I feel so

compelled

to bash your head in
with my love.

When you're dead,
I'll fashion a paintbrush
from a lock of your hair.

I'll paint you on the ceiling
in violent shades of burgundy.

I'll lick the bristles clean.

I'll paint my taste buds
with the vibrant flavors

of your love.

I'll craft a cradle from your bones,
and wrap it taught with your dermis.

Your

marrow

will seep out,

like the

love

from my heart.

I'll keep you.
Forever.
A shrine.
A memento.
A collectable.

A macabre reminder
of my

love.

My friends all talk to each other,
sometimes they address me.
Only every now and then though,
and usually to try and sell something.
My friends are voices, voices in the car.
Voices in my apartment,
voices coming from afar.
My friends are always there,
always willing to talk.
My friends don't really know me,
but I know all of them.
I know them well,
they share everything.
My friends are the voices,
I listen to them so that
I don't have to listen
to myself.

A once dear friend
And I met up;
Twenty years since we spoke,
And neither one could talk.
We left each other's company
On terms of disagreement.

The ice was thick;
The air was clouded;
We stood beneath the shade.

The mountain didn't fall;
The earth didn't swallow;
The roof stayed on.
Nothing cracked our uncertainty.

Then we misquoted some old
Misunderstood memories
Of why we went our ways.
And felt the same.

I never look at a blank page for too long,

Same goes for facing a blank wall,

it seems to be always missing something.

A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.



When I was a child the same goes with my readers

without those colorful photos, I wasn't

contented with reading the book.

I must have read The House that was up sided down"

More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators  

Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts

had capture my growing mind at a early age.

Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,

But it can capture poetic details about life,  

And the subject matters: as they come to surface,


When it comes at me in the mirror,

It's not me staring back, but a poet,

A modern free verse kind of poet,

Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,

Instead of a walk-in stores browser

Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,


The brothers, I have known them that for the past

Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,

But by observing those two as individual characters,



One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,

One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,  

The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:

Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,



The other brother, is still here with us,

Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound

And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,

We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.

Because death is a divider, a time stopper,

And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times


At times, I also can be unapologetic

I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,

I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse

Of my daily writing, without rules,  without your approval,

or even riding my bike without a helmet.

Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.

“A burden of joy”
A joy so heavy you have to feel it
Hold it in your arms
Cradle it to your chest
Rock it steadfast to sleep

I knew her before
She coloured her hair.
She'd wash and brush,
With a simple part down the middle.
I remember it falling silently over
Her shoulder blades, down her back.
It always looked like that,
After a full day at the lake.

And I knew her before
She used cosmetics
The way they're used this day.
Her cheeks glowed with youth,
Her brows arched like shorelines;
Lashes balanced droplets
Over rushing ruby lips.

I knew her to play tennis,
To swim, run,
To laugh and be fun.

I knew her
With lights on,
At dusk and at dawn.
I knew her for long.
I knew her so long.

Depression :
A. The depressing rememberances
or recollections
of the ultimate
black hole
before the
big bang
B. The conflict
of a body
that wants to live
and a mind that
wants to die

She broke but never melted
She refused to cry and shaved away wrinkles of tears
She put a **** smile on a crippled face

Yes oh yes Her crime was to love
No i mean to but not to see
To see not to focus
Eye of deceit and tongue of poison kept her a prisoner

She walked with her chest high
Like her heart was normal yet she had skips in heart beats
So the public applaused her glow
As her pain grew bigger than an ant hill

She said no to drugs no to kissing wounds
And role modelled the hurt
“It was a heart break”
Not broken hearted, rather broken hated

Like a sewing machine, she mended many but failed ro fix a single tissue to her own
She lives hive of honey, with her heart hanging on a bee sting
#herdsmanofprogress