November mist wraps a wet blanket
as I walk the falling day’s labyrinth
beneath neuronic trees of a waking forest
along a river dying in hyacinth!

the boatman sings a home going song
floats happy at the end of the ride
the river is narrow a few furlong
and his home is on the other side!

oil lamps flicker from the bank huts
winds carry their laughter and cries
grow darker tree barks as darkness shuts
all but the sky’s heavy sighs!

I hasten to escape this melancholic gloam
an alien in this forbidding night
the boatman must have reached his home
and the river is lulled in starlight!

In my office was a guy
This’s how he made his mark
He would raise a hue and cry
When he did the smallest work!

Though there were quite a few
That performed more than him
Only this man knew
How to raise the steam!

Not a chance was missed
To harp on smallest feat
To come to fore noticed
And reap the reward sweet!

There’re guys that brag and bark
Their own drums loudly beat
And men that make their mark
In noiseless quiet retreat!

My dad dug his foot into my back like a shovel breaking soil.
If I do enough push ups, can I put a smile on your face.
If I move the earth for you, will meteors stop me.

I carried sparklers in my hands while cannon-kisses erupted in the sky,
and my cousin swore that I'd hurt myself.
But I explained to him that history repeats itself,
and that my hurt is unavoidable.

Like the hug of a grieving grandmother,
and the staring off into space,
as her tears stain my white oxford lie.
There's no way to get out of this place.
Finding new ways to live in death.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.

And her fingers left a ******* on my back.
And my mouth melted onto hers.
I love her until my eyes **** in sleep.
And it's deep. And it's deep.

The swirl of the ceiling sank down
like a child being drowned by his mother.
And I missed my brother, and I missed it all.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.
No, not anymore.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

In the watermark of night
we are black shadows swaying

hands finding hips finding thighs
in the dark

blades aligned
we cut stars in ice

back arching in your hands
my hair sweeps a frozen lake

arms stretching distant skies
under the taunt of stars
you pull me in

your face in the moon

winter’s song
longing

your lips

salty
red flowers

I will taste

It wasn’t that my dresses were too short,
Or my sentences too long.
It wasn’t that my hair was green,
And my mascara smudged,
It wasn’t that my laugh was too loud,
And my voice too quiet.
No,
It was that I didn’t apologize
For the things you didn’t like.

I wore my skirts with pride,
And fired my sentences at warp speed,
I died my hair green again, then blue,
I let my mascara ghost my eyes
And I laughed, laughed, laughed,
And sometimes - I just stayed quiet.

No,
What really bothered you
Weren’t the imperfections,
It was the confidence that let me love them,
It was the independence that let me embrace them,
It was the strength that let me be who I am.

You didn’t mind that my voice was quiet,
You minded that I didn’t stutter.