Lonely waters,
I tried to understand —
river flows in your eyes.
Truth be told,
I was another victim
of your lies.

Melancholy,
can be beautiful
and profound.
It wasn’t me
who chose darkness —
the other way around.

They said
it will be
alright,
but they
all left.

I have spent much time
on daydreaming,
I forgot things
I should have written,
words I supposed to pen
in the blank space,
are now gone —
gone as the night sleeps.

Becoming unknown,
from those fantasies I built,
the heart speaks —
when lips unvoiced by guilt,
for those lovely words
were now forgotten by time,
forgotten by my mind,
forgotten by the night.

I'm not afraid
of dying,
but of living,
yes, living,
it scares me.

Of losing someone,
of everything,
of living
in nothingness,
and in pain.

It scares me
to know,
that life isn't fair,
of people's judgment,
where is freedom?

You live in the world
of broken dreams,
of broken vows,
and of broken wings.

I'm not afraid
of dying,
but of living,
of losing someone
you love.

Hazel eyes, stained with innocence,
Beauty of perfection, of imminence,
Bed of roses, fragrance of her neck,
His bones are always getting weak.

Beneath the pail moonlit night,
Flaming hearts, the only light,
Cold wind whispers words of love,
His arms, her warmth, a hug.

She stands in front of the mirror,
Cries a river of tears, in terror,
Eyes once stained with innocence,
Into imperfection, into imminence.

The first time that Delilah saw Samson
she said to herself,
“That man will be mine.”
she said,
“Yes.”

He laughed when she first begged to bind him,
“I cannot be bound.” He declared,
“I have brought one thousand men to their knees.”
She replied, “So have I.”
and on her knees
she showed him how.

Their favorite game to play was Pagan,
he would act as sacrifice and she, the priest,
teaching him to worship
at her temple,
teaching him the best death
was deathless.

Long before she cut his hair,
she made him weak.
Long before they gouged his eyes,
he was blinded.

I wanted my passion back..
This was who I was, and I wanted her to visit.
Even for a brief moment, so I can kiss myself on the forehead upon my return.
And actually say goodbye when she decided to leave.
I wanted her back.
My passion.
I wanted my poetry.. Back.
She fled from me.
Lost underneath the city sky, with false illumination from street cars named desire.
There was no North Star for her to follow, no way for her to venture back to my heart.
Like a turtle needing the moon to be led to the sea, I doubted she would ever make it back home
Extinction was the roughest of all possibilities but to mourn the loss of a love held selfish tendencies
I only missed her cause of how she made me feel not because of who she was or who she could have been
The manifestation of my pent up frustration came to set me free
Just pull the trigger
Nobody will miss her
Oh say can you see- what I am saying?
All I wanted was my passion back.
And it wasn't until I found G-d that I heard three knocks on the door saying

Here
I
Am

Infatuation...
is when you find somebody
who is absolutely perfect.
Infatuation says,
"I love you because I need you."

Love...
is when you realize
that they aren't
and it doesn’t matter.
Love says,
"I need you because I love you."

You are young
and still don't understand why you should be afraid of the dark
so you venture into it.
Leave behind the crying people,
and your parents blank faces
surrounding the urn that cradles your sister's ashes.
No one has told you why she wanted to be burned so you do not ask.
You don't know this yet, but you never will.

Imagine you are chasing fairies,
it helps you to ignore the cold,
the pinch of your Sunday shoes,
the voice of your older sister whispering that you will be caught.
But you are determined to have an adventure
and so you run.

Years from now you will remember this moment,
you will swear you could feel the brush of fairy wings
against your face as you rushed away from the marble mausoleum;
but there are no trees
only dirt, only gravestones,
only bushes too high and wide
for your arms to reach around.

Run until the ground rises up,
and greets your body with a bone crushing hug.
It will not let you go, no matter how hard you struggle
or how loudly you scream.
Dirt covers your head and you fear you are being buried alive.
You are not.
This will not stop the nightmares that come later.

(You are twenty and you are speaking to your therapist
she tells you to breathe, she tells you again.)

Time passes, as time has a habit of doing,
and you are standing above ground.
You cannot feel your fingers
only the curious stares of your cousins
and the long suffering sigh from your mother
who wipes the dirt from your face, absentmindedly.

“Did you go off to play and get lost?” she asks.
“You promised you'd stay put.”
You say nothing.

“You are so beautiful. Such pretty eyes.” she says, struggling to smile,
to say words that she thinks will calm the heart clawing at your chest
the way you clawed at the walls of your grave.
You are covered in dirt. There are rocks in your shoes.
You have lost your favorite bow.
You say nothing.