Sometimes
letting go
means making a bonfire
and using
your old mobile like
firewood

At the bottom of the ocean,
fearing not being
deep enough,
and grabbing a shovel,
in hopes that drowning
will bring someone beauty.

And I'll break a glass
just to prove
you could've
slipped right through
my hands.

I have never lived without the fear of not knowing tomorrow's breeze.

Admitting to faults
is a hard thing to do
when you've been taught
to bury them.

She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.

She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.

She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.

Now the hound named
"Sea"
became full
once more.

I know it's getting bad again,
because I'm writing more again.

Better to hide in the moonlit scenery
I can create, cold dewdropped skin,
rather than face
the heat of the day.

I escape in my cave of magnanimity,
until I can face the sun
with new unhurt skin

once
again.

Avert your eyes, sinner.
He is a God of celestial winners.
Golden crowns of power choke him under the pressure.

Change is a game,
and those afraid to play,
will never win.

He smelled like
cigarettes
and fallen angel dust,

Tragically
soft.

I reminisce in the days my knuckles
weren't covered in blood,
but Cheeto dust.

On the run from myself,
disguises a face I no longer recognize
staring back at me
in the
mirror.

Black clothes were gothic
rather than mandatory.

Moonshine was the way the sky looked,
not a drink.

Innocence is held most dearly by those who no longer own it.

Children do not know what they have lost
until it is gone.
Object permanence fun,
not a problem.


Cheeto dust,
finger licking,
orange not red.

orange not red.

orange

not




R                            E                            D.


An unsettling sort of ending, childhood,
you can't pinpoint an end nor a beginning.










Hey, at least it was fun while it lasted.

Naked cherubs
lie vulnerable
with kindness,
and like the fool,
you approach
unaware
he is a soldier.

My soul is not something
you can portion into pieces.

I refuse to be cut up with kitchen knives,
a meal ready for you to devour.
What am I to you?
But a quick snack,
but a cheap bite?

No, I refuse.

I refuse to be your side dish
any longer.

You've bitten off
more than your small mind
can chew.

And now you will choke
and spit it out.

You get my scraps now,
and have the nerve to complain.

So I stopped feeding you
pieces of myself
anymore.

I have become a complete meal
once
more.

Her freckles
are cinnamon sprinkles
that land
just across
her nose.

Her hair curls
like baby blue laughter
at the thought
of miseltoe.

She is my one and only
this festive girl
through and through.

And dear, to my one and only
Will I say "I do."

Whoever said circles
under eyes were unattractive
clearly never held their's up
with pride.

Dedication, the endless hours
of studying and writing
etched on lines of paper
and lines on skin.

Control,  to not fall into
the bags that grow wider
underneath eyes.

Energy, making a millimeter
go a mile.
A long day of work
then no sleep.

I hold my undereyes up with pride.
I have passed the tests needed to obtain them.
And I refuse to let anyone
Anyone.
Take away that pride.

My eyes display strength and control.
I earned them.
Dare not disrespect them.

For they shall not accept it.

Clarity does not equal depth,

But depth often requires clarity.

I dream of clarity.
An uncluttered mind,
without trash can thoughts
tossed on the floor.

Without clothes of memories,

spilling sleeves of old summer days,
ripped jeans of schools return,

spewed in the floor.

I crave the feeling of
pristine handwriting
inscribing perfect letters
onto patterns of speech.

Instead I speak like doctor's handwriting,
occasionally intelligent,
but rarely discernible.

I lay my head on
the tangled bed of lies
I  built,
and dream of clarity
once more.

He wears a coat of flowers,
suit and tie
complete
with thread
made of vines.

Buttons are stones
covered in mossy delight.

He is a rotting corpse in a field
made of flowers.
His presence mighty deceiving.

W a t c h     o u t,

He wanders the Earth.

He is a trickster,
someone dead inside
that seemed so promising...

Your love was like coffee,










a bitter wake up call.

I slip on icy words,
water rising through the cracks of consciousness,
I know not how I drowned,
but I do know
why
I'm
cold.

I have lived my life faking warmth
my soul is cold
in the best way possible.

I embrace it now.
Cold smiles refreshing,
cold hands coddling,
cold love blossoming.

All things cold
are not
all things bad.

I have reconnected
with Earth's deep green presence
once more.

Drowning me in dewdropped
darkness, no longer an enemy.

Take me into the stormy sea,
and let cold pale skin
Drown
once
more.

I have given up my summer
for whom?
Not myself,
nor my friends,
but for that beautiful
4.0,
at the end.

She was teacups made of China
and sunny spring afternoons.

