It would start like a bubble
in my seven-year old chest,
An ever-expanding ball of
doom, substituting my breath

I was a child, yet I knew death,
I would try inhale- silence
I would hope it would fix itself
but, when I'd try exhale- silence

There was ugly music though,
It rose as I forced my ribs to expand,
Jarring, polyphonic, cacophony,
Of airways brutally locked and jammed.

When a child learns to measure April
nights, with the hours spent in the pain
Of coughing through close-to-nil breaths,
And breathing through coughing again,

One wonders at the extent of the inhumanity
Of those, who are quick to discreetly say,
"Hush, do not speak of this illness to anyone,
It's no illness at all, in the first place!"

"And, here, take these magic pills and potions,
They're slow but will take away all her agony,
No no, don't listen to those white-coated liars,
You don't need puffs of drugs into her body!"

So I ate all those pills and
Drank all those potions,
And I stayed up those nights,
Waiting for their promised actions,

And I went to school the next day,
Groggy, breathless and sleepy-eyed,
Because not-being-seen with an inhaler was
More vital than the breaths of a seven-year old child.

I've always wondered
What it'd be like
To make love in a tent,
Fragrance of soil and sweat
And urgent desire in the air,
With the dark sky lit up with
galaxies and galaxies
of stars and the letters of my name,
Punctuated by your breaths as you'd
Chant it like a prayer,
Risqué and **** and earthy,
Rawer than the last time,
Rawer than that time,
Whispers so titillating they'd
Make the silent night blush,
Make the dewy, green, lush
Grass curl its leaves in shame,
And send the river stream flowing
A little too hurriedly,  
And the clouds a-tizzy,
And the Earth a-dizzy
When I'd open my eyes, exuding
Fire through and through,
I know the sky would mirror me,
And undress into its brightest crimson hue.
I know if we'd make love that way,
The sun would rise earlier that day.

May time makes
grass armies of green
While adoring flowers
wave petals as they March by

There are poems inside of me, that the paper can’t handle,
Words that roar from within usually causing a scandal.
Pages and pages pour out from within,
Still losing when I saw myself to win.

Emotions rush through my eyes and lips,
Like a stormy sunset rising from the doomed ships.
On a planet in a new constellation,
I began to write in my own celebration,
Lost in the galaxies within my soul,
I vaguely slipped away from control.

My mind is eating away at the emotions surrounded,
Hers, his, yours and theirs all of them bounded.
Some borrowed, some enforced,
many thrown at me without remorse,
I prayed they would go away in due course.

I push and push away. I don’t know what will stay,
I don’t know what will sigh a relief, it’s time I choose my belief.
With blood splattered across the walls,the beauty of my mind is a terrible place to live in,
To this fragile side of me, I give in.

Most of my love poems are about people who never stayed,
you know the ones I begged for and prayed.
You think this would make me say something beautiful about love that lasts,
The people only become a leaf attached to you in your past.

When the infection comes, the calls come ringing,
‘Are you ok? What were you thinking?’
Finally a sickness that a doctor can detect,
The ones the sharp blades of tongues cause are of neglect.

I want to raise monuments of intellect,
To the nebulosity of poetry I pay my due respect.
For the ocean of words I carry inside of me must survive,
My fondness I, or you your power keep alive.

Summer days are exquisite
long drawn out bliss
all holidays rolled into one
24hrs around the Sun.
Night here hardly falls
banished for a season
the black of space short lived.
Summer days are for the child
set loose once again
to play, to bask,
to lounge around the fire in the sky.