The careless sentiment of nothing has clogged
the freeway of my neurons,
The descend to numb approaches stealthily
through pores of my flushed skin,
fraughts my lungs, asphyxiating me.
A blanket of solitude thrown by Darkness and
the hope of positive becomes a negative.
The static monitor of heart beats, beats, beats
without a sound of scintillating effervescence.
Concepts of lunacy and discomfort emerge
on the screen of my closed lids, scenes;
Of various sanctuaries and fiends.
It haunts, possesses, me, can't they let me (not) be?
Paralyzed by lethargy,
my body corrodes on the soft boneless bed of
nullity.
Not one will know,
in a few years everyone will forget; that
Once upon a times, I was.

Your body is a canvas,
but the tongue of a blade should never be your brush,
blood should never be your palette
and bitter tears should never sting your skin.
Your body is a canvas,
touched by the brush of a petal,
painted by the tints of rosy joy and yellow sun,
your eyes should reflect the starry night
and the silver of a moonlit sky.
Your body is an altar,
it should never be desecrated by skeptics,
it should never be sculpted with bruises
and stained by the possession of manipulating demons.
Your body is an altar,
celebrated by passion fueled prayers,
adorned with ornaments of kisses,
and cleansed by candid disciples.
You are priceless and worth every struggle,
so don't let anyone deceive you in an opinion
based solely on their contorted perception
of untruthful quantification of our current
media,
because you are a sculpture in the Louvre
and a masterpiece is not worth the touch
of a violator.

I lost myself for a second,
for a fractal of a moment
as I stared wide eyed,
gooey and awed at the
artists on the altar of performance.
My perception crystallized,
specters of my past self
salivating at what my fingers
longed for;
spoken word and snapping fingers.
At the connection of my life to theirs,
at the links of my past mistakes
to the handcuffs of the present of exoneration,
at written art and verbalized
conceptual imagination
from the depths of my mind to the
comfort  of our living room of breathing
similes and metaphors,
of alliteration and repetition that emphasize
the triggering bombs louder than our thumps
will ever get to.
I lost my self for a second,
to the rhythm and the rhyme,
the o's and ah's,
to life being lived and poets allowed to
contribute a piece of their mind,
of their soul, of their being.
And I snapped and I cried,
my heart united between the struggles
and the laughter,
between love and the embers of futile
hatred.
Because, in the spark of a moment,
in the association of embracing lyrical
enunciations,
we became one of beeping heart
and symphonic sighs,
And we,
we lost ourselves on the moment
of great performance.

I take my time,
wishing upon dead stars
and hope one is alive.
I pick wasted grains of
sand,
hoping to regain some time.
But they slip through cracks
of my feeble fingers and
submerge once more to
the pit of stormy oceans.
Where have the stars gone?
When has the ticking ceased?
I gather the fallen stars
and place them in my jar.
Trapped fireflies within
my crystal casket.
I pick daisies and dismember
petals seeking for an affirmation.
But buds run out and I am
frazzled.
If only certainty came with a
warranty,
perhaps then I could end
the utilization of interrogation.
I take my chances,
believing lies and hoping
one is right.
But perception is twisted
in sinewy limbs of contorted
sweetness,
and faith refuses any logical
examination.
So, I accept what may come
as an accusation and pray
for rehabilitation.

For once,
I thought,
"I hope you are the one."

I skim through beauties on a page,
things I wish and will never be.
I starve to fit the media's measure;
a finger down a throat,
beauty slipping from cracked lips.
I sew my mouth shut to the combustion
of words that consume, that speak of the
truth
only to keep the fallacy of what is deemed as
honesty.
I glance at the distorted mirror of what is
perceived as I
and wish, hope and pray that somehow
I was a child again.
A child, yes, a child.
Innocent and blind to the world of mass production,
of copies of a clone
of beauty in a syringe
of love expressed in a text
of segregated batches
of disintegrated aspirations.
I am vexed and complex and I
wish that you would stop looking at the depiction
that my skin might pose
and start analyzing my prose.
Because behind the metaphors of what you suppose
that I expose is the real voice.
And so for the sake of these words that need
articulation,
I'll wear this mask nevermore,
I'll break the glass and although I might
wound myself on the shards of derogatory apprehension
I won't subject to your humiliation.
Because I will not stand to simply capitulate much longer
for you to continue with the scaling of what you
reckon I am worth.
Know that I am unquantifiable, I am priceless
and you can't afford what I have lost.
Yes, I do not fit in the scale of your measure.
Beauty is not about comparison and resentment
but appreciation of the variations.
I am not a number
and I am certainly not another puppet.
And I will stand for this no longer.

She'll leave me,
I know.
Say "sorry" and
"so long".