I like pens that bleed
Ink that smears
Girls with scars
Broken parts
***** clothes
Stained sheets
The hint of blood
The taste of lust
The smells of love
Nights through morning
Mornings to night
Suns that sleep
Moons that dream
And all the pretty
You hide underneath
Those pretty
Pretty
Pretty things

Kiyahaga jane, Kiyahaga,
The entrance is narrow,
Enter in; up the stairway
Of adamant wing's from
Cherubic sparrow's. Here
Mine love, there's none
Need to weareth aged
Flesh.

                  Inena, to the place of godly rest.

Thou shalt be made a dress,
From intangible material;
A pattern of the past,
Present, and future;
A glowing touch
Surreal.

             Nasgigwo Winigalsd, Nasgigwo Winigalsd;

Carven prayer's shalt reach the great one's
Throne, intertwined we'll be, with peace as
Home; worries none more, no skin nor bone
Shalt pass this zone, of angelic habitation.


Gvgeyu, Gvgeyu
O' we shalt love, a purest truth;
Galohisdi Hisdugi, come on through-
Thou art me, me thee, spiritual blood
Releasing.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley ( àgapi mou) dedicated

it operates like a glass ceiling
But is more often self- constricted.
It can come in a set;
One inside the other,
Inside another.

Some people are able to move
From the smaller to the larger.
There are no hinged sides
And any movement will cause shattering of glass
And sharp edges.

Sometimes after a breakthrough others follow.
They can see the shards of glass
And avoid them.

At first the glass sides are clean and clear
But they become clouded
By those breathing the stultifying air.

Those who grow inside the box
Become distorted
By its restrictions
And find their faces flattened against its sides.

Sometimes the box is a lonely place to be.

For those who leave
There's no return.

The air outside the box is rarified
And keeps one
gasping.

I Am More Than A Boy
I Am More Than A Man
I Am More Than A Child
I Am More Than Somebody's Son
I Am More Than A Brother
I Am More Than A Friend
I Am More Than A Person
I Am More Than This Skin
I Am What I Seek But Never Find
I Am The Home I Long For
I Am The Love I Bleed For
I Am The Purity That's Perices Darkness
I Am The Wings On Angel I'm Praying To Save Me
I Am Thirsty For The Holy Water That I Am
I Feel Empty As If I'm Lost
God Are You The Road
Are you The Map
Am I The Legs Of You That Walk Among This Ground Of A Place Someone Called Earth
I Dig Deeper Into My Self To Only Be Swimming In Mud
Mother Earth Is That You
I For Get My Gift Of Breath  Exist
I Miss My Blessings I Don't Count
If I'm A Seed What's Clean Water On A Land So *****
I Once In A While Make A Mess Of Precious Soil
If I'm A Garden
Dehydration Is Coming I Can Feel It
If I'm A Gardner My Arms Are Almost To Tired To Water The Roots
Underneath My Feet I Feel The Shadow Of A Sleeping Giant
I Heart Her Faint Wheepings
It Could Be My Inisides
I Am On My Last Skin Holding The Blood In My Heart
IM Soon To Become The Skin That Turns To Ash
The Blood That Fades To Black
And Entering The Void
I've Been Dying To Avoid

Fibromyalgia is a chronic muscle disorder characterized by widespread pain.*

My mother's caramel hued skin has transitioned  
to a much darker shade. Strands of hair gracefully
fall from her scalp as feelings of
agony and helplessness replace her
jocund spirit, destroying the essence  
of who she once was. Her embodiment  
deteriorates alongside her crumbling flesh.
Veins bulge underneath her skin; knots form
below her kneecaps; misery creeps up her spine.
As stridulous moans escape my mother's lips,
I can only offer sympathy. This disease latches on to
anyone within it's reach -- not only targeting
victims but their families as well. Like a predator,
fibromyalgia seeks to control every aspect of her
being – passionately tugging the affected between
the struggle to persevere or succumb to its' insanity.

I can't find a metaphor
To illustrate the happenings -
The death that demolished my hope,
A tornado of things darkly in my mind.

All in a moment when CNN broadcast
The latest mass killings,
Inside my bones the weightless dust
Lifts off my body like ash.
I sit in a bar,
No I sit in a chair with these flaring
Interminable news,
I miss the silences,
A formidable peace followed
By a singular moment when I
Can enjoy myself against
The flaunting horrors of the world.

Is it designed this way?
Death with a volley of dark stories,
I want to stop fidgeting and ignore
The tears, the sadness,
Oh the maddening crowds!!

I drink to my disgust,
I drink a concoction of inner peace,
And I smile and ask myself,
Is there any joy in tragedy?