It is not drishti;
It is my ignorant staring
that draws me into you

Neither eyes, head
nor heart softens
straining to meet your gaze

Yearning, longing
unspoken earnest
an ensnared frenzy

The alien depths of
complicated blues
dismember me

The tales and odes
craft and song;
mimic sweet melodies

Basking in warmth
tracing footsteps;
following blindly

But this is fleeting faith
euphoric delusions
****** girlish fantasies

you leave me
again;
naked, empty

Repeated assessments in
blood-red marks;
*** laude in foolery

Yet I rise once more
reassemble the remnants
move forward

For that is all I know,
and I fear;
all I will ever know

It is on eves like these where
confinement to my quarters is perfection.
The crushing ideal to become the butterfly
who floats ever so gracefully
in the shadows of the neon lights
with fore and hind chitin
effervescently radiating towards
the heat source greater than my own
and pollinating each and every flower
gracing this beautiful Earth:

gratuitous metamorphosis

Tonight I will be the moth,
flickering near the light
and fluffing my feathered antennas.
My "drab" wings will shield me
from predators of land and sky,
an easy rest on this heart of oak.
Navigate me stars and Moon,
my essence attracts for miles round.

*placid animation

Undulations of feathers
in waves of gray and black.
Rubber feet plodding,
beaks pecking the ground
for unseen morsels.
Incessant honking and barking
encompasses the life
of absurd bird folk.
They're ******* on the sidewalk.
They **** everywhere, really

I'm embalmed in pine and simmering in luster
floating along a french toast breeze
as clear blue skies echo a songbird's warble.

Steam curls and twists into snake skins
as it unfurls from a cracked green mug,
steaming my neck and face.

A cool smile emanates certainty
and I resolve to the emotion,
my best self reflecting off onyx Ray Bans.

I am adoration and passion, filled to the brim;
clogged, quenched, settled;
completely fulfilled in a mountainous paradise.

look at you
look at those strong, illuminated eyes
staring back at you

what a beautiful disaster you are living
what a labyrinth of wins and loses
like we're water circling the drain
while the world may seem like a cruel place
you are here to experience the vastness that is the human condition
and when things just don't make sense
remember that you are not alone and that
you are loved

do not be afraid
you are in good hands
the universe is going to take care of you

I send this track

Out to the Universe

Praying its echoes

Reach the farthest corners of the Earth

To reach you



I want the melody

To seep into your skin

The synthesizer

To shake your ribs

Each percussive meter

Synced to your beating heart



And as the music fades

And the ethereal chimes

Tickle the silence

Imagine my fingers

Tracing your lips

Pulling you in for a taste of bliss



I hope this track

Transcends the airwaves

That my light

Enraptures you

And embalms you

In Affection

Pine trees as far as the eye can see
Flames spitting embers into a clear blue sky
Ribs and potatoes nestled into dutch ovens

My world is quiet.
My universe is still.
My life is pure.

A foreign peacefulness
A comforting oneness
complete with operatic songbirds
and the swings of a steadfast ax

A mind sauntering towards problems
far, far away from where we are
disintegrate with the setting sun,
dissolving in a melody of laughter

rest
*you can rest now

I like hearing my own voice.

I like its rich tone and sultry air.
Some people called it a little husky for a woman's
but squeaky voices
make people cringe.
I love the feeling of beautiful words rolling off my tongue,
creating intonations that are completely and uniquely
my own,
and re-rehearsing my free verse
so it sounds absolutely perfect
to me.

Yes,
I love hearing my own voice.
I find the greatest joy in listening to my own discourse.
But, sometimes I don't because my voice can also be my
worst enemy.

From a young age,
discrepancies arose in in my communication.
Repetition, prrrrrooooolongation, and ab-   normal stoppages
plagued my speech.
Even with hours of therapy and annunciation drills,
I still couldn't escape
from choking
on my own words.

