I have been pacing enamorately,
standing in airport terminals
not looking for your arrival.
But my eyes began to respectfully
look elsewhere as you came.
My words seem lackluster as we spoke
but I'm just captivated.
I want to write to you,
but i am unable to.
The departure time fast approaches,
and my destination awaits,
can we have just one more conversation,
so that I can listen to you.

truth is impartial to realities.
a human condition set
to diverge honorable practicality
to serve one's comfortfor selfish satisfactions.
yes, a liar is unbranched,
rooted in tasted knowledge
and is self-absorbed,
subject contradicted,
by one's mindmerely fooling
the present.the problem, the dynamic of fact and fiction.
a friction that has perpetuated personal attention
to realize that human intentions are reciprocal
;in protection from the truth within us
with the weakness we try not to expose.

These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.

Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.

Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.

Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil

A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.

A Full dose of chemotherapy symptoms:
Hair loss, loss of appetite, and pale completion

Antibiotics, Steroids,
And intravenous fluids
I may get sick in addition to this

Cancer.

The doctor I ask
What interests you in this specialty?
“The research of a cell that believes
In the fictional concept of immortality”

Yet my mortality is in question here:

And yet here, I sleep, rest and lay down
Almost stationary to this ever moving world
That supposedly when I stop
I can then move again to rise or fall
An almost witty comparative analysis
If I even dared to displace myself
From this bed

So I continue this rigor of treatment
Despite the horrid regurgitations that follow
And I grow continually weaker when supposedly

A cell divided is a sign of being alive

Where is this immortality this doctor speaks of?

Because I am afraid
For I do not understand

Life breathing life everlasting,

A soporific effect

Matters we do not understand
Are eternally received by preserving
Ourselves in words

A poem cannot be written
when thoughts are of disarray,
and the focal point is a loss.
While the rhythm is drowned
under bridges, and refrains
repeat and singing is even left
in thoughts loosely transcribed
only in the presence of the writer's muse
.Some would even say the subject
Has made this mind digress
To write behind words,
defensive to revel in revealing
this inspiration:
Stanzas are left disconnected in corner
sand couplets are left without emphasis,
affected by the coolness of autumnas folded loose leaf papers cover the floor.
The personification is no longer objective
and metaphors have changed to similes.
Ironies have begun to take hold
and the soliloquy remains to take it's stage.
This writer has written this before
it's all too familiar, close, even the same.
The pen has touched this paper
to continue these words is up to you.

Brought from this morning
Tracing back days away from here
Where time won’t wait for understanding
Please hear me out for I cannot
By this time you still know my intentions
But I don’t know your direction
Where you’re lost, where you’re confused
Just take a listen through your window
For I’ve taken my words given my voice
Despite your choices, to me you still have poise
You just need to be aware of your heart
Your brokenness, with reason from these stories
There are no coincidences in our breaths
Every move, has meaning upon our days
It has been too long I’ve pondered
Disappointed, shunned and misconstrued
Maybe though that’s my limit to be a conscience
So that I no longer have this internal dissidence

He manages to free his thoughts
as he gazes the television
for news from a distance,
while continuing to sample
his supper of rice,
and sauteed vegetables
on a aluminum serving plate.

The restaurant he owns
dimly lit this mid-afternoon
with ghostly lanterns,
and artistic impressions
of times past on the wall,
while customers
walk and gingerly pass
ordering from an eclectic
menu of indo-latin-euro-oriental cuisine.

A neapolitan of condiments
dancing among garlic chili sauce,
and mayonnaise.

Mahogany grained panel walls,
and formica woven
seats, uniformly
scattered among
porcelain white
plates; traditional.

Engraved Jade pieces
hung with colors of luck
on each entrance.

I approach the counter.
A sepia toned
picture of his family
hanging by his register
no first dollar bill
or recognitions.
Just family held,
through time,
as he hands me a check.