One withering look
and I am an unbound book,
pages fluttering away, broken,
smitten with tiny kisses,
or temporary ink tokens.

She can reignite a dying sun,
set solarized skies ablaze
and make them burn
for days and days.

She can shift the seas,
then trade places with
strange faces that
echo older generations
which will never come back.

Five fingers folding in
touching my mind,
burying brilliance in my skin,
she is the door to
Oz, Wonderland,
and Neverland,
making me wonder if I can
fly like superman.

She supersedes the entirety of my being,
enveloping, in all shades of dreams,
making my reality her plaything.

Not a person, more like a metaphor,
or a hint of a thought I’m searching for.
There’s eternity and an ocean’s more
waiting for this dreamer outside her door.

She promised revolutions
with the slow movement
of her dancing form;

Of new evolutionary
revelations,
that may be scary
testaments
to the new environment
we would exist in.

Artisan of living,
lips giving
sweet passion’s nectar,
she was a specter
of life and death’s
imaginary perfectness.

A thousand point of
poetic reactions to love,
more than enough
to dream eternity
written within
the cold skin
of infinity.

She promised me
a grand reality,
and I wept,
so ready to succumb.
Then she left
and I was struck numb
and dumb.

Now, I wonder
who taught her
how to lie so
beautifully?

“I hate to be this way,”
mother nature says.
“I gave you a chance
to be the steward
of the animals and plants,
on this little blue planet,
but you made other plans.

You prioritized greed
and made impossible demands
on the resources
you claimed to command
in this beautiful land.

There were signs,
obvious trends
to portend
a horrible end
to all men,
but you wouldn’t listen.

Even the children
you claimed to cherish
jumped on this important
climate issue.

So, despite several generations
of obvious observations,
about natural education,
and the best efforts
of kindhearted
people who have started
social movements,

at this particular moment
mother nature declares
that you are not important
and should proceed to locate
another biosphere to occupy
because while you have been
grabbing and destroying
evolution has decided
you’re no longer invited
to stay on this planet.”

With our attitudes
towards IQ
and academic aptitudes
our human metrics
makes us
maladjusted
and unjust.

Materialism
is a modern
mass pathology,
perpetuated
by outdated
corporate
mythologies.

So, what gives rise
to precise
intense inner
creative drives
that elevate
and surprise
humans before
great creations
are fully realized?

The core of
creativity
is not centralized,
but synthesized
from your insights.
It is up to
you to decide,
bring out your
unique light
and brighten
our lives.

Half asleep the creep
takes a back seat.

Eyes ahead I drive instead
of acknowledging anything,
but something is nagging,
some question is blinking,
like a bright red turn signal.

He sits silent, but present
all stillness in my presence,
while the sound of rain
pelts this metal carriage.

No words, but I know
where I am supposed to go.
No time but I still stall,
try not to move at all,
cause I am not ready
for what waits at
the end of the road.

The engine hums some
endless tune,
rattling on like a sad song,
with skies that are so clouded
that I can’t see the heavenly crescent
that should be right above me.

I panic, crying and frantic
tell my passenger that “it’s too soon.
Give me till next June,
cause there is so much
I still want see and do.”

He leans in, breathing
and I can’t believe
what I am seeing
in my rearview mirror.
Eyes like mine,
lips that match,
same hair of black.

He says in a voice
I am sure is mine,
“don’t look back.
You’re driving to **** fast.”

The rain subsides.
The night finds beautiful moonlight
and I drive.

I turn on the radio,
let my stress go,
and move with the
Billy Joel flow.

Somehow, I can tell
my passenger is grooving as well.

In the distance I can see
carousal like lights
swirling in front of me,
glorious shades and hues
of reds, greens, and blues.

The highway is slick,
and for a millisecond I can feel
my tires lose their grip.
I let the pedal up and turn the wheel
into the spin before it begins
and keep on driving.

Memories follow.
My friend is still riding.
Night turns to dawn
and I keep on driving.

Towns come and I go out.
I see a lot and learn to doubt,
questioning what this questing
is all about.

Not a word from the dude in the back,
and I am okay with that.
The road never ends
and I don’t remember
where this journey began.

I am just driving on man,
just driving on.

I hang on to
childish memories and dreams,
but they don’t seem
to want to hold on to me.

I lost the leaf laden road
with the overhanging oaks,
soft swaying leaves,
and blinding sunlight
that flickered as we
drove underneath.

I’ve misplaced the place
where I would sit and read
with my bare feet
dangling out in front of me.

I cannot locate the field
where we picked strawberries,
or the local grocery store
that has been closed for more
than ten years.

The old wooden swing
that hung from the branch
of a sturdy front yard tree,
the one with a fraying rope
that I would further fray
when I twisted myself up
and spun back and away.

The little baby boy,
with his soft little head,
tiny fast chubby legs
and pink teddy bear
has managed to grow up
and no longer lives here.

The space faring
cape wearing
wonder kid
who dreamed of doing
such amazing ****,
no longer exists.

I miss all of it.

I’d like to be celebrated,
for what I wrote,
what I stated,
how I used words
to debate hate
and help others
change places
with alien faces
so, they could feel
just a fraction of
the pain they instill
in those they should love.

I’d like people to recall
how I helped others,
a hand for those who fell
kind words to wish
those dealing with grief well,
an ear for people in pain,
and a joke to spring them
back up again bringing in
the remnant of past smiles.

I just want to be remembered;
Don’t you?

I’ve been tired,
been raging
against the machine
made for making
people hate everything.

I’ve been writing,
fighting back the tears,
cause I don’t want
anyone near to hear
how much of my pain
hides behind my fear.

Especially when,
I know my suffering
is not that unique,
and there are millions more
hurting worse than me.

I got it pretty good,
but I am alone,
reading and thinking.
I’m not a stone.
I’m just breathing,
bleeding and needing
a little love you see.

Won’t you meet me
in the land of sleepy dreams,
a place where children
no longer sit and scream,
where I am not looking
cause my dear you are
right here beside me.

Despite the chaos
that haunts us
in waking hours,
in this temporary reprieve,
my love, it is you,
whoever you may be
that I want to see
when I go to sleep.

The morning light is creeping unto my window sill,
it was warm and sweet, but agony in its rising from the ground.
summer doesn't stain me any shade of pink,
I remain a pallid white of cadaverousness.

the birds sing their birdsong to any ear that listens,
but as the flowers fall from trees, ears a lended elsewhere.
towards the monetary dictator, a tyrant in its blood,
we disregard the flowers our snow it comes as floods.

the birth of warmth it boils, swelters in God's midst,
a year is marked, and death - will give their graceful Kiss.

I watched her pick
particular flowers,
not the prickly thorned type
but the purple poesies
of innocent delight.

I adored her visage
whilst making petal plucking wishes
“of she loves me,
or “she loves me not.”

I watched her go
and all that I got
was the sweet afterglow
of a beautiful show.