A quiet child wants nothing more than to demand attention
by speaking boldly.
A voice w-w-worth listening to that is eager to share
hides behind the fear
of stumbling on
little t-teeny letters.
And children are the cruelest of beings.
Their critique on anything abnormal
leaves deep scars.

I wanted to read out loud in class,
be an actress, a poet.
Maybe it's because I love the sound of my own voice,
but with all of these activities revolving around it,
it is laborious to have a
stutter.

you need to be more like what's his name that guy sitting in the corner ask him a question and he knows the answer you need to take some grammar lessons this is the stuff that you need to know*                          
                                 ­                                                                 ­                       doer

Eve convinced Adam
to eat forbidden fruit
in the Garden of Eden

Helen of Troy's face
launch'd a thousand ships,
her lips instigating warfare

Sumptuous curvatures of
women's hips and bossom
lure honorable men to disgrace

How dare that trollop
where a pair of trousers
accentuating her buttocks!

The micro-hemline
corralled a wandering eye
to the elegant calve muscle

The female figure is
warmth and seduction,
yet devilish and misleading

History and myth
reaffirming sweet satisfaction,
but reeking of disaster

Need him
right now right now

Want him
right now right now

It turns into many hims
right now right now

But there is only
one
him

I have all of him

Long, long ago, my heart was penned inside a leather book. An ornate pattern was etched upon the cover, accompanied by heavenly hues. Crisp, ivory pages and ink as black as a raven's wing showed evidence of joy, pain, sorrow, and truth.

I would study the book for hours, fascinated by its complexities. I liked tracing my fingers over the fine details, my eyes danced over the calligraphy. And then I began to wonder if anyone else wanted to read my book. So I sought to find out.

I embarked on journeys and took nothing but my beautiful book. Every traveler I met was invited to read it, and I would sit quietly next to them as they leafed through the pages. I would administer the addition of their letters and lessons, hoping to personify their most admirable traits. My eyes widened in horror as they defaced its elegance. But I was confused and saddened when someone chose to rip out any pages and chapters to keep for themselves, leaving asymmetrical gashes in my most prized possession.

As a young girl, the travelers were gentle with my beautiful book. They treated it with great care and smiled at me with warm eyes. As I grew older, far more people began to treat the book with less respect. Sure, most wanted to read it, but some read only the parts that they deemed worthy. Others read with greed to exploit the deep secrets within. And others completely disregarded the book all together.

Now, the bindings are worn down and dangerously thin. The pages are feeble, threatening to tear from the softest contact. I dare not travel with it any longer, let alone even touch it for fear that it will fall apart in my own hands. It sits on a bookstand, accumulating dust.

I long to open the book once more, but I know that I must wait for the most avid Reader to be gentle with its contents. It is tenderness that will bring the most beautiful parts of the book to life. The Reader will restore its fragile state and add the knowledge and clarity that no other person could have taught. And as the new and improved project is completed, the purest form of love will stem forth.

Until then, my beautiful book will rest easy.

borderline obsessed,
reach-for-the-stars-over-the-fence
with a side of nausea & self-loathing.
bus side advertisements like Post-It Notes,
Manolos and Choos berserk in clouds of smoke and storms of ***.
lots of ***.
rice pudding, saltine ******* sandwiches
and coloring with breakfast banter
illuminate a beige bed of two sullen indents
draped in love

I can already feel it coming on
The Free Fall
A slow moving catapult into oblivion
I will lose myself
In the black hole of tangled limbs
And in grasps so perfectly sculpted
Michelangelo could've carved it
Waking up amalgamated
Into the evening's assumed position
Your eyes are grey and clouded
Like the dawning of this day
Please forgive me
I know not what I do

It's a pleasant scene really;
calm breeze whistling,
bonfire glowing,
uninhibited chortles rippling through the air.
But I'm not feeling like myself today.
I'm just forcing a smile
through split, bloodstained lips
and the sizzling of alcohol
on open wounds is
amusing.
There are too many conversations.
Entertained by slurred statements
and detached from subject,
I am void and vacant space
occupying this camper chair.
But when a muffled interaction begins, things finally get
interesting.

