By the end of winter
hind the canopy of leaves
they build a chaotic nest.

She sits meditative
he stands watchful
and once only my eyes could intrude
four bluish white nuggets.

When in the first winds of summer
dance the mango buds
small wings would ache
not to fly beyond mother's love.

But she knows no time to waste
so they too on the next winter
gather twigs for a nest.

We are not quaint.
Deformed and distant like beaten up mementos -
Echoes of tired dialogues.
We are tendencies of aspiration.
Saved by an abundance of correlation.
Dancing along to the frantic motions
of the perils of self-help.

The scripture is loud.
Revised as we drive through drenched tunnels -
Vying for admiration.
Praying for the jubilant ******* -
Into stale dimensions of all that is
Worthy of a second-hand perception.

We are not selling.
We are in the business
of craving to perspire.
Tasting and testing
the competence of turmoil
and exchanging fragments
of our being
for profitable desolation.

We are growing up,
in slow motion.
Drunk on trajectory interactions
of the menial day-dreams.

a million shining diamonds

we are at this point were I could call you my bestfriend
but I am not doing that because I dont want you to be

I could write songs about you and your pretty blue eyes
I could write stories about you and your clever mind

these kids get a little bit to wasted when the sun goes down
and the worst thing is that they dont have a reason not to be
they have parents who don't give a **** so why should we

it's okay not to be okay but there is a line you can cross

the sun goes down and Ill be standing there on the edge
wearing a black dress with dead flowers on it, red lips, sad look
if it wasn't for you I was the first person to jump

the whole concept of dying doesn't even scare me anymore
my demons took that part away from me when I was young

maybe it was the way you looked, but I don't think so
maybe it was the way you kissed, but I don't think so

it was everything what made you not like the others
because you give me butterflies and I want to **** them all

darling my heart isn't save in your hands

Some say
she is lost to writing poems
snippets, little vignettes of beauty
so much nature inspired, obsessed
with green, botany driven desires
forever in skies, blue, or black with stars
meteor showers, falling, melting
like the liquid silver, red sea of mars
crashing waves, her days
tossed, tumbled, stumbling onto poetry
there is no fault, in words
no shame to be made
would be a sorrowful price to pay
she is writing to find
some truths, a sleuth, a seeker
of going within, without doubt
writing to find herself
most days searching out signs of life
to feel what it would be like, to be
in trees, in leaves, to sleep in green towers
of garden lily bowers
to finally dream in lucid colors, surreal
climbing invisible ladders
in orchards of apple blossom Springs
to sing, sing, sing

If you accept this woven fate,
So fearlessly you charge ahead,
There is no more time to hesitate.

Don't be despair in your head,
Live with any more regrets,
In the face of that certain hurt.

Don't mourn on this lost love that fell,
Gentleman doesn't go only to Hell,
Celebrate your inner strengths to heal.

Maybe you will meet her again,
In the twilight of the gods,
One day against all odds.

Since birth you learned,
You know how to survive,
Because you are still alive.

A new world can reborn,
On your devastated ground,
It is up to you to spin the wheel.