Yellow* was the color that brought us together
Orange was the color that made you glow
Red was the color of our love
Purple was the color you left on my skin
Blue was the color you made me feel
Black was the last color I ever saw

A man becomes bad by ‘situation’,
He is not bad by birth.
And ‘situation’ comes from inequalities –
And social dogmas, made by the men of earth.

Wade on top of roses,
   not immersed in thorn and leaf

Time with people I learn to know, is,
   always far too brief

My heart is in a nose dive,
   each new friend makes me bleed

But with each new wound, I,
   find isolation, what I need

To heal I must remain above,
   apart from what I seek

On top is where the flowers are,
   far from a lover's cheek.

Oh, darling!
But your demons
match with mine.

/pc

Bonded by the magic of fantasy, of intellect,
Ensnared by riddles, promises, setting suns,
Tangled up in sheets, in softness,
Freed up within each other,
You, and me, and our cold flame.

I used to keep my heart on my sleeve
so naive and easily deceived
any lie told to me, I would believe
my mind fought what my heart perceived

trying to find all of the right signs
I hid my heart and tried my mind
then within those dark confines
I've come to find that my heart was blind

where the conformity sees a

(blank page)

we see scarlet letters and ink
of hues unimaginable . those
who don't know what it's like
to fight origami dragons, thin
as wafts of ***** smoke, the
wings of which having the po-
wer to knock their worlds to
the next millennium and the
flaming jaws to crush chrod-
mum skulls to powder . those
stars of their scales tell tales .
of woe . the beat of their heat
like a tribal drum from Hades
but all the conformity sees is

(blank page)

we see billions of suns already
extinguished . wraiths of cloud
wrapping around the tip of our
pen . we see . android humans
and human ai's cannot . we are
given a unique ability as poets
we make something blank into
beauty . ugliness . banality into
exquisite expression . cheers!!!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/2/2016

I love being gone from a place
long enough to remember it in pieces.
The words of some old song
piecing themselves together
in the back of my throat,
    
(I'll
         be
             seeing
                         you.)

                 Like rust on the underbelly of my car.
Or warm-walled cafés
where I tasted the lips of lovers.
                 The way winter tears
                 my Mother's skin apart,
and how potholes
remind me of
                 her hands.

Last January I embraced a delirious woman
whose daughter had jumped from a 10 story building.
The whole time she talked about the aching
of children's bones
and how she wished someone would fill in
the cracks on the sidewalks.

I used to say this city gave me growing pains.
I wonder if New York will make me feel smaller.