"You've got a little bit of crazy in your eyes."

The observation haunts me.

When I close my eyes,
I see a serene aquatic view
and messages in bottles growing
smaller and smaller,
melting into the horizon.

I see the Sun
catching the glass' delicate curvatures
and casting amber sparkles
back to the shore where I
stand firmly
in the sand.

For two hundred and forty six sunrises,
the hungry tides
swallowed and buried my feet over and over again
as they cast themselves upon me.
I remained
unmoved
as twilight waxed and waned.
When soft pinks, oranges, and yellows were weakened
with the onset of a deep indigo,
a longing for night
festered
and ****** me into its mesmerizing abyss.
When a single gull's call pierced the sky
his lonely cry called me
to find solace in isolation.
And as the ocean oohed and awed over a cool breeze,
I let it run through me
and did not shudder
from its ghost-like impulse.

I feel the waves grabbing at me to pull me in,
and
I want to give in to their force.
I want them to carry me away.
I want to feel their shifts in energy, and
I want to float atop them
as the Sun shines upon me and warms my face.
I'm longing to be carried to lands not quite breached
on any wave
that would be willing
to take me...

Anywhere.

But I am still
motionless.
Cemented
in ever moving grains.
Forever sinking down into the sand
unable to attain the fluidity
that is
the Sea.

the impenetrable stereotype
of typical American households
fussing
with bake sales, church functions, soccer games
where gremlins
push and shove and put their
grimy hands all over
clean novelties,
where chaotic supernatural creatures
bust and break and bite
pristine, picturesque products
that consumed hours of effort
and sweat

perfectly polished
hands dripping with gold and diamonds
swipe across a glistening brow
sighs escape
a pearl noosed neck colliding with the collar bone
of pressed dresses,
pick up your feathered orb to
twirl and taunt and tantalize your
uniformed, unwavering kingdom
where nothing is out of place
and order

kiss and cook and clean
care for screaming beasts
map out dangerous trails of silence and suppression
too deep a hole
to claw yourself out of
a forever binding contract
to voluntary servitude

Wasting the day away
in four walls of eggshell
and sheep-skin blankets
and translucent light
Everything white to emit neutrality

Bathing in media forms obtained from the library
I am a sponge
soaking up these materials
to wring them out as
catharsis

Cognition wanders
to you and the smell of fresh-cut grass
but I cast them away,
turn up the music
and execute a two-step

She is soft buttery goodness

Her golden curls embalm her in Heavenly light

She slathers on her goodness and brightens the darkness

Her sticky drawl is a hymn

She is a warm, familiar sweetness

She is home

behold the frolicking artichoke
bewildering complexities of her natural
hues unfolding tumultuously before me
cascading into the dark abyss
of raw power as her succulent heart
pounds her silken extremities
growing and shrinking before my eyes
like the disappearing light at the end of a long tunnel
oh artichoke we are looking to
you to reveal our hidden destiny

Sometimes I don't really remember people
by their specifics or
characteristics.
Their hair,
their eyes,
their body,
sometimes even minds and personalities
become a blur

cuz
I remember people
by the feelings that which they leave me.
I am painfully aware of their
swift entrances and
immediate exits,
leaving me bewildered
as to how and why they
came to be

But for some reason,
I can recall
(almost) every detail
about you.
I remember
gleaming azures
and head-topped sandy blonde.
I remember
macrame, leather jackets
a confident voice
and a six-string gizmo.
I remember
your body: long and lean
secure
Electric

But mostly,
I remember
the multitude of feelings that which you left me.
Curiosity.
Understanding.
Euphoria.
And finally, disappointment.
Not with you, though.
With my naivety.

