On these lonely nights of fruitless sleep,
where my insomnia kicks in and worries slither from the
depths of my pillows,
I empty the bottle of cold, and effervescent oblivion.
I drown in the seas of sensations, vivid, stark and stale
as the tickling and the watering flush down my clogged throat;
flushing secrets I had not dared to voice.
I dwell on my heavy eyelids, waiting for the curtains
to drape over the ghastly blares of reality.
The world is muted, my ears are deaf to words not spoken
and laments suffocated to the howling airs of my torment.
I wait for the storm to cease, for the gears to run but my
weary mind is dulled and perplexed to horrors of past mistakes.
So, skittish and condemned, my heart disdains;
committing the same scenes, reliving atrocious crimes.

I'll be the girl with the tight, black dress;
the girl in the scarlet lipstick and smudged eyeliner,
the girl with fluttery lashes, standing at the corner.
I'll be at the back of the crowd, as couples dance
and sweet nothings are whispered from the speakers.
I'll stand in solitude, accompanied by misery
and loving every minute of it, as lights flicker;
a kaleidoscope of galaxies from effects of lighting.
I'll be the girl without a care for a partner,
hiding behind a mask of shadows.
I'll be the one who leaves early for another party,
dance with strangers in the eve of night;
a butterfly from flower to flower, as you go to bed
with hunger.
I'll be the first to see the dawn and the last to wake
from slumber, not quite sober.
I'll be the girl with the sour aftertaste in her mouth,
the one with the sly smile and yet another crime.

Once again the inanimate thread of darkness envelopes me,
Brittle and weak, my limbs collapse as I try to run towards the light.
Enthralled by my distorted mind, I descend.
Down and down I fall, like the Alice from a Lunatic Wonderland.
Keen words wound my heart, condemed to live it all.
Solemnly and idly, I stare at the carnage of my wars,
How can no one see me yet?
Through the despair, I remain, seeking for the guidance of the faintest light.
Happiness in fleeting, seeping through my hands; a liquid mess.
My knees are raw, wounded, from the running and the falling.
Yet I choose to stand and walk this lonely path.
With ragged clothes, stinging feet, and blind eyes, I get up,
Feeling my way through this paradox of a maze,
Hoping to finally find my place.

In the glimmer of the winter-
I, missing you,
missing the we,
missing us.
In the frost of the snow-
you, buried deep,
buried and lost,
buried as our past.
In the middle of December-
cold is the wind,
long is the night,
gone is the warmth.
In the end, all is lost, memories fade-
Gone is the day.

Humor me, you said,
after all those years
like you could come back
to the stage and direct
a play that was never yours.
Like my limbs are held by
strings and you;
my puppeteer.
Like I'm suspended in time
and the clock ticks by only
when you appear.
But I'm not a stage for a play,
not yours to conduct.

I am sun, moon and stars.
A wild child, untamed;
a beast you could never hope to control.

sunflowers bloom from your lips
you smile and suddenly i can't see
you've got the kind of laughter
that can make the rain sound softer.

And the tears are shining light,
while sun is high and bright
but I can't help and wonder;
when love had turned to blunder.
And as the moon is close and cold,
the dreams begin to shrivel;
they scurry to the pillow
as a worm does in a meadow.
And the tears are gone and past,
though the pain remains at last;
in the corner of my mind
a misery well defined.
But, what of the words of pride-
You spoke of me so many times?
Buried with the worm
my little dreams are gone.

won't you listen to my
                  silence?
fill the emptiness inside.

Farewell to the pollen in the flowers;
for a taste of honey
by the price of stinging wonders.
Farewell to all the starry feys;
for a lack of colors
by our obscure sorrows.
Farewell to crimson sunsents;
for the cracks of dawn
by the longing of a yawn.
Farewell to my lover's arms;
for the desecretion of our Time
by the ignorance of mine.
And, as a final note of departure-
farewell doubtful companion;
by scars of winters past
for bliss of evenings in summer times.

I want to paint your body with delicate
brushes of my words.
A scenery in which all is wonder and yet
there is nothing to ponder.
I want to write you in to my love notes,
envelope you in the soft embraces of
cadence of blankets as you caress the
words with the trail of stars that is your
eyes.
Fill the landscape with soft hues of Spring
to show you how much you mean.
I want to write you in to my verses and
expand the time you occupy in my tale.
Let me write you like one of my poems,
a liberating free verse you can fly upon
and expand.

