"You're like the sunset" I said to her

"Why?" she answered.

I stared to the sunset while saying,

"Sunsets are beautiful. Everyone loves it even though they can only stare or look at it. But nobody owns them. Nobody can own them."

"Just like you" I said quietly as if she won't hear it.

Am I your rose?
A unique love under the bell jar?

I look at you, You look at me
Your prussian blue eyes
Pierce my being

A love that is ethereal,
Divinely orchestrated
A symphony of sweet surrender
The Angels sing I love you

Come to your rose,
Tend to me
I am no common rose
I am your rose,
I am unique in all the world,
Because of the time you have wasted on me.

I have a little black book
Inside are names
Names of those I know
Some I love
Some I onced loved
Some I came to despise
Every time I open the book
It makes me sad
Most of these names
I haven't spoken to in years
Some I barely remember
Sometimes I add new names
Not as often as I used to
And every time I do
A light shines inside
Before being extinguished
Once again
As I close my little black book
A little black book full of me

and then I asked you,
"What's your biggest fear?"

you gave me a quivering sigh,
looked at me straight in the eyes
and said,

"It's that eventually, you will see me
the way I see myself."

Dear lover, friend and foe

Sprinkle some of that denial
on my open wounds.
Prevent them from healing -
stir my past traumas;
mix them with my present sorrows...
Stir well till my -
inner peace boils eagerly
for a splash...
of your confusing behaviors.

Your exit plan -
smartly chops your goodbyes.

Take a sip and try the taste
of your drama
of your intentions
and future karma

- Bon appetit

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

Look at life
Look at reality
Do we?
No.

We look at life
through electric dreams,
Electric machines
As if what we see
Isn't real.

Until the illusion
Is broken,
And we are forced to
Accept reality

That is when the pain
Is too real
the suffering
Is too real

Machines are emotional shields

In a scented garden
Bees bow into
Flower-heads.

Pigment on canvas
Leaves drying points
To scratch the
Finger-tips.

A woman places herself
In this scene.

Far-off,
Precipitous buildings cling,
Spider on a wall

And long tree line between.

Ochre
Reddish brown mingle
Subtle essence of
Feminine.

Birds bow,
Bees bow
And man too bows-

Adoration of
Mysterious earth
And miraculous

Causeless

Creation