The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Last week

seven of my

children were

all together for

the first time

in a long time.


and as each one

came into the room

to greet me.

I felt my roots

grow

deeper and

deeper to

the center

of the universe.


and in their smile

I saw the smile of

my father,

the smile

of my mother.,


and as I drank

in their laughter

I became

drunk with

life.


and when night

fell

I looked up to

the heavens

took a deep

breath into

my soul.


then I

memorized

the exact place

of every star

and shimmer.


and I knew

I had finally

found my

place in

the universe.

the destination?
technicolor paradise:
Imagination

Anger is an acid,
which does more damage
on the vessel where it is stored
than on anyone
which it is poured.

Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.

The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.

Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.

I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.

They are the audience,
You are their puppet.

Attached by ropes hanging above where a stage is lit,
Lights bright, shining right at you,

...from the day you were born.

They were all directors,
-all of them? -yes all of them.
How could there be more than one you may ask?

I guess that's the mystery,
Can't seem to please them all,
But this stage showcases all,
the bad, the good, your actions,

Now you tell me,
where you have no place to hide,
How does a puppet escape a stage and auditorium full
of directors,

Why live in misery?

I come on here every few months to a year,
I only post to let my heart out,
when I need to process my own thoughts,

I would call this my online journal of chaotic memories,
Feelings I can't seem to control,
Feelings I try to explain,
Feelings that make me go insane.

Poetry's anger, I say.
They laugh and chuckle saying wait what ?

Poetry is anger.
Poetry ignites a fire,
It sends out a message loud and clear,
It is passionate, it is abrupt,
It is unfiltered, it is love.

but like most things,
Poetry is much like a wolf in sheep's clothing,
majestic and beautifully written but written with anger, and passion within.