry.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rcin;
But the little red fox murmured,
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'
Michael will unhook his trumpet
From a bough overhead,
And blow a little noise
When the supper has been spread.
Gabriel will come from the water
With a fish-tail, and talk
Of wonders that have happened
On wet roads where men walk.
And lift up an old horn
Of hammered silver, and drink
Till he has fallen asleep
Upon the starry brink.
The little fox he murmured,
"O what of the world's bane?'
The sun was laughing sweetly,
The moon plucked at my rein;
But the little red fox murmured.
"O do not pluck at his rein,
He is riding to the townland
That is the world's bane.'

Love will come to you when it's ready,
Not necessarily when you are.