I crawl the floor

Collecting broken glass

To protect feet of those who do not know

Do not care

Whilst rejecting offers of company

As music moves the floor.

Later

When all is quiet

I enter the night

To walk along roads alone.

A bogeyman of myth

Stalks these streets

It's ok

For I am not the prey he seeks

I am not the prey he seeks.

Two people could never have been more in love than the two of us. A spark at first glance, suddenly roaring as a huge fire. At every moment we'd tell the other how much we loved them and how we wish they'd never leave. Two hearts and two minds, completely intertwined. But now it feels different. The light in your eyes has gone. My smile wiped from your mind. Is this what love is? A flurry of passion then nothing? I thought love was to be shared, nurtured over time, a never ending passion. As I lay here seemingly forgotten, in endless confusion, It seems "love" is just a syllable, it's meaning lost to history and its intent ignored in the doldrum of life. It is why I now ask: Do you even remember my name?

I've heard people who are away from each other say-
"at least we're under the same sky"

but we're not,
because it doesn't rain here the way it does back home,
the sun isn't warm enough to tingle my bones.
the sky here bends to meet buildings and towers,
not the hills and mountains and their wonder

So I say-
*"but we're not. the sky here is different."

I miss you so much

I miss you too

I want you so badly right now

Me too, darling...

I miss holding you
And your presence
And your voice

I miss the smell of your perfume
I miss your hands
I miss running my fingers through your hair

I miss the taste of your lips
And the warmth of your skin
I miss your eyes and their depth

I miss you entirely

I miss your being around me

******** it, Lorenzo

Reflection On A Self-Destruction

Gifts past belief,
Perfect pitch, honed technique,
Undoing self from morn till eve -
It grieves those who no longer seek him.
Sitting all the day,
A once sought artist,
Solo instrumentalist,
Never lifting up his *****,
With his all upon the telly,
Living on old memory,
One waits for a communiqué,
“Dead!” - from fears collected
Long self-neglected years,
Long self-rejected years
Laced with the chaos of self-based abuse.
[He was] once handsome-faced,
But hooked on spirits, wine and ciggies,
Thinking on the Long Ago,
Not letting go,
Years spent, tears spent,
Its ****** happening
As of this typing,
Lessons still unlearned.

Yiddish for buttocks
British informal term for television
cigarettes

A Reflection On Self-Destruction 10.6.2016
Small Stories Book;
Arlene Corwin

I don’t know who I am
or where I belong
I am just a little poor kid
Whose parents are long gone.

Every scar you see on my face
Has some story to tell.
The life right now I have
Is a living hell.

Every day I pack my bags
And pray my god to send me home
I don’t belong here
I am all alone.

I dream of a gentle heart is on way
To  kiss my scars and take me away
But for now I am just a poor little orphan
Lost in the world of unknowns.

Surya Shalini