Here I am contemplating life and death because
I often write poems that are sad
They come from my anger, my hatred, my pain...
But often enough, good things come from the bad

I write of my miserable existence
And of how I long to be held in your embrace
Of what lies ahead and what was left behind
I write about how many things are usually replaced

My poetry is brewed, so to speak I suppose
In this head of mine, where i think and ponder
Where I lust and desire and want and wish
And where to thoughts of you I tend to wander

So here I am, still writing of the sorrow
Hoping somehow these words will change your mind
I am writing a poem that isn't sad, to simply prove
I may not be normal, but I'm the normalest you'll find

Angst is when your Happiness
Is run through a grinder

Oh what am I doing?
Where am I?

She suddenly arises
and finds herself
write alone
at the corner of a street café

Almost midnight
Traffic
-an ambiguous passer by-
endlessly composes
lingering silences  
in between

with a half gaze
around half a circle
She gradually notices
a half drunk cold-now
cup of tea
a half eaten pastry
some halved eyes
eyeing her
behind half a skull  
in curiosity

but
her half look
is being called urgently
down again
by the reverie

She as if from another planet
sees back her hands  

Hands write on just
ceaselessly
without needing her
without her knowing

Wow! she says
and  sinks back to her dream
to become a truth of the words

here we are in the dark
did they
ever tell you
how hard this would be
how hard you'd have to work
we
here
here we are
you're learning now
                learning to
break through the lies they told you
it's hard to understand
you're running around
with your hands above your head
surrender surrender
they like it that way
kick your heels up high
you'll never stop learning
they never told you
about all you could be
how hard it would be
there's so much more
to everything
and you're just figuring it out
they could have taught you early
but they didn't
by the time you're ready
your skin is sagging
your mind is running in circles
with hands above head
see what they've done
see what the dark has
it's all beginning
you're just now learning
not prepared
and you'll make their same mistake
repetition  
repetition
hands above head
jogging to the beat
trying so hard
but your skin is sagging
and you know
it's too late
to reach your potential.

My heart I bequeath you
O’ stillness of my universe
I bequeath you my sanity
Spreading this cloak of being in your dust
I bow to your twinkling stars
To the waxing sun and scented grass
I bow to your springing rivers
To the parched grain and blossoming flowers
I bow to the warmth of my lover
And want of my beloved
I bow to your saccharine figs
And honeyed nectar in chalice filled
I bequeath my mortality to your transiency
Blinded by this light in game of ruse
Into your cohesiveness, I fuse
In blinkers to win the race
Espying a king in glass
Presage of being a slave

Yet when darkness falls
I furl my cloak and solemnly rise
For I bow not then
To your barren fields and waning suns
I bow not to your garish colors,
To the cloying drupe and wilted blossoms
Bracing my feeble transience
With my tenet and trail of faith
I bow to the King of kings;
Whilst I beseech for emanating hope,
In my tigers clasp, my God’s rope
I beseech,
Till the noise becomes music again
And as I gaze in the glass now,
All I espy is a beseeching slave

I try to catch my words like fireflies
and store them in a jar.
I cannot.
Whenever I lift the lid to speak again,
the jar talks to me...
And off they fly.

In the silence,
inspired thoughts
make pleas for their own release.
Within moments
they are captured by another,
no longer mine.

Anything but silence is futile
when it comes to liberating
the true meaning of my fireflies.

I cry out for a poem
and the universe is silent

she watches on
as I flounder

then accept
today, she is not talking

Too many times
I've been pushed aside
     On the back burner
My whole **** life
         But I wanna be the fire
   That lights your soul
I want a raging, blazing
         Inferno
      Sparking flames
Making changes
        In the chemistry
   A little oxygen
       So I can breathe
A lot of hydrogen
     So you can believe
We're floating on air
        Particles you can't see
      Like love
It's a mystery
            A theory
   Of who's meant to be
And who's left suffering
         That's destiny
     I'm creating
Breaking
     Changing the flames
   Into ashes
And graves
      With no names
Just broken hearts
          On tombstones
     And no chance
*To restart

Sandwiched through
two cloudy loaves
made of breath
I observe
the purest of blue

one nudges a sharp line
gently from below

draws her dream silhouette
an imaginary residue of slopes


she
the one who allows me
to miss you now
when I am away from mystery
and because I am mystery
lives in there
uninterrupted as a dot
where planes cross
to create dashes
same color as the mare’s tail

the one above on the contrary
is as unpredictable as
the contours of the flowers in cotton fields
where you would be the breeze
to jolt the atmospheric

as the indigotic immerses languidly
she gets bluer than the blue untouched
thinning
at the end of the suggested tail
deeper and fiercer so as not to disappear
but leaves an echo
of its trail
in your mind

soon that will also be shut
the port to and of another realm

the whitening molds subtly the shapeless
pales the light to an analogous fluid
all sharps – lines – flowers - fields melt
into an underwater blurring sea life
where creatures are so small or just hide
not from us but from contrasts

slowly darkening  we forget
about ourselves and the girl’s dream fades
she forgets

the you and I  
becomes tuningly unimportant
we know so well now
it is not for us
illusions of light
of reflections
are just about
other worlds far aways
while
night falls
along the earth’s curve