Poor poetic friend
wasn’t self-respecting
kept on doubting
what she was doing
so, I told her,

You do quite alright.
As far as the amount I write.
Well, I do not have much of a social life,
because I like the quiet nights.
Plus, my job provides more free time
to create free rhymes
then most nine to fives.

I adore your art form.
Each line is like rainbow paint
upon a rose petal canvass,
Each word a wonder
above and under.
Concealing whilst revealing
eloquent metaphors
With sweet allusions to
The illusions of life we
dance through
in poetry.

All-encompassing spring blooms
that blossom
bright flowers
letting little silk dancers
rise with the wind
and descend again
to the soft soil
of my mind.

What a shame
the people exclaim,

seeing sorrow
float up in smoke
as people in pain
just swim away.

With each
heart ache,
love break,
or big mistake

people take
a step in
the wrong direction
burning bridges
and building trenches
with a wall in the back
as they fight a war
and never come back.

Each day,
puts them miles away
from safety.
Till, all hope is gone
Till, even the brightest
right becomes wrong,
and the man
in the mirror
becomes a
bearded stranger.

Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?

My heart is
a hungry beast
beating,
and growling
for something,
needing feeding
of primal desires.

It is white shredded bits
of paper
preparing
for the taring
and sharing
of ash
as it burns fast,
consumed
by the embers
that rise
to fires in the eyes
of those
we long to touch.

When I awake
and quake
the tremors
of ecstasy
seeing my sweet fantasy
coming to life
the beast’s
urgency
slowly recedes
and I am free
to be
a rational me.

Until,
the hunger returns
for the next in line
of eternal
sequels.

You are beautiful my dear,
and if it is not clear I fear
given less distance
between us
I would let you lie to me.

I would let you
string sweet syllables
of seduction,

till my mind’s reductions
causes me to collapse
like a black hole
devouring everything
that is us
and letting nothing
ever escape.

I do not shield myself
Between the mortar
Of feeble walls.
Instead, I’ve built mountains
With summits surpassing
Thunderous clouds, erupting,
Brimming valleys and moats
Lava-laden, I control
Fiery dragons
The size of islands
Welding forest trees,
Armor adamantine. I have
Trained wind to whip
And freeze at the flick
Of a tongue.
And with each false step taken,
A crater awakens
Parting the earth
In sacred places. Revealing  
Razor-edged abyss —
A merciless ether,
Crusader’s monolith.
In the end, it is I
Who must venture
And slay, navigating the terrain
Of my tortured dismay
Reclaiming my power
And rightful throne.
Behold, vast kingdom:
The monarch is home.