Beneath the canopy of stars
I sit and wonder
Dear God
Would you give me a sign
Would you tell me the future
Of distance and time
How will my destiny take a turn
I am scared of the unknown
Can you hear my heartbeat thudding away
It knows not what it wants
And I am afraid of taking a wrong turn
All that I am sure
Is that I am yours
Write me as you wish
For your wish is mine
You know what I dare not bring to voice
Only you could find clarity in the confusion of my self
And the contradiction it presents
I live in your trust alone
And even if I am lost
Nothing is of loss if I have you

I commit myself to the homicide
of my thought-flowers.
I indulge in the **** -
Killing my darlings
for the sake of art and sanity.
What a paradox.
I have bloodied my hands
with it even so.

No more love-lite poetry!
No more adolescent chinks of the
pseudo-heart!
No more infantile fork-stabs
at the plate of kid-intellectualism!
No more Wikipedia pages
on thoughts
that can swallow computers
whole!

I'm killing my darlings
for the sake of art,
for the sake of sanity -
what a paradox.
Blood is flowing.

I'm a murderer of ideas tonight -
today I will write
about many of life's very few truths.
Like trees.
Like soil.
These are the only constants in mathematics.
These are the identities.

In my garden, I reach out
to crush an
almost-crimson hibiscus.
Petals squelching with skin and nectar -
no perfume.
The hibiscus roils, unliving.

Red pulpy mess;
heart out of chest.