This desire to posses you is quite unbearable, it gnaws at my insides and scorches my flesh. This feverish love, I feel, growing more aflame. I want to entangle in a sweet and slow tango of rapid heartbeats and breathless sighs of love. Not only desire your body but also the beauty of owning your abstract heart. I want you to need me in all possible ways; to have the need to want the comfort and warmth of my small frame. To cup my face in the depth of your protective hands and to treat me as if I might break. Not only fragile but rough, crush me with the affection and passion of your bold embrace. I want to bite and kiss your lucious lips until I can satiate this dominating thirst to have you. So stay with me, stay until you need me, stay until you tire of me for I'll never will get enough of you.
I need you for as long as I live, and want you for as long as I can't hold on anymore.
All I truly want is to love and be loved by no other than you.

You're not my “something real”,
not my “wish upon a star”.
Even as you lay here with me
my mind complains and my heart
disdains.
You are not my drug nor the White Rabbit
from such tales.
Even now, as your lips touch mine
the breathing of my brains holds static.
You warm hands exploring every inch of
my **** body, however, those tell a different
tale.
Every hot spot on my flesh you slightly caress
makes my nerves erratic.
Beaconing to me with luscious promises
the only way you can stir my breath.
See?
Just a hobby, only a pastime.
All we seek based on carnal sin.
You are not my treasure, nor am I yours-
and yet we choose to linger entangled within
these sheets.
We seek the comfort of compassionate hands,
of accepting lips, God we are insane.
All we come to find between us is but a
way to **** the void of Time in our shriveled
little hearts.

I replay you like my favourite song;
over and over
waiting for a change in lyrics
in tune, in tempo-
over and over.
I know all the words,
have grown accustomed and even tired.
Yet, there's no way I could ever hit Stop.

over and over
waiting and waiting
over and over
I begin to mouth the words as you sing them.
I can't be sure whether it is mocking or familiar
but it's something I know.

I replay you like my favourite song;
over and over
high and low
volume does not matter for I already know.

It begins to lose significance
I sleep and wake to your same song;
over and over
lower and lower
And before I notice, it is gone.
The song I knew so well, I can no longer find.

We move to the next song,
to the next listener-
and we commence all over.

I want to love you, I promise,
even more than I do.
But how can I love you even more,
when I already do?
I want to be infinite with you-
but life gives you finite moments
and I enjoy those too.
So tell me,
so kiss me,
so hold me
and I'll return each and every gesture.

Let's hide underneath a starry duvet
just between the darkness
because I promise you the the stars
interwoven into a blanket and give
the moon to you as a plump pillow so
you can rest your dreams in the safety
of the possibilities.

You want me to leave you-
once the moon sets sail and
the sun makes its marked trail
back into the pink sands of the sky at dawn.
You think yourself so small,
not good enough for you and I.
And I can tell you many times
but you can't listen to me if
you keep covering your ears
with your palms.

Let's close our eyes, just here,
where the sun doesn't shine-
hurry! Before the light reaches us.

Let me show you,
what loving you is all about.

Some nights,
I've put out my dreams on ash trays.

They tell me I am a passing fancy,
that kissing the vapor of my skin is
like the ***** of sacred chambers.
They tell me I am cancer of the skin,
that my cells divide, unstoppable,
ignite the flesh at a lethal price of taste.
They whisper in my ear, sorrowful
pleas and sinful lullabies of promise;
and when tears slither acidic and sear
rosy imprints of a trail in the apples of
their cheeks,
they'll snivel and sniffle:
“But by God, I loved you.”
Despite the surly mood they often displayed,
like the tongue of silver from a metallic
taste of venom on the planes of my skin.
So, I told them I tire of synonyms of a same
word;
that loving a different person of different flesh
remains the same as long as character does not
fluctuate.

