I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I suffer from a disease that goes by the name of Loneliness.
It's an ancient affliction;
some sick kind of curse,
and those who know it best often boast: it's the worst.

But every now and then,
I look around me to see some fat cow in the company of a dead-eyed chudd -
spewing out a slew of inanities for lack of the cud.
He finally shuts her up with a kiss on the mouth,
as they walk off hand in hand.

I think to myself:
"How in the hell did they find a cure,
but I can't?"

This room so small,so hazy.
The windows tall,looked brazen.
The floor seemed still,so mazy.
The ground looked down,ashen.
And so I wafted,
A shameless breeze.
Until I slowly posted,
Under the shadow of trees.
A sense of joy,surged,
From within the chasms of doom.
A pleasure that was forged,
In the very craters of the moon.
The highs,the lows,
The very feeling.
The beginning,the middle,the close,
And time, they seemed to be stealing.
Time,oh time.
She waited so dearly,
While all else seemed fine,
But yet, I couldn't see clearly.
The smoke departed slowly,
The vestige thinly veiled.
I looked,realising cruelly,
The feeling had sailed.

I asked myself over a warm cup of tea, "what kind of beauty is there in finding mystery in yourself?"
I took a little sip, and had more thoughts.
And so I scribbled, a few words on a piece of paper.
a fine day indeed to be playing Thelonious Monk,
one of my favorite Jazz pianists.
y'know, his music has a certain type of soul to it, something inviting about it. I dunno.

with that cup of tea still in hand, I listened to the ocean dance while Monk rushed over the piano keys.

that cup of tea smelled like years of fear and peace to come.
that cup of tea reminded me of the first time I burnt my finger with a candle when I was still a kid.
that cup of tea reminded me of my first love.

it reminded me that I'm still 17, it also tasted like conversations I had with friends about girls we'd never have.
"that girl. she's the one, you'd probably have a chance with her. say something, you shy mo'fo."
but then again it wasn't about probability.

it tasted like 5AM in the morning after your first breakup.
it tasted like 4PM when you wrote your first poem.
it tasted like bitterness.

the tea tasted like my love for things that have aged.
'65 Mustangs and inked pages.
ripped jeans and new faces.
jazz music and new places.

its funny what tea can do one's mind once it burns your tongue and runs down your oesophagus to warm your lungs.

Monk's music in the background, I still scribbled words on a piece of paper.
if only this moment could linger.

cup of tea, cup of tea, what type of flavor did you leave in me?

see, when i stare at this cup, it seems as if it holds unneccessary emptiness.
but can still hold my deepest desires in liquid form - a warm cup of tea.

I probably wrote all of this after I burnt my tongue with tea.
but then again, this isn't about probability.

this is from the deep of things, with love.

sincurlyxbaki

there are poets all around
  speaking aloud
   to those who will listen

a rotation
  of the population

ones searching
  ones mourning
   ones thinking
    ones praying

for something
  or someone
   or nothing
    or no one

why do we turn
  to writing
   to reading
    to sleeping
     to dreaming
      for fulfillment

i guess we find comfort
  in this space
   of the abstract
    to release ourselves
     find company for once
      and return when peace is found

Sometimes I wonder why
I lose the pen & paper
the focused rattle of key strokes
thinking about that next rhyme
or word pattern or wordplay
or whatever I want to write about...
why that all goes away when I'm content

Take it for what it's worth,
poetry, to me, is something to fall back on.
And somehow that's ok... normal
I wonder where those words go sometimes