My impressionable soul
clings to the people who
captivate me,
and you sir,
were riddle and enchantment.
The ideal.
And you still are
in the way that mysteries tend to be;
unforgettable stories
of pure bliss.

a water droplet
plummeting
towards a marble bath tub
screams eerie echoes
into emptiness

an hourglass
vomits a thick,
square stream of
a million grains of sand
right back into it's own belly

a dryer machine
bullies and beats
white cotton through
turbulent cycles
of hot air

a spiritless woman
vigilant of repetition
and forgotten items
to occupy
her idle mind

Wild ice eyes see into me
Feeling, longing
No.

The sweet exhalations of my Caroline girl
fog the windows of our wood-lined station wagon
moving down US 20.
Her doughball palms and fudgy fingers pressed against the thick glass,
her bright pink hat nods as the
snowglobe snowflakes flurry to the ground.
Strapped into her car seat, her plump legs kick forth
left - right
left - right
left - right;
a staccato rhythm forming from a pair of Barbie light-up snowboots
that beat the back of my driver's seat.
We are shooting forward,
straight into the horizon. Into the unknown and away from what was.
The blush sunset and amber clouds foretell
the future.

i wanna be a Vagabond
traveling around in a
decrepit Volkswagon van.
maybe there are some furry walls inside,
but i cannot make any promises...............

i want to live on nothing but
dry Frosted Flakes.
i'll wear the thrift store clothes
that dented my pocket 15
they're faded and torn
from stories and adventures,
which is chill.
it's better than this cookie-cutter suit.............

i will admire coastal beaches
and watch their scorching sunsets.
climb to high mountain peaks
and look down upon the anthills
that us busy-bodies have made.
i'll accompany fried-chicken dinners
with twangy country tunes,
and feel the breeze whipping through my hair in an everlasting cornfield..................

You should come with Me.
we can invite people to merge our journeys
sharing the inspiration of a nomadic dream.
let's create our own home,
build our own future!
society's norms were not meant
for us free spirits.
the world is our classroom.
why are we too scared to learn from it?................

Well, on second thought,
maybe I should bring those
brownies that Nana makes.
*Perhaps I'll miss home.

It's the most freeing feeling, it is
To be walking around naked

Every little bit, just as it should be
Rejoicing a bestowed framework

Grazing the curvatures of warm flesh
Inattentive to soft glitches

In such joyous liberations
True wholeness is glorified

It’s a bubblicious nightmare,
Hell’s stagnant shock waves
converged from eclectic mass and
unsound rip tides.
Graze the protruding vein
poignant BK3,
slit the sheath and
the frame weeps of the
massacre stemmed.
A body fallen finds refuge
paralyzed whimsical mess

Today entails a small bit of
day drinking
I'm clad in a string bikini
and a chilled beer bottle
pressed to my lips.
It feels fantastic
to get a little drunk
at 2 in the afternoon

And yet, it also kind of
numbs the Pain,
the Pain of feeling
like a complete failure
or vapid
or inadequate
in life, love, and green

I'm dwelling on my
most personal desires:
a sweaty yoga practice,
deep beats pounding through my Body,
ironing white dress shirts,
the feeling that I am a piece of art:
you can look but you do not touch Me

Niceties tend to fly out the window
when the tiniest bit of liquor
enters My Temple.
Completely aware of
my role as
sugar, spice, everything nice;
its a balancing act
between the good and bad
coursing through my veins

There is nothing nobler
than being Good,
but sometimes it is
Oh. So. Good
to be Bad

I've been told
That this will come to pass
That feelings disintegrate
That fissures fill themselves
That it will all get better in time

Every tired saying
Every cliché that's ever been vomited
I eat up quick then regurgitate

I guess those sayings really are there for a reason
To explain what really can't be said

I'm in the beginning, middle, and end
Waiting for the fade-away
A broken record with a sad tune
Ascending to the apex of steadiness