She hung on to the edge
afraid to fall
back into the same routine
of plucking petals
and mending broken things.

Her wings, a mess
feathers meshed with hate and lies
from past lovers that scrutinized
the way she drew the skies
with her silhouette
ensuring she would never find
the will to rise or ever fly.

Her wings.

Argema mittrei


Parading in your shade of grey
with fragile wings
torned to bits by the harrowing winds
of angry voices reminding you
that you are not a butterfly.

Tormenting taunts
feeds the loathing that grows inside
An assassination of a ******'s pride
reminding you that you are not a butterfly
As though moths were never meant to fly.

As if your wings didn't carry you
Across the reflections of buried moons
And how you rebuilt your tattered wings
From scattered dreams that buried you.

You are a different breed of beautiful.

My skin prickles against the wind
like a fire dancing in a storm
but just as the flames
make way for the rain
the smoke shields a desolate heart.

Your silhouette pressed against
cascading drops;
How refreshing is your soul
enchanted by pain and regret?

How have these scars made you?
How has this storm saved you?

She wanted me to learn to play
the way she played
when her soul yearned
the subtle notes
of a chaotic melody.

The way her fingers moved
across the keys
reminded me of the way in which
leaves would tumble from trees
but travel across universes
before settling down.

Her voice was that
of a mighty ocean
with gentle waves
that rocked the biggest of boats
beneath the pale moon spotlight.

"We could be a band"
she said.

But our big gig
wasn't performed in front of a crowd
or for judges...


we played for each other.

She gripped the sheets
because she knew she'd be afraid
to fall deeper into this abyss
that our love had created before us.

She was ripe with longing
and beauty;
Flushed as the heat rushed
to her cheeks
and painted her skin
a soft red.

She bit into her lip
because she'd rather bleed
than surrender
to the way that my lips traced
her fragile being.

Her hips were like oceans;
begging me to venture deeper,
slowly rising as the moonlight engulfed the horizon.

She was the sweet water
from a trickling stream
that swelled at the river's edge
before cascading through the sky
like the Victoria Falls.

She tasted of desire;
bruised but filled
with a richness
that devoured the hunger
in my starving soul.

It is beautiful irony
the way in which
I have grown accustomed
to the phenomenon of you.

We were water in the open air;
Fluidly in tune
and with each ripple across the surface
I fell deeper in love
with the way that you moved.

The subtle ways in which
you're stir your tea;
the steam reminding you of last night
when our bodies waged wars
and conquered one another.

The revolutionary ardor
that decorated the smile you paraded around;
teasing the feeble flesh of men
that craved a sip
of your poisonous nectar.

I have grown accustomed
to the way in which the confusion
pulls the veil over my eyes
as you give away pieces of my heart
disguising them as your own.

How warm is your touch
against the barren wasteland
that is my soul?

As we lay here, the dying sun
gives us one last taste of freedom
before falling from the sky.

Beneath a blanket of night
you find the courage
to remove the layers of insecurities
clinging to your fragile bones
like flesh.

We intertwine
and as our bodies become entangled
you whisper words of release
as your core throbs
to the pace that I've set for us.

You dare not utter a moan
for the silence has claimed us
in this moment of passion;

stealing your voice
but giving you something
greater in return.

I sat there next to you
in a cold room
filled with the secret battles
of two lovers
caught in the middle
of failed expectations
and disappointment.

No one knew me
the way that your fingers drew me
when the tips of your nails
mapped out the curves
of my flesh.

No one knew you
the way that my hands knew;
holding your broken soul
collecting the pieces
and doing the science;
molding them with metal and irons
so that when they were reassembled
you'd be stronger than ever
and never break again.

Yet here we are,
perfect strangers
that desire no more
than to feel something
worth feeling...

or to simply just not feel alone.

I am at the edge
of uncertainty
peeking down
into the abyss
questioning whether
or not this fall
would **** me.

