At times I make love to my confusion,
that paradoxical craze,
at other times it's as if I'm losing,
my mind throughout the haze

At times I could move mountains,
as prideful as the air,
at other times comes illusion,
where faith becomes a snare

When I hear the ticking silence,
a torment deep within.
then I fear I'm in defiance,
abhorrently in sin

so... I've been trying too hard
I play the intellectual card
my poetry *****
who gives a ****
I'm just another 'smart' ******

Faces are recreated on a piece of paper,
Words copied from my mind and saved for later.

Cause the windows of my mind are my eyes,
And the view is not something I've improvised.

I'm just enjoying being a passenger with such potential,
Getting inspired by the events even if not sequential.

And in turn art is a part of me, woven so beautifully,
That I use the colors of Twilight, waves and trees.

I'm trying to savor the universe so that it never runs out,
I've turned its essence into more shades of pastels than I can count.

I've written its stories in the memories of timeless books,
So diverse and enchanting, some I never understood.

I'm in love everyday, but I'm also forlorn too,
I cry my sorrows to the sun as it dives into the blue.

I'm so small, I'm so inferior to the creator,
But as long as I'm alive, everyday I'm an innovator.

We, three children,
bound by that gossamer of a weaving.
Oh, Mama’s moon.
“I’ll cook one for each of you, my triumvirate.”

“One I give to you, my Oldest”.
She clasps it to her heart.
The tide rises,
men fall.

“To you Middle One, this.”
She tinkers the heart that made it.
The world bleeds,
men fall.

What of mine?
To oblivion it is: I will stash.
I, Older than my grandmother, and to her.
But Oblivion’s easy,  a fish caught mine.

Mama sung, we slept.
“Hush, my dear triumvirate, tomorrow
we’ll cook again.”
Crescent smiles formed our lips.
Three moons, crushed to smithereens;
And so was her sanity, and ours.

"Hmm..."



"What is it?"



"Ya know those sweethearts?"

"Those what?"
"You know, those little candies you can get around valentines that'll have like 'I love you' or 'be mine' and stuff on them."
"Yeah...What about 'em?"





"Well, sometimes they don't have anything on them. They're just like a forgotten wordless misprint..."






The leaves were crunching against our feet. Our beautiful feet. I was cold and I knew exactly what I was saying. I smoothed my hair and with a slow bright toned whisper, I said,
"...the misprints are always the best..."