The boards creak and moan
from time and poor carpentry
The nails gripped by aged wood
have become crust collected and
shrunken to form

The bare walls once displayed
the smiling faces
of past eons but now
there are only the faded remnants
of square foundations
of lives that once
hung on the wall

The stairs complain
like an old man
from unsubstantiated fears
The second floor
seems solid only responding
to the remarks of my shoes

The old bedroom
once the center of attraction
overlooks the buckled sidewalks
and **** infested yards
of a street that now has no cars
or people passing by

I stand in silence for the moment
and the moment stands silent for me
And for that moment
I lay in time's eternal graveyard
in hopes of reviving dead dreams

Honesty, I hold back because I'm petrified.

Opening the doors to my heart will show you the result of a warzone & I don't know if you would want to stay.

I've tried to paint a picture of what it looks like from what I've gone through, & they all run. They think I have nothing left to give.

I have the most precious pieces of me left, they're just under the rubble & it's hard to dig through it alone.

All I ask, is for consistence & love; with those two things, I promise you'll encounter the best elements of me.

-j.nas

Walking in dim thoughts
with the sound of rain outside.
The dripping pattern takes
me on a pitter-patting journey.
I'm neither here, nor there,
and yet somewhere
I must be.
Craving to be healthy,
in mind, body and soul.
Content perhaps?
Aware of who I am
and who I will
always be.
Is anyone like this?
Really?
Or are we a collected
mass of android
arms reaching
lamely for
robot parts?
Artificial emotions that
fester out like
***** mud shoes left
in the hallway.
We yawn internally
to avoid the truth
that we are bored
with one another.

Raindrops continue, as
does my doubting heart
as it wraps around
the possibility of
funerals and
Requiem Masses.
Long faces and
sighing masking
the indifference
of striving.
Together in mood
but far apart
in disposition.

Carry on, rain,
carry on. Slip
your wetness
against the dry spell
of my perception.
I can see. Or, I can
close my eyes to
imagine that the
tomorrow of thought
becomes the infested
reality I will be living.

I spend too many
careless storms wishing
for other days to arrive.

Navigating his way past screeching taxis,
Unperturbed pedestrians,
And vibrant street performers in the city,
A young boy scurries down the street,
Smiling ear to ear.
He extends his arms perpendicularly to his body,
Propelling his body left and right,
Pretending to be a jet plane.

He is meeting a girl today.
And not just any girl;
An angel.
At least that’s how he sees it.

In his left hand, the boy carries a rose.
Grown from love, it’s dashingly large;
A symbol of his exuberant feelings,
It’s a gift for the girl,
And an invitation to a first date.

In his pocket, the boy carries an iPod shuffle.
Giddy with optimism and bliss,
The boy’s heart skips to a romantic pop song.
He proudly waves his rose through the air as he moves.
Holding it like a microphone,
And not bothered by judgement,
He sings the lyrics to the song aloud.
He’s in love,
And he wants the whole world to know.

As he scuttles ever closer to their arranged meeting place,
The boy grips the rose tighter now,
Guarding it with his life.
He sinks into a daydream,
Thinking about her:
The way the sun amplified her splendid complexion,
The satisfying fluidity with which she would say his name,
And how she giggled as he pushed her back and forth on the swings.

Nearly out of breath, the boy arrives at the street corner.
He spots the girl immediately,
And a thrilling tension condenses in his chest.
The girl bestows him a smile,
But she looks agitated and in a hurry.
Unable to contain himself much longer,
The boy extends the rose out her,
Revealing to her not only the gift, but also his feelings.

“No thank you,” she says lucidly.

The boy’s smile fades and his cheeks turns pallid.
Though in a state of disbelief,
He accepts her verdict with civility.
The girl offers genuine condolences, but shows no signs of regret.
Covertly, the boy holds back his emotions and bids her farewell.
But as he walks away, he’s overcome by an unfamiliar, rankling feeling,
And his heart plummets like a raindrop falling from the sky.

As he wrestles with his grief,
The boy begins to weep and loses grasp of the rose.
It tumbles out of his hand,
Only to be violently stolen by the wind,
Sullied by the filth of the sidewalk,
And trampled by people passing by.

Like wild oats
the lonesome poets
grow in the ditches
alongside back roads
and when it rains
they drink too much
like the low cotton
in dry fields forgotten
by dirt poor farmers
whose wives run off
with the first stranger
who wipes his shoes
on the porch before
selling her a pretty pair
of green lace underwear
like a bird sick of its tree
dreaming of new leaves.

The sandman eludes me...

The hours find me wakeful.

My lungs ingests fatuity
while my heart harbours entropy.

Sleep never comes soon
when thoughts dishevelled,
amass to engulf the twilight moon.

To a point where fatigue has taken me...
But still I lay wakeful.

Awaiting the sandman's return,
with the promise of sanctuary.

This problem has gone on so long
we always reach the same old sum

divided by lies
multiplied by my failure to learn
In division, we carried over

the sequences of your dishonesty
compounded by lack of ownership

numbers don't lie

you brought a lot of uncertainty into the equation
it played a huge factor
the lowest common denominator

I never was good at arithmetic, but something doesn't add up

subtract me

I'm a rock caught in your shoe
And I won't come out
No matter what you do
You can shake me, but I won't come loose
You can hate me, but I'll stick with you

Let's pretend I can read your mind.

What kind of words would you not say,
     whose name would you hide?

What places would you flee, in dismay,
or wish to caribbean-cruise to?

If I could hear your love,
what would it tell me
     that I do not already know?
What kind of fantasies would whisper?
Will your fears be softly moaned,
or scream loudly to be let go?

Let's pretend you knew I could
hear deeper all your silences,

     how many flatteries, there, would echo
like broken vinyl,
a skipping heartbeat, a flat tire... (blown)

Would you still lie, if you knew--that I knew,
still believe them?
Still make me believe you?
(never telling the truth)

Let's say you could
hear my thoughts...

Would you condemn me and herald my secrets?
Command me for your work
     make me a lackey
     or say I'm crazy
to everybody a nobody...?

If you could see through me
or feel my worst hurts,
would you understand \why and how
my heart should burst?

And of course, this is all make believe,
imagination at it's height,
     but true life is another sort
     of story

from our minds' eyes
to witness
to be told :  be realized.

And every tale has once come true:
man now
     flying, cloning,
          in rockets to the moon,

I'm sure my fiction will be
written soon
if not already in that book...

what kind of mood
He must of had when craving
King & Koontz
the idea of me...
           (and god knows who?)

scratching chin
his beard of white
in a bowl of crocodile tears,

playing pretend,
and silent night
with our living years...