Concepts bleeding out in confusion,
The frost eats away at these last remnants of life,
Arms deep in this ice river, my reflection a faint illusion,
This familiar sensation slices me open like a knife.

Sweet release found in this serene death,
Sinking deeply into this dead river, as lifeless as I,
Visions of the past play out during my final breath,
All other thoughts locked away in frost, I say my last goodbye.

How she glows
when she paints
doors and windows

her coloring skills
create magic windowgrills
trap me in her crush!

Smudges on her face
prints on her dress
does marvel her brush

she goes all the way
to make me lovely day
tempts to cuddle her!

It's how it goes
I move ever close
not wanting to be loser

she gets the naughty whiff
says don't play mischief
come not any closer!

They make their way through the crowd.

Beneath the sky amber in the last sun
the retrieved spark steers their feet
to explore the gorgeously festive town
smelling of discovery at every turn
of people and shops and sellers
and food tempting to be tasted
women too lovely not to be noticed
houses illuminated like light is free
flying as in a dream long in the coming
but arrived too glorious for any regret.

The younger when a few paces ahead
stops so the other could catch up
always remembering the six years
matter much in the count of speed.

The sky above grows older and paler
but their blistered feet feel no pain
from the four hours of rewinding years
glistening as night dew in their eyes.

Pen to paper...
or ink to tree?
A poetic
inconsistency.
slow it
            d
            o
            w
            n
take your time
avoid excessive
prose and          ...similar sounding couplets

Be real
Speak truth
deep from your gut
but know when to lie
to still make a buck

Know your audience
But write for yourself
and get used to the currency
Praise = Wealth

Always trust the process
But never
under any circumstance
process the trust
you'll never stop worrying
if each line is enough

AND REMEMBER!
There are thousands of words
so read 'em and know 'em

Now stop reading this
and go write a poem!

You're not created only to write epistles of sad poetry and use too many metaphors,
Devoting them all to an address that won't write you back.
You're not made to be here to be held back.
Or to wait around for a call of your name from a voice that'll never bother to come around.
But you're made to love and to be loved,
To see things and to be seen.
To capture beauty in every way that is possible.
You were made to be.
And this is your call,
So be it.

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

My grandmother taught me
how to rinse period blood
out of my *******
taught me how to sweep
the veranda with my clothes
sticking to my skin

My grandmother taught me
how to hang up soap-water-soaked
house dresses, frocks, slips, and bras
on a clothes line and take them all down
before the sky turns too gray with almost-rain

My grandfather taught me how to recite
the times table as I read from a small school book
my writing is small and quiet and does not yet
demand to be read or known

My grandfather taught me that disobedience
means a stern brown eye, a grim mouth,
a sharp snapping crack of leather belt

My father taught me that not all men
are men, that some men are boys
and they will leave their daughters
waiting, legs folded underneath them,
toes curled as they watch for their father's
car that never drives down the quiet road

My father taught me that some men,
some boys will leave and they will close
your front door, leave your third text
unanswered on your phone, and you
will taste their lies on your tongue

My mother taught me to be loud
assertive, that every word holds heavy
resonant power and can be a piercing bullet

My mother taught me how to bathe in water,
burn papers scrawled with ex lovers' names
rinse my mouth with salt and water
flick my clean tongue over white teeth
how to write love into my palms
ritualistically pass it over my body