Poetry is the string
         looping through and
         weaving out
the needling pain

It knits a beautiful
         patchwork, coated with
         colorful patterns
our fingers trace

threads of our lives
         create designs
a shining::
shimmering::
or dulling
our emotions blend.

Life last only
a short time

So few love
Can ever be shared

So few words
Can ever be said

It is not an illusion
my reason why ,
I bleed poetry

To make my life magic
Before I fade away

Hey mom-dad, listen.
Hit me, hate me, throw me out,
But don't shut me up.

She was borne at dawn, in a tent, on a rooftop
Her moon like eyes reflected lightening the way mirrors brutally reflects imperfections
Her tiny hands had engraved palmar creases that spelled “strength”
Her smile was the rarest of sapphires and to dishonesty her heart was stealth
She grew up longing for the day she leaves her tent to face the world
Every night she goes to sleep to watch her dreams unfold
She dreams of lions speaking of fear
roaming around like clouds
A sword and a torch appear in her tiny hands
“I will defeat you” she says
But she wakes up! …
Only with warm tears blocking her eyesight … …
She used the torch to seal the tent closed
And the sword to cut herself a tiny window
From which she could look out
convincing herself that … this way … she can safely face the world!
So, she stays …
In the tent … on the rooftop …