a poetic darkness clings to
the edges of the room
ageless in its mental aberration
all the years of its incessant whispering softly the sounds
of a life forsaken to a hunt for
all the things that can never be prized possession
all the things that forever slip through seeking fingers....

my face demonized in the mirror  
unchanged except by the years
still holds the taint and taste of her words
like a thick oily poison slowly seeping
from the soil of my eye
where such lovely dreams once grew
now only a parody of silhouette dark upon a shadow
the void form of a man against the cloudless gray sky

an emperor's tongue speaks regal
but the words spoken fall like black leaves from a black tree
dead and devoid of all aspects of a beautiful fall day
an emperor's tongue lavishly paints visions of such beauty to come
but like the footprints in newly fallen snow they are
doomed to fade in the sun
little lies constructed to tell the willing girl
that her satisfactions lay not in the mirror
but in the pit of some man's soul
in the vile places of lust and longing
her love to become a void form against the grandeur of starlight
her plans for the wedding now only faded ink written by a child

my face demonized in the mirror
I seek to choke out the words that would spell an end
to this mournful song
seek to extinguish the doubts and rages that haunt that image  
I am the one who has made this face in the mirror
carved it out of the stone in my heart
I am the one who sees its ***** lines its twisted fable
my hand slips to the light switch and
turns off the forever eating at my soul

Mirror mirror on the wall,
cuts and scars and suicidal falls.

Mirror mirror on the wall,
pressures upon pressures,
mascaras and concealers
on the dressers.

The who am I’s
the broken smiles
upon short journeys,
feeling like a million miles .

Sticks and stones break the bones,
with sharp edged swords, depression is shown.

The melodramatic emphasis of artificial fixtures,
the wrong lessons from photo shopped pictures.

The melodramatic emphasis of the "It crowd"
People, rambunctious and obnoxious
malevolent and pretentious .

Mirror mirror on the wall...

Better to write for yourself,
& have no public

Then to write for the public,
& have no self

Dangling on strings in an old wooden shed,
the puppets wait with hanging heads.
Dust filters through a shaft of light.
Everything's still and silent as night.

Suddenly the door opens with a boom.
The Puppet Maker enters the dusty room.
His smile is wide; he’s dressed in his best,
as he grabs the puppets from their rest.

The orange sun sets as he walks along,
The dusty roads, whistling songs.
The puppets are tucked in a bag underarm,
while they pass through the town and reach a farm.

A stage is set up for the puppet show,
They’re pulled from their bag and lowered below.
The quiet wood shed forgotten and past;
Replaced with bright cheering and many laughs.

You never said you were living
You never said goodbye
No farewell
No last words were spoken
You were gone before l knew it
Only God knows why

A million times l needed you
A million times l cried
If love alone could have saved you
You never would have died
Goodbye you are the best thing l ever had

The moon,the stars,and the sun
They all remind me of you
Your memories keep tormenting
So how am l supposed to move on

This life made me believe in 3 things
FATE, DEATH and LOVE
It was fate that brought you to me
Death which suddenly took you way
Is love that won't make me forget you
But make you live inside me till the end
of eternity
Goodbye you are the best thing l ever had

How to hold this rage,
To keep belly-fire
Burning

In righteous anger

As manifold wrongs
Surround.

How to keep this rage
When love balm
Overflows
To calm the furnace

Scattered thoughts
Escape the pen
Of reason.

All along a
Sinuous trail
Is laid,
Snail slimed,

Easily followed
Yet utterly devoid
Of meaning.

One day
Focus
Shall gimlet point

To the core
Of snail shell,
Fractal,

Shall return
Wildcats to the
Source-

To the reason
For thinking-

For...

So I can’t trust the Times, Fox News, or the Post.
Too left or too right, just parasites hungry for hosts.
From you, fellow tax-paying citizen, I take note.
I listen to you — that angry defense of your vote.
Are you going to tell me what I am able to trust?
Before this land of the free is left to ruins and rust?
Silence speaks volumes,
like the encyclopedia I loved, circa ‘94—
devoured for hours on my living floor.
(Sidenote: That encyclopedia included several pages on
the Holocaust. But then, I suppose,
the Encyclopedia Britannica shouldn’t be trusted either?)
So what must I trust if I can’t share the news
without being challenged because of my views?
You say I can’t trust the posted or printed, so instead,
I'll trust something much louder in my heart and my head.  
I'll trust that empowered white supremacy in a place
where "all men are created equal," is something I refuse to embrace.
I'll trust that our freedom of speech is not our freedom to hate.
Black, brown, yellow, white— that’s not up for debate.
I'll trust that hope will swallow such hate in the blink of an eye—
choke the breath from its lungs and drop a beat to its cry.

And then I'll trust that history will one day forget
that we've failed to keep its pages from repeating just yet.

if i die,
I want to be content,
Solemn
and atleast happy
not
lonely

I used to long for
metal doors
that melted
forming
pool like portals
to other worlds.

Places where monsters
roamed distorted landscapes,
where skies rained
drops of purple
forming portal puddles
that would take me
to places even farther
from my messed up family.

I dreamed of
adventures tempered by pain
cause I felt there must be
a balance to pay in my fantasies.

Scars for freedom,
bruises equaling
the level of love I deserved,
the level that would earn my
warrior princess’s affection.

Through proof of
unfair punishment
while wielding healing hands
I would help
other victims like myself.
Earning a redemption
that was never necessary.

How strange that even in
my fairytale dreams
I treated myself as unfairly
as the daytime beast
that left red marks on me.

But now that I have found peace
I no longer dream of
a troubled love like that.
I no longer feel I need to earn back
that dignity and tranquility
that was so brutally
stolen from this mother’s son.