beauty not created but transferred
your voice flows into the brush
a fluid magic
the shades of your wings reflect it
transferred for me, mine
I’d take any small piece
a fraction of you
to feel it’s warmth emanating
the surface a gentle thing
sparing nothing
every particle I crave

how long can you go on fracturing yourself
splitting your soul into pieces
hiding them in the woodwork of your mind
before the pieces are found?
how long can you live
knowing you’ll never be whole
only a part
how long can you survive in the dark?

mon menton repose dans mes mains, lourd
heures passées à lire, mes paupières tachées pâle rose
la seule évasion de la prison de mon esprit

Pantone noir skies
but a thousand buildings glow
not with light, but life
people working, watching, waiting, living

through the rear window I see thousands of lives
lives unaffected by my presence, unaware
thousands of realities, stories, perspectives even more

humanity reflected in each pane of glass
i yearn to have a human life too

a life of possibility and not restraint
to do, rather than watch

i am a poet in the way i am human
by nature and birth
an intrinsic responsibility to life
to write, to tell, to be heard
but even if i write and share not a single word I am yet a poet
the way a human could live a hundred years in isolation and still be just that

how much longer can I lie
and say I like it alone
because what started off as truth
has grown into a big blackhole
I’ve been burying myself in the sand
and hiding from the sun

they say to be loved by a poet
is to be immortal

paper containing a lifetime
a museum of memories
both lived and unlived
what was
and what had the potential to be

features equated to celestial bodies
moments and emotions in detail
each laugh memorialized