Internal poetry while doing
Yoga.
I don't mean practicing
Yoga. I mean doing it.
Writing, because although
Yoga
Calmed my racing thoughts
And high electromagnetic frequency,
Additional
Judgmental,
Highly observant,
Rather foreign thoughts
Are returning.

The pirates pillaging
Sanity within
Are no match for the
Ancient Indian
And pre-Indian
Yoga and poetry.
In this day and age,
Yoga is heraled
For the stylish, revealing pants
Used for practicing.
As well as the many classes that reek of ego.

Poetry, on the other hand,
Has more or less gone obsolete.
They killed all the poets.

They have become replaced
By social media
Featuring those unsocialized with writing.
Now, when I need to hear the wisdom
Of a guiding angel,
All I hear
Is the pathetic language
Of the less fortunate in poetic freethought.
These discombobulated ghosts
Haunt me
When I hear far too many
Voices
And need stillness to compensate my illness.

These voices of the day, I fear,
Manipulate me in most unpleasant ways.
And being thinker, as I am,
Drawing conclusion and meaning
From everything I can,
A blessing and a curse --
Which, then again, are blessings nonetheless --
I cannot help but wonder
If this is part of a plan.

Orwell wrote of so not fifty years ago.
The language now constantly spoken,
As well as read,
As well as written,
Dumbing us down.
Losing touch with words of wisdom
In most trying of times.
This is what happens when

You **** off
All the poets.

There are more things
That are not things
Than there are things
That are things.
Potential is a powerful,
Abundant resource.
To tap into the
Unknown, uncharted,
Unachieved, departed -
And introduce it to
What it means to Be -
Makes every artist
A midwife.
Without the great alchemists -
The artists, the dreamers,
Visionaries, poets, musicians -
Those who enter into
Akashic Records
Like a library -
We would only ever have
What has already came to be.
Like a technical computer reality.
Art brings us closer
To the cusp of Life.
Mother Earth is the greatest artist
I've ever known.
Being Human means
Being an artist.
Our Mother may soon
Scold us
For coloring all over the walls.
Making an artist takes time.
In the Universe,
There's plenty of that.

I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?

The heart can heal all.
That's why we fear
Opening it up
For a fickle other.
We can lose our
Best chance at
Self-defense.

I don't fear
The break,
So I send mine
On a plate.
Recipients are
Used to games.
I am, however,
Fiercely straight-forward,
With self-confidence
Coated in
Uncertainty. Vanity. Candy.
Recipients simply run from me.

This is why I focus on me,
Expired of all of my romances.
Thankful Universe gave us chances
To quickly flee the scene
Before the heart dances.
Lonesome creatures are courageous.

Maniacally,
The days and nights
Bleed together
Into a time frame
The insane
Tap into
That's a lot like infinity.
Vampiracally,
The years of
Infinity
Bleed together
Into an abysmal
Spiral
Of insanity.
Supernaturally,
Are our states of being.
How well
We blend in
With a dismal
Arrangement
Of plain people
In trains,
Checking their wrists
For the time
As they travel
Physically.
Naturally,
The three of us
Are bound to meet
At some point.
Tapping into
Hidden goldmines
Of psychological
Nuggets
That gleam
With prosperity,
As everything
Melts together
Again.
Everything is sacred.
Everything is connected.
Mining
For hidden connections
Ought to excavate
Feelings of wonder.
The caverns filled
With complex crystals
Of energetic
Freethought
Have long been
Paved over
By trains and
Linear brains
Improving on their
Transistors.
Maniacally and
Vampiracally,
The days and nights
Bleed together,
While the world below
Bustles about;
We appear to be
Just like one of them.
We may even check
Our watch.
Our conditions
Are congruent
In that they are
Nothing less than
Supernatural.

Flowers, oh so fearless.
Featherly, inviting fountains.
Gifts for all who seek for it,
From the trees to the mountains.
Buzzing bees relax to sit,
Upon a vibrant throne.
Within a world built from grit,
Femininity is shown.
Flowers, oh so fearless.
Opened to receive reverence.
No judgment cast, it seems at last,
A place for kind deliverance.

I loved you then; I love you now.
In times of chaos; Without a sound.
I loved you black; I love you white.
With rhyme or reason; Without a right.
I love you New York; I love you Paris.
I love you boldly or embarrassed.
I love you luck; By Divine Fate.
I'll love you after I forget your face.
I love you blue; I love you true.
I love you whether I'll be with you.