I've locked myself up,
These past two years.
I'd say I don't blame you,
But then I'd be lying.
Thanks for the gift.
I didn't know you
Could package heartbreak.
It was a little earlier
Than the holidays, but
It loves to open up
On Christmas,
And make me cry
Under the mistletoe.
You wrapped it up,
In beautiful ribbon.
Just like you wrapped me,
Up around your finger,
Two years ago.
Thanks for that.

Hope you have a wonderful holiday,
        Sincerely,
              Amara

The light shines in
As the window creeks open
The wind hits my face
Darling, where have you been?

The lonely days I've spent
Longing after you
Leave an aching in my soul
And searching for the truth

What other soul has grabbed your attention?
Has my memory withered away?
Was this always your intention?
To abandon me someday?

My being is only half without you
You're nowhere to be found
So I'll sit here, half a heart,
Until you come around

I'm in a closed box
With tape on the top
Don't have any scissors
Have to use my fingernails
Scratch Scratch Scratch
Doesn't work
****
Maybe I should shout?
Let me out?! Let me out!
No one is listening.
I look through the slit
Through the clear tape
I touch my hand to the top
Of my cardboard box
All I see is white outside
I go to curl up a bit
Moving my hand,
But I can't
It sticks
To the top of the box
And I tug & pull
But it doesn't come off
I let out a small sound
I prop my other hand
On the side
And then I realize
That it's now also attached
****
Panic creeps into
The back of my brain
I pull very hard
But to no avail
I start to scream and thrash
As my skin
Touches the box
It sticks
And now I'm still
Still as can be
The box is holding me
Prisoner
The more I tug
The more I feel
Myself getting tugged
Towards it's surface
What is it's purpose?
I put this box in
The back of my brain
Long ago
What was in it?
I really don't know
Or I just can't remember
I'm overly uncomfortable
Then I realize,
I'm in it
And it's trying to consume me
I shouldn't have done it
I put my, myself in this box
And I tossed it into
The back of my brain
I have to refrain
From screaming in pain
As the box let's go of
My skin
I hear the schick schick
Of the tape peeling off
The top of the box
Opens very quietly
I stand up and stretch
Afraid it'll happen
Again
And get out of the box
Before it changes it's mind
And I look around
It's all white
So, this is what the inside of
My head looks like
Boxes upon boxes
Are stacked up like skyscrapers
I see some scissors
Lying beside the now open
Box
I look around again
Then I grab the scissors &
A box,
Slash the tape
Hoping to find all of
Myself again

I ache for the pinch
of the coiled steel beneath
each finger tip
pressing down sloppy
thoughts and sheepish
wishes.
The polished red wood
sliding across my palms
each pluck sending out
the perfect tone to settle
qualms
and topple empires
while building up cardiac muscle
never mind the fumbles
caused by unuse and long nights
of abuse
But even if I had the strings
it wouldn't change a thing
not a thing

neck·ing/ˈnekiNG/
Noun: The action of two people kissing and caressing each other amorously.


Both thumbs hanging on the back pockets of your jeans
while leaning against the wall and biting your bottom lip
enticing the oasis of your tongue, your breath dying of thirst.

Your flirtatious smile already knows that it’s entitled
to the mwah’s, ooh’s and aah’s coming the way of your pout
little did you know of the kisses you could fit in that mouth.

it’s the mathematical sum of everything that’s round
it’s dancing in the rain under an infinite fall of X’s and O’s
it’s nibbling on a bottle of Hennessy before taking a shot.

While I hold your face with both hands,
my eyes never wavering from yours,
I caress your cheeks, undress your thoughts,

feverishly going in, taking all the time in the world
to taste every bit of you and savor the moment so to speak
with our senses fogged, ******* in a tangled rope, in a kiss.

Then I pull some back to slowly feel your breathing into me
your clouded lips in my fingertips are a miracle of humidity
the stripped walls of oblivion is the last frontier with will see.

Before submerging deep into the point of no return
before your ripe apple meets the delicacy of my touch
before leaving in me, flower of skin, every last drop of you.

I don't recall the moment responsibility grew arms hugging
with gnarled fingers, while burdened skies wrap like a promise,
with its soft tenor of lies and seduction.

Disowned, I remember the drunk old lady who hung
over my shoulders puking responsibility, as if to discharge
toxic waste on a pre-mature baby struggling in labor, while death
chokes the innocent, lost in love's knowledge.

She could have warned me, even better, ridiculed me rather
than put my head on a bludgeoned block allowing me to become
a scapegoat for all the past, present and future mistakes:
Some, of which was manufactured in threads of innuendo
by off-loaders.

These bones of mine are exposed in the twilight of their naked
prejudice, and 'I swear I could hear clouds' curse my name, chanting
wrath, creating chaos through veins of pride, before darkness
fell feasting off my flames.

There is nothing like hollow skeletons of the dead rustling
around in graveyards alone. I stopped to think despite efforts
of going solo; how I miss the stony silence of that skull, bent
with anger seeking solace from my venomous touch.

It would be a blessing to retreat into silent reveries
where I am alone, I am alive, the dead are no more, to wrestle
ghosts with words spoken into the heavens asking,
"is there enough forgiveness left for me?"

I don't want to remember her dead face, how it looked
when her neck snapped while life drained from her stiffened eyes.
I want the abstracts of my life to fit.

So, I howl upon her bitter pill - release me...


7/11/2012

I
We are made of wood, we
rot from the inside out,
for men of STONE went extinct years ago.
We are the trees
our a  r  m  s and    l
                                 e
                                 g
                                 s
                                     are branches
Our fingers
twigs and leaves
our hearts easily set     a         l            z
                                              b   ­       a           e         by emotions carved on
our trunks
We burn for one another
like a forest fire,
but if we all fall to the flame
we will soon be men of  a  s   h    e     s ....

II
Where are the golden halos?
the jeweled crowns of the gods?
have they tumbled from the h e a v e n s
down below the sea
pass hell's gate
and into your hands?

They're looking for them,
they'll find you.
But not until April,
because Persephone will be back by then,
and hell will be less tense.
Until then, guard them.
You know the demons come out at night,
ready to bargin,
but dont make the deal.
Wait for April.
Wait for the flowers to bloom,
and the rain to fall,
before you return the crowns.

III
They came on horses
in gold and red.
My father and his friends stared at them
in the way only arrogant American men can.
They trotted on by with their horses
that wore blindfolds
and gold horseshoes.  
They did not say a word.
They did not look at anyone.
They
          did
                  nothing
            ­                     wrong.
My father sleeps with the blindfold on at night
and carries one of the horseshoes in his pocket.
I haven't seen the gold and red horse riders since they came
that one day
with no words to say
                                      and no eyes to be met
                                                             ­                  on their blinded stallions.
My father says we're not allowed to talk about them.
He doesn't let me wear red and gold anymore.