On top it says aria
But, it's no electric
needed
Eleven pegs for just six strings
Its one half feels deserted

It's old and tarnished
Nicked and dinged
Worn frets
No shine
No gleam

But, through the years
has gleaned all that
I felt
The laughs
The tears
Truths, lies, and fears

My Music Box
It has a name
a solo in its own
Right to stand
So tall and strong
Behold!
It looks so

all alone

I silence the whispers from my mouth
As the jaws elongate out of this life
It’s not a yawn but a mouthful whisper
The stroke of a songbird in seductive tunes
A rise of the pitched crescendo pinches
Stroking my ribs and the depths of my soul
He know me best and I put my case to rest

The king crowned with sorrow haunts me
Then he tickles me to the paradisiacal gardens
His groove holds me in the gorges of my dreams
His breath mists my breath as the weather drowns
His claws an embrace that scratches and taunts
Still I dare to doubt his flame as it scorches  
He knows me best as we dive in the oceanic beds

Why marvel at materialism
It only lasts a while,
Why marvel at the apparent,
Apparent comes and goes
Out of style.

Why be awed by what's seen
It's only something temporal,
Why be wooed by physical strings
What's unseen has more credentials.

Why eyeball the papers only in writing,
Why not see the things more clearly with an
Insight sometimes frightening. Why only acknowledge
The things that you perceive, perception is a myth
When the door knocks reality.

I feel like an isolated angel-
In this lonesome journey I take down the dark path,
My heart frail with words,
Scarred with hope and dripping blood of abyss,
Grooved in my flesh are the nails of sorrow,
I hammer in a dozen more to stop the pain,
Excruciatingly pleasing are the bruises down my nape,
Your cold and lustful touch,
Sharp and cutting in wounds deeper than my regret,
My sane desire and fluctuating mood for you,
My unconditional love screws in reminiscence,
Recalling over and over again your departed chasm-
Hollow and fragile without your side.

In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart,
a pretty shell that promised a pearl and
when cracked open, gave grains of sand
instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes
and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty
Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without.
Her sister Aurore was the heroine,
a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy:
'What will be will be' and her patience and
good heart tugged her towards the coincidences
that always favour the light.
But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness,
and had not the luck of the good.
All Aimee had was the face.

These are the kind of stories I am tired of because
I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a
small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise
her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she
painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted
beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it
mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels.
Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through
beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient,
who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an
ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat
beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl
to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her
that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.

I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes.
I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad.
I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after.
Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.

We trespass insanity with great stealth  
at the close of day , jot bits of our self -
described tangled webbing to disclose later in prose ,
commit our imaginations to tap on the door
of the 'magnum unknown'
A goblet of red , a whiff of Borkum Riff , a
Moonlit tint producing a curious script
We're improvisational thespians surrounded by
our peers , Fire Ants on a forgotten marshmallow ,
a can of beer left in a hot trunk in Florida ready to
explode , a wind rattled Hound Dog trying to get home