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I
Shall
Pick myself with the ashes
Of these rhymes

And
Saturate my cavity walls
With the very of your smiles

Although
I feel no crush into pieces
It seems
I'm way-lost in these puzzles

Yet
Sweet nostalgic hymns
But I feel like I'm moving circus in oxymoron
I'm walking over hills the rains
Yet my head twirls beneath the vallies

I
Am confused
Like any of these
Falling stars amidst the universe

But
How do I fuse
These words you speak in obscure
A piece..

I'm confused anyways

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©Historian E.Lexano
®Recalcitration With Excellence
historianelexano.Wordpress.com

Rocking chair
A comfortable seat
Turkish tea or strong coffee
Burning fireplace
Decorated wooden hut
Future wife
Snowy night
A rifle on the wall
Classic music
Wool blanket
Hello Poetry
Tolstoy's masterpieces
Ilya Repin's picture's
Wolf voices
Cold places
What a Freedom !

I wish I could say I was sand that slipped through your fingertips, but baby that's a truth for someone else.

You let me go.
You would rather be loved on hazy nights than for all the forever's I could promise you. You wanted love, you just didn't want me.

This is our truth.

I  know  the  world    has only    space
      for    a woman   and  her  heart,   her  ******* emblazoned in  the trees,
her  depths  in voluminous   books – let only   the   saltine  water
   touch   her brindled   body   atilt   amongst  the lilies   in the  silver  dawn

         and   that her    cusped   hands  demand  a softer  hue of  love    whereas
the   salacious  wind  continues   its   grasp  championing  things   both  fragile
      and   sturdy:  the   world  slides  in the  coloured  curve of   a woman
         and  the men dare  too,  follow  the road  where they meet first  with
  death   sitting   still with  the  roses  like   a    splendid   fragrance   stilled in the mind
      leading     you   to a  garden  which   thorns   are ensconced
          in  a smoothness   that  sings    salutations    to love – as  I   remain  to be
nose-deep   sheath   after    sheath,  ****   after   ****,   stalking   the
           perfume   of   the  world  a  woman   owns.

[A prose poem]

I need to tell you about someone you should know.

She never uses her index finger.
          Well, that's not true anymore. She gave up on the quirk, and now uses the fullness of her thin fingers. They're wounded though. You have to know her hands.
        She picks the skin on the borders of her nails, as if the lack of red were mediocre. She needs passion, she does. And roses. They cascade on the right wall of her room.
        See, there's something about people who tape roses on their walls. I can see her scarred little fingers, pushing adhesive on the flowers.

A cardboard bonfire and a Newcastle
I spend a lot of time alone
But loneliness only creeps in
When I'm around people with
Nothing important to say
If there's one thing I miss about my youth...
Is all the dreamers...
The dancers
The poets
The painters
The sculptors
The writers
The singers
The musicians
The believers....
What happened to all my dreamers....
Or is it what happened to me?

Many things push us
To a point
Where we feel
We are losing our mind
It's just a matter of knowing when to grow
And submerge yourself in a cocoon

To protect and grow yourself
Through hell or earthly troubles
Never forget that happiness also
Pushes us to change and adapt

Love teaches us to look closer
Betrayal teaches us to be more skeptical
But somewhere in the middle
We can be reasonable people

I've felt before that I was losing my mind
No one can take that from me but myself