I meditate
to alleviate
my fear of starting gates
and arriving late;
but this way's not working.

My lurking ailments
are assailants sent
from me to me
to see the pail's spent
much time
under leaky eyes
and roofs through
blurred lines in blue skies.

My demons fly higher than I.

Truths are lies alive in the
ears of who's hearing them,
and leaders are the feeders
of the power that's fearing them.

I'm searing them tearing gems
with uncertain vapors,
burning buds put in papers.
Rainy red retinas
want to undrape her
so I scream just to shake her
from myself
before I break her
from her shelf,
with rainy retinas red,
of self certain days.

I'm yearning for shades to start churning,
red back to blue,
you'll stop burning.
I want you
to stop earning
my dreary dream't gifts.

I'm still learning.

two fragile hearts made up of glass
everyone could see right through them both
only they themselves couldn't see the reality

both fell for each other
and whatever falls
will end up breaking

now those two once-glass hearts
shattered into a million emotional pieces

now those two once-glass hearts
will never find their missing parts

now those two once-glass hearts
have turned into nothing
but back into crushed sand

summer nights
fairy lights
women rights
skinny tights
we ended up with
lovers' fights

plain as day
you took away
a sunshine ray
left me with
no words to say

feelings fade
a girl's parade
to hold her head high
and hide the mess you made

I'll always wait for the glasses to spill before I take them out.
I'll always empty my closets and let everything sleep on the bed.
I'll sit on the edge and have a staring contest with the mirror.
I'll always surrender.
The fan is buzzing.
There's a web in every corner.
Furniture is the devil's work.
I will always fall in love with walls and floors.
I hear the highways and I don't want to be here.
I'll always be homesick but only houses exist.
Homes are a myth.

Society, the embodiment of human securities
Is in reality the stark confirmation  
Of a conglomerate of screaming insecurities
Begging….its leaders….fervent introspection

Bending logic is an art perfected by all
Regardless of creed class or stature
No wonder the walk is seemingly a hard laboured crawl
Culminating into deep exposed…psychological sutures

**Beings are bedevilled by a roving myopia
Craving a farfetched grandiose utopia
That’s why a bespectacled cynicism
Is ironically of essence…to neutralise a deep rooted parochialism

You're a beautiful mystery clad in gorgeous enigma.
You're poetry that looks good in a skirt.

There's an orchestra on your tongue, playing the sound of your voice like a melody I can't forget,
matching the tempo of the drums in my heart
and the broken strings of my violin compliments.

You are a notebook, a yearbook, a sketchbook, a burn book,
every facet of you written in swirling cursive,
rhymes and famous signatures snaking between cinnamon hair and cleverness.

You are a pen running out of ink,
bleeding dry in Barnes and  Noble Moleskin journals,
but that's okay because I have more ink,
and you can borrow whatever you want from me--
store it in the heart you stole if you're bored enough to hunt my words for the pieces.
You have the key already.

You're the first dream of the boy too scared of nightmares to sleep again.

You are the taste of honey and cigarettes on the lips of the first girl that boy ever kissed,
because she was a rebel and he needed a hero
who wore boots instead of Mary-Janes
and band t-shirts instead of blouses.

You are the rose he drew when he was bored,
an outline with potential,
mysterious, entrancing, incomplete,
not yet ablaze with the red of desire
because he was never good at finishing things.
You are a dictionary. Your picture isn't just under "beautiful."
It's under "dangerous" and "witty" and "myth"
because Medusa bowed at your feet next to James Bond and Edgar Allan Poe,
and you're too good to be true anyways.

You are a poem, a telltale heart beating inside a lesson in vengeance,
temporary only because nothing gold can stay.
You've walked past where the sidewalk ends (certainly the road less traveled by)
and come back far more darling than any buds of May.

(You are the paperback novel he read under the covers,
the flashlight only bright enough to show paragraphs,
and every new page unique in shape and form
while the text remains the same.

You are the raw words read aloud by the daring poet,
standing beneath midnight moon,
the power of the throne,
the breath of a whispered promise falling upon the ear,
the warmth of kisses on the cheek,
the passion of all hope there ever was in trust and truth.

You are the fire in lightning,
the sparkle in the snow and the glitter in the rain,
the fierceness of the wind and the gentle, soothing peace,
the blazing chill of winter and the roar of summer's heat.)

But you're still a mystery.
A beautiful,
beautiful
mystery.