If my love for you were like diamonds
It would have been no cause for a divorce
I would have treasure it for the unity of its love
I would have praise the colorless crystalline form of pure carbon
The power it holds: The uniqueness of its colors,
And the authentic charisma in others it creates:

Just like the diamonds, we would have been unbreakable
That is why my love for you were not like diamonds
My love was more like a snow cone in Alaska
This melted faster than any glacier ice
.
Some might believe that feelings and thoughts are different
But I set them aside anyway to focus on our love
Anyway, It still didn’t matter…

**We were born to be real. Not to be perfect

So you’re clearing out your room,
clearing out more of yourself,
because it’s the end of the world, isn’t it?
The end of an era anyway –
the end of the bad decision to paint
your room pink.
You never really liked the colour pink.
Your old room had been sunshine yellow,
that bright happy colour of raincoats
and welly boots and sunflowers
(and yellow was still my favourite colour
when i painted my room pink –
yellow rubber in my pencil case,
yellow bow in my hair –
a sunshine happy kind of child
but not really. i painted my room pink
just because).
You wanted the new room painted a shade
called jazzberry but you were told it was too dark.
You wrote in the card to your dead great grandmother
that you were having your room painted jazzberry
and then you didn’t.
The card was placed in her coffin and cremated with her,
and you experienced that strange sensation at the funeral
of not feeling what you were supposed to be feeling.
I should cry, you told yourself, I should feel sad,
but you had cried all your tears in advance
and you’d cried them all for dead grasshoppers
and the old house you were leaving behind.
(always the same with me, isn’t it.
tears over everything except the things that matter.
i’m crying on the floor over lino, over my bedroom,
over a dress that’s in the wash and not my wardrobe)
The new bedroom had wardrobes you loved,
mirrors you loved and hated and it was pink.
It was your safe place, the space that wasn’t
really made for you, but was the one place
in this world where nothing could get you
(except me and yourself, but that’s another story).
Anyway, let’s get back to the point.
You’re clearing the room out because it’s the end of the world
and you’ve been putting it off for three years,
but you’re a crumbly cliff and waves are strong.
You’ve been thinking of train tracks
and gosh aren’t you dramatic,
but you’re finally clearing your little self out.
The toys are easy – you keep a couple whose names you remember
(Tallulah, Alfie, Tilly, Phillipa, Clementine
//oh my darling, ruby lips above the water
and the dream of kissing your best friend
that will forever be connected to
oh my darling, Clementine//),
the clothes are easy – in fact,
it’s all easy when you start to let go
of that nasty little girl from the sunshine yellow
and from the pasty pink.
You bundle her off into charity bags and bin liners
and then you find it – the Special Box.
It was your treasure trove in an
orange Jacobs crackers box  so you open it,
thinking you’ll keep everything, and then,
well then it’s a box full of *******.
Not just ******* things that once mattered,
but real ******* – broken pens, meaningless rocks,
used rubbers, crumbled tissues, incomplete
gifts from Christmas crackers
(and how very like you and me – to keep
things that go in the bin. we cling
to the sadness and the guilt and the fear
just because).
You throw away your special box
and you throw away all your junk
(except your new junk –
every train ticket you’ve bought
since the First)
and then the room is empty.
Were you ever here, you wonder
(and what toys will you have to give to your children?
you get asked, and you say you won’t have any.
i won’t because how would i, for one?
how could i, for another?
how could i put them through all this?)
and then you remember, that yes,
you’ll always be there – sunshine yellow,
pasty pink, nasty little version of nasty bigger you,
but for now, you’ve cleared yourself out a bit.
The new room will be blue
and one wall will be papered with books
(and i see what you’ve done –
you’re using the imagery of your own poetry,
because it’s easier to live inside of your own imagery
than deal with anything else, isn’t it)
and maybe, you think and the others think too,
this is a good thing, the sign of a change to come
(but your Special Box was full of *******
and what other evidence do you need
to know that you will never change or move beyond this?
this is as good as it gets).

Tonight I’m to lie here and think of you
In slow motion: I am going to let the memories
Warm me up from the inside,
While the wind whistle his favorite tune
From the nearby window on Lead Vale Road
I will stay in touch with my best friend King

The one who brought me my first
Right on Magazine: the most memorable one with
Michael Jackson embraces the front covers:

That was in 1978, when poets wrote meaningful pieces,
With meaning, that touches the process of thinking
To boost our poetic frame of mind: this in turns dealt
With some of our internal or external reality in events
that happens in that era
Like his father Leaving, by Ira Sadoff back in 1945
A wonderful piece of write to be remembered

Tonight I’m to lie here and turn off my ****** thoughts
In slow motion: I am going to let the memories
Of us warm me up from the inside,
I remember those raining days which kept us indoors
Where a week of rain, felt like a death sentence
No hands holding or walking in Queen Park with King
No late night window shopping,
only lips singing from afar
Behind our share bedroom doors:

It was only yesterday, walking in the rain
And seeing so much broken umbrellas litter the street in the city
And my thoughts turn to him, with our broken umbrellas,
we retrieved them and sew them back together
Tomorrow I will pray with King
that an injustice will become forgivable

