Supposedly,
I was wrought
with jealousy.

Justifying,
allegedly,
believing
that it was
owed to me,

cause I was better,
kinder, smarter
working harder
to prove my love.

In reflection
I refuse to admit it,
I’d prefer
just to forget it,

but supposedly
I am to smart
to fool myself.

To tell the stories
I have to run,
have to move,
partly for fun,
and partly to view
the world through
a traveler’s lens.

Cause if I stay
I’ll die
of old age,
and barely
make any change.

So,
I have to
run
to grow,
and share what I know
with all of you.

There is something there
in the downtown square,
an angel statue
with statuesque hair.

On my way to work
the nightshift,
I stop and stare
at the strange
stationary beauty,

whispering secrets
in her ear
that she’ll never share,
cause she doesn’t care.

She is as hard as metal
but the last beautiful girl
staring up at the stars,
while loud cars
blast by
destroying the peaceful night.

Like Pygmalion
I am in love
with a statue,
but unfortunately
for little old me
there is no
Aphrodite
to bring my beloved to life.

rainstorms fiercely bulge the waves
toss honeysuckle and bougainvilleas
blow their blossoms high
towards the rainbow
that in sunny moments
sparkles over volcanic hills

I don’t have the time
to memorize
or get stuck on
old lines.

Not because
of new rhymes
but because
my hyper mind
has already
super sonically
jetted to
the next horizon.

There is the sound of
bones snapping
acting like
two soldiers cracking
sword against sword
with such a fierce resistance.
It is almost painful
but after
the tension passes,
though I know
it is probably
not healthy
for me
I still crack
my joints
gleefully.

Darkness blooms
like a tattered shroud
encasing everything
around.
The night consumes
with a ravishing
hunger
wanting
all human beings.

Stars barely blink at all.
I watch comets fall.
As they come crashing down
in an era of extinctions,
all that I can see
breeds dark ages of negativity
erasing my humanity.

Love could have been
a lighting force
guiding me to something more,
but truth is the terror.
So, people live in the biasness
that most claim to abhor.

Thus, like the night that comes
I lose all the light I see.
The sick bits of myself
slip away.
Till, I become someone else,
and as a child of the darkness
flee from the hope
of something better for me.

Your lives can be
tragically
tinted
by your profession
and studies
but equally elevated
by the same.

It is a cold pose
of white folds
on top of snow,
as thin arms wrap
softly around
the soft porcelain
skin we have found.

I come from
a myriad of
multiverses,
all times
and spaces
that converged,
all potentialities
that led up to me,
to the river that
will flow,
and the mountain
that will rise,
climaxing
in the epic apogee
of the death
of this frail body.
I am
a prisoner
of that certainty.

A simple storm
can washes us clean
but a bigger one
will blow through town
huff and puff
like the big bad wolf
and blow our houses down.

Everything is everything
while I walk in
human suffering,
buts that’s ok.

We’ll work the wreckage
if we can
build back up
from this here land,
and when
the floods
come back in
we’ll keep on
rebuilding.

Everything is everything
while I walk in
human suffering,
buts that’s ok.

The earth will quake
when the tremors come,
but we’ll still stay
while others run,
the damaged
cannot be undone,
but we can rebuild.

Everything is everything
while I walk in
human suffering,
buts that’s ok.

Tornadoes or hurricanes,
when they come
not much changes.
Stubborn pride
keeps us alive,
and we rebuild
resolute to stay
where we intend to die.