Dream fast and don't describe a limit,
as we spin around this world of purity and wicked.

Is poetry the healing avenue you so desperately must cross, to ignite the rocket fuel inside us...and for once...see past the gloss?

Move past the greed of materialistic comfort,
outrun the inexhaustive shadows that can only bring suffers.

Escape your facade of reality which is your own construction,
and turn your pain into your own harmoniously beautiful art production.

Once you see that you are not alone, as the pain is happening globally,
you will finally ingest and release the power of poetry.

Sequel to my poem A Mourner's tale

Her days turned darkness, as evil taunted her soul
Shattered she stood as the night fought her
Harrowing it was when time stood still
Fearful it were when he held her down
as he took away her reason to smile again
In a journey of ten minutes he took away her dreams alongside her innocence

There was no morning too bright to elude this darkest plight
There was no one to hold her again
No reason to smile
No light too bright

And then

I say

It was blinding how the sun pierced into her damaged soul
And when night came, she could not feel,
She could not see

It was shattering
It was shattering how pieces of her couldn't be mended again
And how these pieces spread beyond her life
It was shocking

It was shocking how her own mind questioned her existence
And how she lived through life, existing, but not living
It was monstrous*

It was monstrous how men could damage a flower so pure and beautiful
And how they go on damaging more flowers,
Crushing them and eluding them all of their innocence
It was blackening

.
So many words between us—
The caustic breech of abatement, ruin
Runs atonal, in recitals of indifference,
How even the ****** birds now sound
Discordant and rain crushes as it falls,
Ballistic.

The pinprick stars are merely eyes
Undraped to the worn souls' veil
And gorgon time roils setting our feet
In the crust of wishes and delusions
Kept.  

The bullet riddled skies in absence
Of colour are but particulates of lime
To the moonless night.  Words have no
Eyes, they can only finger.

O the sorrows of the untouched—
The cruelty of the sightless and bent blind,
Drab vermillion stars felled like forced tears.

Tagged on the wall as a symbol of my emotions, thoughts and sense.
Giving life to the chaos in my head, guarded by a moral fence.

Seen as a punk, and never taken as creative,
always wondering when the blue lights show if he can escape it.

Rebellious and stubborn is the label.

They don’t understand when you’re out there you’re free.
You can finally open your eyes and truly see,
that this urban canvas in front of me, is how I express emotionally.

I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret.

We are an exhausted pool of all the little blind, maddening

instances we confuse ourselves with;

over people and instances and places left unexplored,

for us who feel the weight of lead limbs dangling limp from

the craving of sleep;

patient waits cut short in frustrating moments of self-pity and loss,

bereft and lonely over insatiable appetites.

Over friends we keep only to abuse,

lovers never giving enough but taking everything wrongly advertised;

the needle driven deep under skin after seeing jealousies dance,

float like unreachable things,

taunt and play and roast your heart in an oven,

cooking in the promise of eventual redemption.


I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret.

Being caught alive wrapped in shrouds of your own

faint darkness is miserable.

As a flower feels the warmth of sunlight,

so quickly it droops to meet the rough earth.

We are a maddening crowd ticked off at always

being second best, runner up, participation award;

jilted contestants,

competitors making allies and lovers, sequential,

in an ongoing battle of self and image and

all the ****** up soliloquies we recite with rough tongues

to an imaginary audience of our selves and their incessant advice.


I see your facade.

And i’ll challenge it every time.

Don’t think you have never heard the whispers circling;

don’t think you go home to shut all these truths inside a box of your own,

don’t think everyone else does too.

It seems like a sordid, unfair jibe, between the ribs and spikes in your head,

to wish you were that one perpetually fortunate, lucky, charismatic creature we

worship in our private dark;

we all worship each other.

And that’s where all our collective monsters feed on us poor, poor

struggling souls.


I want to let you in.

On a little universal secret,

that you can only deny so long.

There are many of us, made to feel few,

hidden in millions and billions of tight springs

that only gather so many more of these confusing thorns.

I’m talking about us,

the ones that have to leave a ‘do not disturb’ sign

inked on our foreheads when we disappear to somewhere else

because we have to. As far as we can.

We are the people who fight for conversation first,

and always back away first not because we want to

but because our minds are thick, and sore, and so

exquisitely filled with self-deprecating jargon and patched, sewed

stitched in places clumsily,

a surgeon not paying close attention,

that fails to keep the muck from seeping out.

The pressure in our heads that makes teeth grind, eyes tear,

mouths shut dry and parched, a surge of nausea

a general lingering present future lasting feeling of unsettling nerves;

sparking blossoming dull throbs of hurt that make us bow our heads

half in physiological need and half in the self-fatigue we feel

fighting ourselves every time we rise to a challenge.


I take my meds, I think things over.

I take my meds, I think things over.

Repeat until you’re tongue-tied.


All my friends are getting wasted,

and i’m feeling lonely getting self-wasted with them.

We know abandonment like no others,

because even our minds leave us for a time,

even our very selves walk away from us like broken lovers,

hurt friends, empty strangers, sworn enemies

it lays ambush to our patterns of self, lightness,

trodden leaves melting slowly into the ground like

the cycle back to dirt and lowness again.


This is half my little secret.

But I’ll tell you in time if you’re ready.

So now I’ve let you in.

On our little universal secret.