There is a universe somewhere in the paradigms of space,
out of sight, out of reach and yet it somehow exists.
A reality in which I find you;
time and time again.
A world in which like the elements that compound air and-
aid breath cannot exist without the other.
A world in which the unstoppable force of my attraction
towards the magnet pull of your immovable force coexist.
A paradox, and infinitesimal chance of being.
It leaves,a failed, Newton flummoxed and disgruntled.
Together, or not at all- we promise
in this absurd and meticulous fabric of reality.
A surrealist version of the real in which dreams are crafted,
nightly for the pleasure of those who have failed to envision more.
There are leaps that do not abide to the principles of gravity;
In which rotational asymmetry between space and time creates-
a thousand scenarios unfolding like the fluttery span of butterfly dreams.
There is a world for lovers out there.
As a play nears its end and the curtain descends,
another stage unfurls behind the fragility of red carpet satin.
A dream in which I relive and relish on you.
There is a universe at the end of space and time,
where gravity is inconsistent,
where dreams are real and the tears are crystal.
A world and a space apart-
in which I once again hold you tightly against my side.
There is, undoubtedly, this universe in which no analgesic can placate-
the vacancy of You and I.

Find me at the edge of the universe
at the last breath of a dying star.
Find me in the whispers of the rain,
in the sleeve of that old sweater you wear;
because I have been with you from the beginning
and when you need solace and remember my name
I will remain there with you until the very end.

She left in the blosoming of sprigs,
in the blooming of my Spring.

When I left her I thought her silly
and misunderstood the dichotomy of
our farewells.
Shame on her for she meant forever.

She left my knitted blanket ripen,
without a last "I love you" as a reminder
on my part.
Both our intentions withered.

And now my Spring has turned barren-
How ironic for time to end a life
at the sproutings of mine.

Farewell, my rosy weather;
may the breeze of the daffodils sway you to a Summer land.

Deter my mind of thoughts of you,
expedite the process of reproaching;
before sick in love my sacrifice I promise.
Tell the chilly incessant buds of hate-
to blossom in the land of crimson.
Beg the merciless Son of Venus;
to withdraw his embedded arrow.
Deter my eyes from the sights of you,
truncate the weeds in the walls of my garden;
before all is covered in the ivy caresses of your burden.
Tell the sun to draw its blinds-
to darken the places in which you shine.
Beg the doctor for a poison;
to desecrate the altar in which I find you.
Oh, for me, I pray
Do not stray to the impious mischief that can be-
your compelling ushering of passion.

Some days I sit at the train station and pretend I am someone else. Everything is dully colored by the graying sky yet vibrantly staying vivid before my eyes. The passing trains transporting passengers, day to day, in the core of its system. A monster, a saviour, nothing, whichever you choose it to be. That is it. Its metallic surfaces colliding with the brutal rails, whinning and cringing its fixed despair. It is a beautiful day, you know? A day just the same as yesterday yet more aflame from the one before. Just like any other day. People going by and never coming back. There is not a minute in the world that is the same, each second more important than the last. Humanity, however, has neglected and forgotten the simplest joys of living, the tend to go by simply existing; thriving. Who cares? Nothing changes, things always in the same static time line of life.
It is december, a personal favourite, yet people mechanically function to the rhythm of ballads from the clock; tick tock, it goes. Entranced, subjected, loosing the spark of life. And now a second is a whisper, a minute but a yawn, and days, months and years the buzzing of a smart phone.
What really matters anymore?
The terrible train buzzing and rumbling the earth with its tremors; going on a fixed position. It is a carrier, another synthetic creation of the human "power". Now, we [consider ourselves] are nothing. Outsiders to our homes. My perception of the world affected by this so-called "evolutionary era".
Of what?
Well, social divergency, the rusting metal and the beeping notices on lighted screens. Apathetic and analytic.
Creating more problems and solving but 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.

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.

this haunted house feels like us;
memories floating around like ghosts,
your shadow in the corner collecting dust
and the words of coversations like creaky doors
at midnight.
i've got the bones of ours hearts inside a
chest but forgot where the skeleton key went.
dared each other to go in, because, somehow
something dangerous and sinister makes the blood
pump faster.
now that we've left each other haunted,
afraid to love someone new once more-
was it worth not being called a coward, you think?

after all, just like you, my ghost will linger too.

