Hold obliquely this bunch of flowers with that smile,
to you my gift, "Exotic", your eyes acknowledge it,
you know how to do it,  so that the selfie we post
would turn many a head, invite likes, though reluctant
needs to be counted as bullets pumped by jealous minds.

Now  listen to this mandatory advice, once more
I shouldn't desist, voicing this in any case.
Don't be generous to me, expecting nothing in return
as I am  your lover, in fact I myself am an exploiter,
who is shameless. isn't it the order of the day?

I am aware, it's bad karma out and out,
yet can't help it, let's be open about it,
now tell me this, how much can I bribe you,
for a grand kiss next, today's last perhaps.

trapped between reality and nightmare
between truth and lies
a constant war in my mind
I cannot fight it with my dusty hands

trying to save myself seems useless
I am but a hollow soul
a darkness in those around me
a crying of despair
a lost cause
no need to be
no need to breath
my legacy is just a wall
with no entering doors
I feel
I dream
I hope sometimes
but i know
I matter not.

in this world
there's only place for light
darkness shall be left
behind.

why aren’t you tired? of changing clothes, make-up, ribs to torment? sometimes when the night stops screaming I feel you like a blind ribbon stumbling our feet, like nervous fists trying in vain to retain some lilac perfume. I used to pray for my knees crushed by gravitational tales, for my ragged heart forcing the tympanum of time

we try to smile and hold hands we dissolve our tears into thunder until the rain stops breathing.

I feel so stitched together, like a rag doll -
not one worn down from being loved too much,
but one who has been ripped apart by loving too much.
And each lover picked me apart stitch by stitch – undone.
Then I’m left in threads: I am fully exposed.
How can that be, after spending years –many more all told –
sewing myself back together, my needle and thread fighting
to keep up. I naively trusted each lover when they promised
to mend me. What if someone had told me twenty years ago:
If you fall in love, never fully trust them, and ask yourself –
does he love me more?
I didn’t know then, I wasn’t so undone –
I could have stayed together.

© Sia Jane

blue insomnia have woken up in my words
seeds of wind, the lament of unknown men, women
the impossible alphabet of terror
daily I pass by the same cemetery
the willow-trees have new leaves now
the words can' swerve while
their faces dissolve slowly deeper and deeper into death
and I’m holding mine into hands smeared with tears

he  loved me like
they loved their neck rope

we see through the night
what we can
empty jars
purple lies
hardly the collection of killings
that makes
the morning sing

death has no words

A shout out to my history teacher who makes the time to teach
for I’ve picked up on the subtext she can’t speak:

if you teach to the test no one’s really being taught
all we learn is to chase empty numbers
and you wonder
why we’re all burnt out
when the end goal isn’t our happiness now

when the very organizations meant to support education
profit off those who have no choice but to turn to them

when the ones who can pay to prep
the ones who work until they can't see straight,
the so called “high achievers”
are the only ones who matter
and we ourselves kick everyone else off the ladder

if standardization is supposed to make education equal
then at the very least it should teach
that we all have a spot,
that in society, we can all be contributing members,
but it’s not.

like my history teacher’s given me,
we need lessons to life rather than to test

it’s time we set a better example for our students
Teach us that even when the blocks have fallen down, we can rebuild the tower

Woke up alone in my bed
My kids at their dad's
I wonder what stories he put in their heads

Worked ******
Everyone was being an igit
I sometimes wonder if it's even worth it

Got paid today
Gone in a flash
Bills mounting up I have no cash

Picked up the kids from their dad's
He decided to fight
Called me a *****, man what a drag

After some movies the kids fell asleep
Alone now with my thoughts
Yeah, and my idiot dog just left me...

He was
A fallen star
Ever spinning
A hidden halo of
Hawking radiation

He dragged her in
Kicking and screaming

Swallowed her fire and spat out
The ash, now stripped of all color

Into a world not unlike the one he'd stolen her from

Her particles
Now formless
Drifted without purpose

A monochromatic diffusion of her quondam existence

The sepia shade of her filter facade
Barely deflected the stupid questions
She'd never have the answers to

But she knew what to do

She knew how to drift and spread herself
Across this rock of coruscating life

With a thinness nothing short of impressive

Like a flattened chameleon
Hidden in the midst of
A bustling city sidewalk

And my golden heart
is upon the floor
beaten in its beating
once again I am
in this place
of questionning
eyes searching for
ancient,
            encoded meanings
I look to the heavens
my eyes blinded by salt
by oceans of deep blue tears
a sea of emotion
that never ends,
yet I take the silvery
wings of my fears
I stand on the edge
of this new beginning
and throw them
off the cliff,
watch them dissolve
into misty threads
winds wrapping
my skin like a gift
I shift my vision
as I prepare to mend
the temporary sutures,
this intensely stinging rift
marks the majestic destiny of
             my pending future
Now the reigns
of life
are in my own two hands
as I move forward
in my quest
conjuring courage
within my warrior's soul
despite the pain
burning through my chest
For this is the time
this is the hour
for dream-fulfillment
and true loving self-worth
and I know
I am the only healer
of who I am
on this journey
        at the cusp of
                           rebirth

The coffee had settled to a temperature few could drink with any pleasure. The cursor impatiently blinked against the empty word document as he sat defeated by the previous one hundred attempts to write a single sentence.  He could not be a writer, he thought, writers do not spend hours in front of blank screens, staring blankly and drawing blanks. They are full of original stories which overflow from the gray matter of their brains, spilling out from the tips of their fingers as they beat atop plastic keys like Mozart realizing symphonies as he glide across the ivory teeth of a fortepiano. He was right; he was no writer, not yet. In this instance of doubt like Schrödinger’s cat, both men, the writer and the not-writer inhabited the same chair, the same space in time waiting to be woke by a single decision. If he decided he was not a writer than all potential realities collapse into one and the writer dies in that chair. I'm no Edward Lorenz and I don't know much about butterfly effects but what if this is one of those microscopic events that changes the initial conditions and forever alters the data set? What if a masterpiece is lost on a whim? I so badly want to communicate all of this to him but I can't, because I am remembering a distant memory of the moment I lost the man I was suppose to be.