I never whittled wicker fiddles
while riddles belittle the middle
class of ***** and elephants.
Irrelevant asides alike another
mother smothered by her brother’s
last lover and uncovered this summer’s
eve. ****** – the reason seasons start
aren’t propelled by a spell in my heart.

the spell in my heart you ask?
its a dry spell for sure,
it crackles with the flames of fire
that whip out like the whips
of elephant trainers,
the way they scare me in place,
and i shake with terror.
but terror arises and smothers
the way mothers have been smothered
by a brother's last lover,
and summer eve will still come.

walk side streets
   alone - headphones.
zones of melody
   channeling canals
deeper than all
   the billboards basted
by bad barters.
  
   must’ve been mistaken.
although their dressed
  up, they’re simmering
thin - acetaminophen.
  finished, drugged bugs
cling strings holding
   last lines of defense.

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...

Hurry,
inhale,
drink the alcohol
that flows through the tributaries,
before it is all gone,
and tell me all your sorrows.

Finish your drink,
wipe the mascara rivers away,
the ponds of tears,
the streams of lipstick smudged all around,
then let us float away
to a land of drunken, broken dreams,
and hopes never to be fulfilled.

We'll bellow with crazed laughter,
cry with smiles of the ******* up,
tell each other we are okay,
when we are shattering into pieces of
broken melodies-
hugs exchanged, sloppy kisses too,
but by tomorrow,
we have floated off,
out of unfulfilled days,
and back into reality.