My reflection
has become
a stranger
for I do not recognize
the mangled flesh
from opened tissues
where scars now litter
my skin.

My voice is a song
without words
and the musician in me
desires to play along
to the rhythm
of a failing heart
but we are not in tune.
There is no beat.

Yet
we dance the night away
with bottles of ale
searching
for stories to tell
but there are never
any happy endings.

There are just sudden pauses
like commas edited
into our lives
because we aren't sure
where a sentence is going
but we do know
that we don't want it to end.

This is me.
I am the author
of a fantasy with no title.
A living regret
with all my failures
tattooed across my chest.

The familiar voice in my head
screaming...
I was here.
I existed.

She was like the wind.
A chaotic storm
in perfect harmony
with her inner mother Earth.
She was the soil
and everyone that knew her
grew to love the way
she influenced their roots
to reach beyond their stem's end.
She was the fire in the sun
and the warmth
that fueled passion and rage;
lust and yearning.
Her hands were the petals of roses.
Soft and sweet
but guarded by the thorns
of a much darker truth.
For she was so beautiful
that no one could look past it
and see the ugly
that consumed her thoughts.
The depression
and moments of weakness
flaring in the womb;
giving birth to the pain
that crippled the smile
of even a goddess.
I saw beyond the beauty
that was her existence
and peered into her
mangled soul in awe.
How majestic
were the pieces
as they fell like words from her lips
and landed at my feet.

Dragging my bare feet
through scorching shards
of broken glass
scattered like tortured hearts
is just a small price I'd pay.

Ripping my flesh
inch by inch
and letting my wounds drip
from fingertips
is just a small price I'd pay.

Having my eyes
drilled from my skull
so that I would no longer
see the world from this view at all
is just a small price I'd pay.

This is the cost of living
without you at my side.
The fire that burns
Smoke rising from the holes in my eyes.

This is the cost
of letting you leave,
letting you live,
letting you be.

It is a small price I'd pay.

It's that moment
right before the pain
swallows what will
you had left to struggle
against the tides
in the sea you had come to love.

It's the way in which
the garden you had spent
your entire life growing
withers and you lay
amongst the vines as they decay.

It's the way the moonlight
touches the darkened sky
but the blackness never fades.
It just goes on
for an eternity.

It's the way her voice fades
and she no longer
sings your name loud enough
for the heavens to hear.

Her eyes no longer crave
to see your smile
nor does her hand
long for the curvature
of your own.

When the goodbye is infinite
and the pain runs deep
enough to consume the love
you once had for life.

Goodbye.

She was the light
that hung like a shadow
in the sleepy sky.

Clinging to eternity
the shape of her soul
tugged me closer.

Her skin
was like black glass
cool against my burning heart.

She leaned into me
and all at once
I became overwhelmed.

She is
and she always will be
My Black Moon Goddess.

We laid among the ivory bushes
wearing only the souls
we brought into this world
as we freed ourselves from the soils
of mother nature
and proceeded to plant our roots
deeply within each other.

We sung songs that rippled
like fingertips
across silky skins
and freckled cheeks.

Our gaze hung like forbidden fruit
dangling from twisted branches
too sweet to pass up
though we knew
we would be banished if we indulged.

I'll take the risk just to taste the bits
that make you whole.
To feel your warmth
filling my soul with it's
sweet unforgiving goodness
that has been known
to make men GODS.

Wasted.
Another bottle of fire water
churning in the pit
of my soul.
I'm wasted.

The warmth we use to feel
concealed in the arms
of one another
was left unattended.

The spark that followed
was nothing short of the hollow
human I've become
since you decided to pull the trigger.

Bang!
Nothing but a smoking gun
a few fingers prints
and no alibi.
You killed the best parts of me.

I hope you know
that I can't breathe here
entangled in the black
smoke as it's fingers
strangle me silently.

How do you escape a fire
that burns vibrantly
from the inside?

