The names I carry
Are phantoms,
Whisps
Across the lips.
Stored in the shed,
Beneath our pillows,
Deep in the mattresses,
Or below our beds.
Launder them,
And try again.

How many eyes
Have read these
Granite names
On copper plates.

Whose ears have heard
These names
Mumbled in our sleep;
Or,
Are they set so deep
For private sorrow
And personal refrain.
These, our names.

My world Is but
The moments of
Fingers.

Each tap is my
Life quickening
To its conclusion,

My story is done
Finished
End.....

"Yes"
"Yes"
"Yes"
Where the words to every
Question?
Answers?
Where opposites
"No"
"No"
"No"
That day I learned there
Are *two kinds of people
Ones who answer
Ones who ask,
That moment I decided I was one or the other,
Could I be just one or could I choose **both..

She's getting tattooed by
My brother. He locked us in to
His studio just to give her
Her Christmas present
In ink.

Now she's tipsy with French
Red bottled painkillers,
And my brother keeps telling her
To sit still every thirty odd
Seconds.

He's about to cut it down to
Every tenth.
Outside, people try the studio
Door, thinking it's open, but
No.

This is the time for the special.
Oslo day turns into night,
Neon dances, beggars get more
Intense, and in the middle of it
All, I glance over my

Carlsberg at her long, long black
Hair dyed red at the tips,
And think something to myself
That rhymes with home, but
Not alone.

There's something about drinking
A little beer on a Monday.
The moon and stars look down at
Us; their slightly lost,
Most beloved children, and

Dream Theater sing Pull
Me Under, as I think that
She might have done so by
Just about *******
Now.

I couldn't breathe
     The scent of flowers
  Without your presence
          In my mind
      A rose by any other name
             Is still just fine
    But the aroma is lost to me
        It's no longer sweet
             Like your face
     Has drifted away
          Awaiting the sunshine
   And new blossoms
            On a rainy day

/
I wanted you to know,
how much you love me
you told me that
division by zero,
and that I have never done
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen

She sits upon a single stool
in the middle of the kitchen
Gazing upon congealed food
and hopes she is forgiven
for gazing upon the knife block
wishing every living thing dead
She doesn't have a problem
cleaning up the blood of others
but, what goes on in her head
Is her hatred for violence
Her absolute despise of distrust
Her almost implacable resolve
to make it dead, if she must
She abhors the deadly whispers
that critiques her daily choices
She sits alone upon a stool
trying hard to ignore the voices

I have heard that words strain
But I have never felt it as acutely
Hypothesizing as lustreless
Than when I spoke
Trying to paint you images
Speculation in rhyme
Present a piece of my soul
Save some secrets
Sealed behind some lines
But speech failed me
And words
Strained and shattered
But even so
A strand of a connection shines
**Can you see it?