Death made promises Life could never hope to keep, forever.

when do we stop playing games with love?
when do we let our cotton candy hearts be
dissolved by a wet, sour tongue
when do we allow ourselves to be vulnerable
without anything in return?
that's there's strenght in fragility and ferocity
in salty tears;
when do we stop lying to ourselves and
settle for a love that doesn't burn our souls?

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.

he kisses purple onto my skin
and i let him because he says it’s love.
between my blue skin and his red lips,
we make color bloom,
i say i love him too;
maybe this time it will be true.

love won’t save us,
but it can make us better.

I've allowed you to mark down words,
to map them and write them on a blank canvas;
using caresses and kisses,
fleeting glances and feathery sighs.
I've allowed your colors to blend with mine,
to become a compound from halves to wholes;
using but fragments of our selves.
And yet we've turned each other to blotches of
convoluted ink,
turned to muddled puddles of dark and listless,
gone from Frankenstein to sinister Monsters.
Stitched up with cavalier precision and
become conjoined and grotesque figurines on
freak shows.
We've become but mutated aberrations on the face
of what is beautiful and real.
With a sincerity of gnashing teeth and vicious claws
to lies which manufacture passion and drying tears.
Oh, tell me, Love, where have we gone wrong?
From murmured lullabies of tender, doting songs
to cacophonous symphonies of vociferous disagreements.
When venom hath corroded the flower of devotion
and buried black the wilted products of affection.
Tell me, oh Love, where have we gone wrong?

I am a walking disorder,
what I touch I break.

i don't deal with my problems;
i bury them in my yard and in
my haste forget that weeds grow
without the need of water.

I take whatever scraps of affection she throws my way,
most like a dog
Licking greedily at their passing flavour.
I wait patiently the return of my owner,
most like a dog
With the misconception of being loved.
I wave my tail to and fro, high and low,
most like a dog
A greeting or a beating, anything is welcomed.
Wherever she goes, I follow, ever the loyal companion;
it makes sense, I rationalize;
Trough thin and thick, through dim and lit-
right along her side, most like the dog.

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.

I want you, but so much more than
light kisses on sunshine rain and
caresses of sweet caramel.
I want trails of your nails against my back,
bite marks on my collar bone,
mulberry stamps in the expanse of my flesh;
proof of you smeared unto my skin.
I want you to press me against the wall
and whisper sultry words of satin in the
shell of my ear.
I want the fury and the passion of your kiss.
Consume me with the ardency of your urgency,
with the necessity of oxygen drowning man desire-
I want you to breath me in, to drink me like
a fine wine, aged and velvety in the tongue as it
slides down your throat.
I want the danger of adventure as you explore
every crevice of my armor and find the *****
that undoes me.
I want what you can give and so much more.
I'll take whatever you'll give me, but I'll greed
for ever more.

Road
so long,
feet are bruised;
my journey carries on.

Follow me down and I'll promise you now
that whenever and wherever, together we'll be.
Follow my lead and grateful I'll be
of this piece of us, of you and I.
Let's make a bed out in the ocean,
Let's give kisses out in the rain,
Let's roar like thunder and whisper like lightning-
Promises, promises of together forever.
Follow me down to a city of gold,
where the sun's always bright-
and dreams last;
Come along, my love, to a summer land of us.

There's skeletons in my closet,
monsters on my bed;
My lips are never honest
and my mind remains unsaid.

Darkness tends to illuminate the meaningful
bits we seem to forget with the constancy of
light which makes us blind from the blaze
of all beauty and imperfection;

but it is only in the solemn moments we
remember what truly matters, thus it casts its
shadow over the things that blinds us and serves
as a memento of the significant when grief engulf us.

I stopped believing in god because I couldn't hear him,
because each night I prayed I felt foolish when no one answered,
because I couldn't see the evidence of him but his absence.
But I realize, that religion is faith
trusting, blind and sometimes deaf
faith is the blind leading the blind.
I stopped believing in god because I found people.
because, I could reach out and be held,
because I could close my eyes and feel their presence,
because I could talk and finally be heard.
I put my faith in the cracks of their hands
and even if they lied it didn't seem to matter,
they could hurt me and I could hurt them;
we could be mutually destructive and yet create
something beautiful together.
I belive in people and sometimes they believe in me.

It's like a game of tag,
you haven't been caught
until you've been lightly tapped.