You can't stop, drop and roll
when the flames
make themselves
at home and feed
on the happiness you usually
keep stored on the top shelf.

I'm wasted.
A burning man
but still cold enough
to remember the frigid way
you turned and left
me waiting for a call...

a call that never came.

I want to forgive you
but that part of me
no longer exist
outside of ashes and a shadowy
reminder of what once stood
in it's wake.

I am a man on fire
with no water
only tears of gasoline
that stream like Netflix films.

Let me find peace
in my slow decay.
So don't call
and don't write.

Don't search for me
when your own spark
finds a fuse strong enough
to ignite the same pain
I've learned to love.

But when the last flame
has claimed the last bits
of my humanity
just know that the
seedlings will fall.

And my roots will set a course
for the center of the Earth
and my stem with rise like mountains
and find a home
in the heavens.
I am a burning man...

but only for now.

She came before me
dressed in the lies
most damsels drape
over their souls
after their hearts
have felt the sting of shame.

She covered her truth
with bandages
stained with the blood
of wounds
still healing.

"Show me" I said.
Let me see you.
Let me peek
behind the wall
that you have spent your whole life
building...brick by brick.

Take off the mask
and let me bury my own
hurt in the gaze
of another wounded
by the misfired
arrow of Cupid.

Let me see you
without the makeup
and the long sleeves
and turtle necks.

Let your hair down.
Let it freely fall
around your exposed shoulders
and caress your skin
like the warmth
of an open fire.

Let me feel the flames
from the warmth
of your body
pressed against my own.

I want to watch you
and dive into your open sea
and make these waves
my home.

When I first laid eyes on her
I remember the way in which she
gracefully paced
across the Earth
with a confidence
that matched her wild soul.

I had, until this point
managed to subdue
the growing desire
that grew like twisted vines
in my unkept garden.

I approached her
with an uncertain step
but that uneasiness
was the comfort
we both craved and we caved
to our wild and untamed instincts.

That night the moon
was the only light that fed
into the darkest corners of our minds
as we began to unwind
and became entangled
in one another.

Her roar was the call
of a lost queen
separated from her pack
long ago but it reminded her
of the beautiful beast
that she was.

Wild with passion
she looked me in the eyes
and her innocence
had been replaced by a stare
that could set fire
to the skies.

I couldn't resist the urge
to want to venture deeper
into her garden
and feel the pulsating reminder
of life.

The warmth welcomed me
as I crossed the threshold
into her shielded soul.
I made myself at home.

We got lost as I explored
the realm of her
intuition and being.
My hands traveling along
the unpaved trails.

Her garden was just as
unkept as my own
but there was something
wildly beautiful
amongst her chaos.

I could've stayed forever.

Even a rose

In all of her majesty

Must learn, someday

To let her petals fall

But know

That even now

You are still worth picking.

I know why the caged bird sings.

It's not because his song
is as vibrant
as his feathers, that he plucks away
each day because he doesn't
feel beautiful.

It's not because of the majesty
that exist in the freedom
of being able to spread his wings
though he knows
he'll never rise to the occasion.

He sings because he believes
that this cage
was made for a king
because he has never tasted
freedom with a side order of skies.

He's never flown past the sun
on a cool morning
or hung with the moon
on a warm night.

He's only ever known
the comfort of a prison
that his thoughts have
become accustomed
to calling home.

He would never venture
beyond the "welcome" mat
because what's beyond the threshold
holds no promise
the way these bars and metal locks do.

He sings because he knows
that no one is listening
so if he makes a mistake
he doesn't have to live with the regret
or embarrassment of knowing that he missed his note.

The caged bird
never believes that he's caged
because behind these walls
he's safe
and he prefers it this way.

I know why the caged bird sings.

She was
in some ways
like a cloud.

Never wanting
to really come down
from her place in the sky.

But when she did
She poured her feelings
on the world beneath her

And the flowers grew in her wake.

I
Forgot
How to
Smile
Without
You.
Remind
Me.