‘isn’t the sun warm?’  said the bear, ‘and look i speak in italics’



yes, it makes me feel better.



‘which the warmth or the format?’



sbm

Smile at a photo
From 1989
My brother was born
Into my mothers arms
With my father smiling
Proud

Can he feel the warmth of my heart
Reaching him, all the way to heaven?

To watch,
Blood run through your veins and know,
You can stop it, quick or slow.
The lack of complications with which you could potentially be the murderer of your own breath.
And for what?
To prove to the world that you as many others have become vulnerable of your own mind?
Victimized by tragedies or scenarios of twisted "what if"s.
Of love found and lost,
Love from birth and ripped away from your heart like a knife to a steak.
To prove to yourself that you no longer must live in pain or fear.
Fear that consumes your every breath and thought that crosses your condemned mind.
You feel as though it will not get better than sitting in denial in a room full of voices begging for peace in a world that is not our own, voices crawling from no lips only from your own self inflicted insecurities.
But I,
I, am not here to let this monster of a thought consume you.
I, for one, am a stranger.
A stranger to you but not to this monster.
I too have battled the war between peace or life.
I too have swam accross the vast oceans of thoughts screaming to fulfill their wishes.
But I won this battle.
And I will be the knight to stand by your side when it is time to make the decision.
Between life, or a commitment of suicide.
I am the real you I am the one who lives the one who wants to make you smile and find love that will not betray you but for that you must trust me.
You must trust that there is in fact a light at the end of the tunnel as cliché as it may sound.
So listen to this last phrase for it will **** the voices of torture.

You are worth every breath and every tear, you are worth it all and more, be the knight and fight the battle, you will win, because we all believe in you.

-Kathia Mariana Landeros

First the signs and then the noise -
Insistent, honking, grinning boys
Announcing City snow-ploughs

What's this raucous clarion call,
This four-note trumpet klaxon?
It's the boys who tell the world
To move its Ford, Corvette or Datsun.

A snowfull truck on squeaky chains
Creaks off to dump its ***** crystal load.
And four more trucks parked right behind
Sashay one notch along the road.

Truck number two clanks up beside
The blower which spews salt and snow
Into its built-up box beside.

See, grinding now, a baby plough,
With red-faced driver tucked inside,
Trundles bundles of frozen stars
Into someone's shoveled drive.

While upon this clanking ballet
Lacy snowflakes lazy drift
Lightly swirling fluffy piles
For moving by tomorrow's shift.

The morning comes at me in sideways, frenzied swirls; urging the heart to beat faster and the pace to quicken.

It’s energy dissipates into crystallized coatings of sugar and ice cream, covering a path that is the same yet treacherously deceiving; beckoning to run and frolic like a setter after a leaf.

The stride is low and measured with a bounce of flowing possibilities, somehow dismissing the bald, slick mountain orb that holds no one; that holds our existence like glue.

Patterns emerge under a delightful artist notion, layers upon layers, textures melding with form, colors yearning to find their own personality; creating itself from a falling idea.

Tendrils of fluid, wispy inquisitiveness seek to insert their purpose onto the canvas; like rivers of rolling acrylic from the oversaturated master brush. White and grayish drips making their way to an authentic resting place with delving curiosity and untethered adventure.

Cracks, shrieks of cold anguish across the water; or is it chortles of delight at the incessant rage of an unsatisfied bluster?

The force is at my back, not to push and mold me but to buffet the noise from the useless chatter; to comfort and warm like a soothing bundle of goose down without a floor.

Wispy rivers of mist flow down from a mountainside
Twirling and spiralling between the fields of delicate dandelions
Performing mesmerising dances like fairies under the lunar spotlight
Combined the aromatic fragrances and soft colors create an obscure new sense.