P.S:
**It would be easy to become a victim of our circumstances and continue feeling sad, scared or angry; or instead, we could choose to deal with injustice humanely and break the chains of negative thoughts and energies, and not let ourselves sink into it.”
― Erin Gruwell, The Freedom Writers Diary

Baby welcome to the world
Greetings cards in pink or blue
Your life is out there waiting
A gift wrapped just for you

Good luck in your endeavours
Whatever they may be
I hope success comes easy
That’s a wish to you from me

Congratulations sweetheart
You made it there so fast
You deserve the very best
Nail your colours to the mast

Will you be my Valentine
Sealed with a loving kiss
Paused on the brink of happiness
A chance that’s too good to miss

Best wishes you’re engaged now
You have fallen deep in love
The world will give you everything
That you have been dreaming of

Joy on this your wedding day
A time for celebration
The promise of a future
With no cause for consternation

Kind thoughts and deep sympathy
Your family lost forlorn
Cards along the mantelpiece
Your time here has come and gone

What is wrong with dark blood?
Black, I might say darker that port wine
I often watch as the patients
take their last breath
Some of them tried so hard to catch it
But, for some they just let it go slowly
with a few moment of puff:

I looked left to my coworker and
We knew what those looks meant:
Dialysis will most often be short term

There are moments when I  would walk out of the room
Just craving for an imaginary cigarette,
A sip of beer, but I often settle for a refreshing
Glass of coconut water from the husk
Costly, but it’s worth every penny.

Life is a complicated status, no attachments, no buffering
So lets us make amends in a letter and post it to you
Or hide it in a hole in a tree;
Even burn it and toss it the air

I guess my imagination is intense,
Always seem so inspired, and
As you know my words is cheaper than usual
I am a word seeker, a self-made poet
a thinker not a talker….  Like the statue
The Thinker Monumental
1903… Auguste Rodin(1840-1917)

One loves my friends……..

Secrets

Having left my thought in years they
Continues to **** with my body the canvas
Staring down the saddest moments of my life
Is my imagination getting ahead of me?

When, I was a child, I free a bird from tangle cords
Does its offspring, remember me?
Has the bird taught them anything about mortal pain?
especially ,not to build their nest in low pear trees

Secrets, continue to haunt my body the canvas
Every fortnight, when my soul seem to be at rest
Interrupting my dreams, with updates off past event

Not so hidden memories anymore, optimizing my life like an app
Like tiny dots of nested blackheads
Tiptoe to the surface, from deep within
Fighting to survive, just to be seen before sudden death

I shall pluck you secrets, from your darkest place
Without leaving a trail of blood on my body of canvas

A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack

A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx

Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door

I want to write a poem as long as California*

Nope, I want to write a poem as short as his *****
As short as a stump: When we think of bravery
Right away we think of the soldier, the hero:

When we think of his behavior its reflects on
His upbringing that influenced his character
The mouth that eats salt and pepper
Would thirst for water: it craves the attention

When I think of eating  some fishcakes,
I immediately think of the bones
That sensation of something stuck in my throat, then sudden death
They is an action, and a reaction
I want to write a poem that is going to outlive the pecker
But as trended as hate crimes…………

The way that I write poetry
I don't give it too much time
To sit and stew over what it should do
I just toss it out onto the line

As there's another one soon to come
And it'll just be in the way
Where my mind seems to rhyme all of the time
With all that it has to say

I write it down, brush it off
Polish is a thing of the past
If I let it sit around, here and there there about
It loses the thoughts it needed to grasp

I try not to go intellectual
As intellectually doesn't work for me
If your looking for prime examples
Just read my poetry

I write it out fast and furious
Whatever's on my mind at the time
And if you're the least bit courious
You can read what I think in rhyme

As I toss it out onto the line...

When I see you after a long day
Seeing, you don’t make things any better

a cup of peppermint tea a dash of milk
some lines of poetry in my head,
a sudden loud burp, and a grasp

But in my silent voice, I need not
say what is on my mind:
my mood swings , my physical arousal
I need to come to grips, with the real me

I really do not love you: I might like you,
but I am not In love with you…
I am the rose that open in the early morning,
but by sunset I close my petal from the world,

When I see you after a long day,
Seeing you doesn’t make things any better
I just want to say a quick hello,
And a long goodbye..

Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Billions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of implanted semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world;
know how dead inside I am.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind,
In here,
In hair,
Hear her:
har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, the children - their animals -
Made in the wild, wild desert,
In the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea;
Now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.

You may not believe it, but I have tried,
To come to terms with this thing
Called forgive and forget,
While reaching for the tissues box
So what about my hidden scars?
My daily reminders, my mentors
I have tried.. But they taught me to be
Strong, and believe that out of bad comes good

Maybe I ought to tried, a *******
To see if I can came to terms with that too..
With me, myself and I: what a fantastic dual

I love me: and I, was fondling myself.
My evil mind, my impure thoughts
My labor of love: I did try

Poetry writing has taught me a lot throughout the years
I can be original, but I would never master the craft
But I will have a voice of recognition: My human voice