Sweet ink,
lost you in doubt
Darkening corners
Scared and trapped
Find me
Please, find me
I need you to survive
My outlet, my energy
Just a small fuse
Waiting to be nurtured
I’ll bring you back to life

Powdery flakes poisoned,
like orange juice on a sad day.
Stale snakes,
squeezing me: my throat.
Can’t breathe no more.
No alms, **** being poor.
Going 1-100 in less than 3 seconds,
rushes faster than sports cars.
Never ready for it,
but always ready for the next piece--
excitement and like little dolls
unable to express my emotions,
stoic…sick and stuck hazy phases
ready to re-phrase my life.
Time to get out of struggle-- done with strife
Knives felt too easy—I like--
challenges feel like sweet marmalades

Tweet, tweet,
feeling feet,
pinky toes interlocked--
sheets like magic carpets--
an escape with wings.
Air lifting up
from lungs,
unable to breathe,
greed, taking my last breath
just to feed--to eat--to need.
Pouring liquid fantasies,
like fingerprint dandelions,
ready to bloom ,
until erupting from cocoons,
padlocking us in cages,
draining our veins,
feeling our shame.
I forgot to heat your porridge
for long enough.

Drink the gasoline.
Gag. Rub rest over body.
Step three: light the match.

Residual visuals
write again
lick the pen
forming words
venom skin
haunting chimes like holy bells
docking in the waters
flooded rhythms ribbed with sin
lavish favorites framed thin canals
rapture by the dragon's dust
feeding on the angel's wings
sleeping to sounds the zombie sings

Crayola, brick red,
tearing open a new pack--
our favorite color.

Rebels, scraping, up,
indifferent to lines, down--
our favorite color.

Paper became ill fit
bodies became canvases--
our favorite color.

Our bodies, our tools,
crayons never left our side--
our favorite color.

She built a train track.
It only took seven years--
my favorite color.

"Follow the straight line"
Giving up on her sweet dream--
her favorite color.

I looked down at her
letting the brick red stick drop--
my favorite color.

It's in the casket,
but brick red forever is
our favorite color.

Poison-filled pupils,
plagued from plucking eyelashes--
I want one more wish.

Bleeding razor blades
cry beautiful, painful words
yelling for an end.

I was only four
When you first left me alone;
I cried in my sleep.

I am sick
               of waiting
                                 for something good
to happen

Curse you memories
grow new wings and fly away
follow breeze's song

Please.
Stab my heart.
I just want to feel again.

Our soft lips forgive
holding funny untouched thoughts
tightly between tears

Give up agony
coerce unrequited love
make my nerves tingle

Expressing myself
frightens untapped happiness
stolen by regret.

Liberating winds,
whispering powerful thoughts,
form roaring bubbles

Carefully shuffle
your fingers
across my scrambled,
multi-colored faces,
for the puzzling mystery
of this simple, three-dimensional complexity
anxiously waits to be solved.

Unleashing spirits,
fighting precariously,
protect the untouched.

Scratch novel ideas
into my back
                       exceedingly deep,
forcing
a slow eruption
of ******,
poetic words.

Fluttering above,
mysteriously crafted,
gracing me with luck.

Unfinished sketch
                                                          ­                                              in my mind
following each encounter
                                                                            with carefully drawn details,
a face                                                             ­                      without expression
a body                                                             ­                     without definition
a title                                                            ­                               without "you"
grant me
the right to continue
until the colors resonate
your name
                                                                                              *off the portraiture

Subtle* openness,
crawling out of a closed mind,
feeds new ideas.

Sponge, soak me up
                                                         from the sweetest, crystal clear,
breathing in the fresh, salty, air
inhale                                               exhale
inhale                                               exhale
stopping
               ever so softly
                                                         so pleasantly abrupt,
gazing into the horizon
and slowing down
to take in...                                      inhale
this sweet pause.                             *exhale

I'm sick
and tired
                                                                ­                of patiently waiting
                                                                ­                for you to knock on my door.
I'll leave it open
                                                                ­                just for you.
Knock  Knock

Who's Th-              
                                               ­                                 ...come in.

I am sorry to bother you,
so please
                                                          ­                                  ignore these words
or don't.
Who am I
                                                                ­                      to tell you what to do?
Whatever you choose to do,
                                           know this poem has no greater cosmic meaning.
That was not its purpose.
If there is some deeper meaning,
                                                        ­                                      I'm unaware of it.
I'll leave it to you to speculate.

Smile
your pain
                                                                ­                                                       away
my
lovely,
sobbing,
child.

Mr. Sandman,
why do
convoluted,
non-linear,
temporal dimensions
force us
into irreversible choices?

Forgive
biases,
backfiring
from
blurred vision,
racing
against time's
antithesis.

Metamorphose me
into stylistically arranged
harmonies,
leaping off
the paper plane musical scores,
soaring away
like a child's imagination.

Hatch me,
from worldly confinement,
shaking me
as I unconsciously sleep walk
into a new realm
of pain,
torn apart
like little bags of ******
releasing me
from the puppet master's strings,
leaving my mutilated back
slightly stitched
after exposure
to this metempsychosis

Explore
the inner depths
of your mind,
turning over
every rock,
inspecting every crevice
to find
the metaphysical.

Help me understand
the simple complexities
that keep you happy.

What is
the
anthropomorphic
personification of
your
artistic soul?
Immerse
me
in the
gently
flowing ocean
of your secret
epithet.

Just spill the ink.
Let it flow
from the active,
encapsulated, gray matter
behind your eyes,
from the bottom of your lips
tracing down
into your fingertips
and through your pen
and begin to think,
write, and form
your thoughts.
These meaningful
indubitable
expressions
are yours
to keep,
to perform,
to release,
in the way you feel
is true and real.
Find a way
to express your thought
and release your
mind
to create
sublime.

I sit,
watching,
mesmerized by
your delicate hands,
meticulously brushing,
left,
right,
up,
down,
to create
a likeness of the
picturesque visualization
you have of the word "mug,"
abjectly imprinted
in the wrinkles of your brain,
exuding our camaraderie
over a cup of tea.
You are my cup of tea.

Everything I have
experienced until now
has affected me.

You, petrified,
overdosed on the anesthetic-
analgesic,
relapsing every atom,
in every molecule,
of every tissue,
in every muscle,
causing your body
to atrophy
leading to your death.
Forgive me
for not killing
you peacefully.

You may be taken,
but every time I see you
I can't help but hope.

I have no idea
where I am going to be
ten years down the line.

I could not
bare
to look
at the pain
in her eyes,
which she averted,
from the
degradation
that stood before her.
I,
standing before her,
tried to
formulate
the words,
cautiously running
through the
ingredient list
of sincere
apologies,
that exist
in some
metaphysical representation
of what
I am trying
to profess.

Compliment people
so they feel as beautiful
as they truly are

What if
you
knew
the real
me?
What would
you
think?
How would
you
feel?
Would we
still
be
friends?
Maybe
that is why
I'm so
reserved
in the ample space
within
my
mind.

I am not afraid,
but interested to see
what happens today.

I love
the
sweet
effervescence
and untouched
happiness
bottled within
you.
You're not just "that girl"
but a woman
with an aura
that epitomizes
sweet effulgence.