She told me once her heart belonged to me,
and I ever the devoted servant
preserved such trust within
the grasp of my embrace.
She told me many times her love was mine to keep,
and I ever the naive imbecile
took her words as gospel
between the phrases of my prayers.
And know there is no single question
but her words from the past
as she reassures me with a devious smile
the proprietary rights of land to her
pulsing heart.
A surging wave of loathing courses through
the cadence in the back of my mind
when finally I can see within to reason.
A ticking begins to echo.
A heart is a strange thing, I think,
as I cradle the pulsing vessel.
It twitches, trembles and pumps
for the last time in the nest of my palms
and silently the heart that use to beat for me
throbs nevermore.
She was leaving me for another and I
with the prerogative of her permission,
simply took what was mine.
Hands stained with the fading passion of your love,
it shall thud nevermore.

what was i supposed to be?
imploded stardust, floating aimlessly across
the universe expanding, never minding
cruelty escaping, dissipating,
evaporating,
but i can't be nothing if i was something,
laws of conservation of energy rejecting
my lack of preservation.

i want liquid gold inside my veins,
ruptured mind, kaleidoscope bones
creaking in the night.

i'm lost, florescent daylight  
cold and grim, fabricated and burning my retinas
an eight hour parable trying, to stay afloat
but coming home and wishing dark behind
eyelids; burnt.

what was i supposed to be?
sunshine reflected on flowers
warm and liquid, amber in the windows
dripping, pain immersed in honey
making the best out of a leak flowing
endlessly through the tap,
my kitchen sink old but practical.

i was supposed to be me,
whatever that may be.

Lately I've been wondering about my death,
about how I'd like for the music to cease,
the lights to go off,
the colors to fade,
about how I'd like for the world to end.
I'd like for my demise to be poetic
most like everything and anything I do.
Although I know death by one's own hand
is deeply frowned upon, I don't care.
If I should die I'd like to pull the cord
with these very hands that brought misery and joy.
If I should jump,
I'd liked for these feet to walk me to the edge of the ledge.
If I should close my eyes and abandon my dreams to
the void of darkness,
I'd like to be the one who mutters, “Goodnight.”
For this is my life and to think that anyone else
has a say in what I judge wrong from right
is simply and utterly absurd.
Lately, I find myself entranced by the beaconing
of dark lighthouses.
By the tempest in the sea and the clashing of night
as it unfurls like sensuous smoke upon the shores
of my turbulent conscious.
If I should die,
I'd like to go with a spark and a thunder
as I melt into the world of limbo.
One more rebellious act to let anyone who dare object
that this life is mine and mine alone,
and I decide when I should end.

we become stories,
i've never had a first love;
but i've ******,
had one night stands
and morning goodbye's
told myself love is chemical
love fades and never comes back.

Love's a reaction,
at the right or wrong time;
we lie, we lay next to our selves, we seek
to feel a hole in, to make ourselve fill
in a mold that everyone's talked about
but;
what is love but imperfect.
Filled with some lies, with some hatred
with some humanity.

I love,
but I'll never be whole
and never a hole;
I'm complete yet
wanting to be less lonely.

She’s tried to write so many times before but can’t. Sits down on the chair, fingers static over the keyboard. Where they were once electric with the flow of motion and words, they rest like the awkward break in a conversation.
She thinks it’s so hard to write when you’re happy, loved the despair and feeling numb, used them like gas for a one way vehicle with only a crash for a destination. She loved her sadness too much that now that she’s happy words have betrayed her.
What can she tell a world that relishes in the darkness of emotions, in the pain, the heartbreak, the despair, the sadness, the loneliness and the isolation when she herself thrived in the pessimism.
How can you water a flower that nurtured itself in misery?

She sheds her tears up on the stage,
with words unspoken among the space.
Her lips are crimson red,
her hands tremble, not in fear but in rage
as regret lingers among the air.
A fiend of hell howls its disdain
near her ear roaring each complain,
as words are clogged behind ruby lips.
If her words be weather well they'd be a tempest,
tearing roots and breaking havoc.
If words be gentle well hers would remedy
the hearts of the forsaken.
But now they rest in their lined casket
for a voice that shall bring them forth
in to the realm of enunciation.

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