She was soup
on the stove
when it was raining and grey
outside.

She was the gentle touch
of a birds feather
landing on my nose.

She was comfort in its essence,
and I hope to never lose her.

I have traded my youth,
for 'education'.

Joints lecture bursts
of pain to show me
that running from class to class
with heavy backpacks,
I still have not learned my lesson.

Mindless memorizing mimics
magical and mysterious minds,
manipulating math,
a subject destroyed,
by it's very creators.

I take notes on how to
spend late nights
crying over spilled ink,
papers all ruined,
hours of work...
I sigh and start from the top.

Eleven exams, then 7 finals, then FSA's,

No, these numbers are all real.
To the adults who took their turn
in cheer leading outfits of the 1990's
I beg for you to count
with the same system I learned,
how many more hours I need to study,
how many exams I have left to go.


I almost forgot my birthday this year,
because midterm season,
was the only 'surprise!'
I expected.

I ache as I write,
Say I exaggerate all you wish,
But my poems are begging to be structured like essays,
as this stanza turns into a counterpoint.

My freedom of thought
I eat at lunch,
seated between friends,
eating their childhoods all the same.


To conclude:
School *****,
I am grateful it builds character(s),
but how many more
mindless
slaves
does this world still need?


Count with them with the same system I learned...
Your coworkers,
your wife,
your husband,
the mirror.

How many more,
tell me,



how many more?

Majority times
I am happy to be angry
because it gives me
just enough confidence
to
speak.

I stare at graves
and the autumn leaves
that fall,
as my envy
for decay
consumes me.

Cool lungs
fill with chilled air
that know no breath
and I am myself
once more.

They sing church hymns
until they froth at the mouth
and bleed at the ear
when will they learn
that God is a state of mind
and not a person.

If our love is forbidden,
then you must be
a rose petalled crime scene.

My own special episode of Law and Order;
Special victims unit.

A chalk outline
made of rainbow colors.

Ink stains your skin,
just like police reports.

Knife sharp love
murders the bad,
while forever preserving
the good.

Emotions in full bloom,
bedroom,
now surrounded by police sirens.

You are middle of the night excitement.
Escapes and otherwise.


You are a law I am willing to break;
my rose petalled crime scene.

Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.

He was crying oceans,
while she was swimming in them.
The salty sea, pushing waves of pain onto his soul.
Seeing her happy,
without him,
makes him wanna drown in the sad blue hue
of the sea.

Cut the valves of my heart
with the thorns
of your flowers.

You put seeds
in my blood,

I watered it
with my cries

a garden grew
in my body...

that I never asked
to be planted.

Sometimes I feel as though
writing poetry
is like throwing scraps at the dogs.
Have I satisfied my mind's hunger to write?
Not until
I can say
that I've written
with pride.
For the only way to be full
is to be brave enough
to swallow
my own
words.

Because even streetlights
can look like dandelions,
if the windows
are foggy enough.

You need not throw away
depth or darkness for beauty.
For it is the oceans vast depths
and its mysterious darkness
that creates a sense
of wonder
and
beauty.

Freedom rings at heaven's gates;
to answer is to accept you are dead.

Sometimes
being free
means letting go
even if
you are not
ready
yet.

Death has been unkind
in his murky, flowy form,

teasing me endlessly
and his laughter, I can't ignore.

What is death
but an ailment
we cannot
cure.

I'm digging into skin
I forgot I had,
reminding myself I am still alive,
with deathly tones of

"But you don't deserve it.".

Hidden in red.

She's begging to me
through rattling teeth
and broken bones
made of ash.

Her body quivers
as cold wet hair
sticks to her skin.

She is begging for mercy
Dare I deny her of it?

Who am I
to beg for mercy
when I am aware
I do not
deserve
it.

Deservance is a concept
made by fools
whom are plagued
with jealousy
and
overconfidence.

I want so desperately
for you to be a bad person
because I don't think
I can forgive you.

For my sins
I shall rot
in the caskets
of my enemies
and this punishment
is anything
but
divine.

My mortality
I do not fear,
but yours...
I dread.

I woke up
with an argument
in a dream,
and a song in my head.
Is my anger
as fictitious
as I want it to be?
Or have I a need
to leave my words
in the dreaming realm
once more?

Overcoming your fears
smells like the scent
of dried tears.

Her ***** stained breath
and ****** *** teeth
made a deadly cocktail
that no man
ever dare
to drink.

There is wonder and trouble amiss
the sea speaks to storms,
rain becoming war
between what can drown better
the sound of the storm
or the ocean's waves no more.