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frozen a lion stands
tamed by the modeller's hands
eyes unblinking
he has no inkling
why he can't move an ounce
roar and pounce
can't jump from his place
to bite a chunk of flesh
but bugged by the creator's flaws
can't move a bit his paws
stand there in dazed surprise
in helpless awe before thousand eyes
mouth agape in a tragic roar

the truth dawning on him
he's a king no more

just a clayed clone
of a lion
please see the cover photo.
‘The coffee is getting cold’.

The sweet retold
From her
Waiting with the winter’s brew!

No ambition I harbor
For here my woman
The best way she can
Makes steaming brew
Worth my savor!

She knows too
In the wintry nights
With her I crave to be
Sipping her hot coffee
With it drowning the winter’s pain
My only reward, best bargain
A sweet story retold!

‘The coffee is getting cold’
From her
Creating for me summer’s brew!
Created June 1st, 2011

I am not gay.
I am not straight.
I am not curved,
or warped or woofed
I am bent, cylindrical,
a burnt human.

but not weak, nah!

tempered stronger than
furnaced scarred,
hard-stained steel,
a fire shaped child of El.

The sum of,
the product of,
the multiple divisions of:

my hard-on
experiential, existential
hand to hand
combat learning,
life's red copper burnishing,
and my very own
genetic, tantric
commanded tablets,
my natural earnings,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


obedient factotum to the
twists and turns of the
curve ***** and spitters
life pitches at my head,
that end up as
body blows.

multiple contusions outside
worn with pride inside,
I award myself a
medal of honor,
and elect myself,
Most Valuable Person,
an All Star of David,
for having survived
one more battle scarred
game day,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


when I awake,
in the raceway courses
of my veins,
the speedways to my
heart and brain,
runs the bitter herbs taste
of fear of how
I shall yet again,
earn this day,
my body's keep and shelter,
earn some table scraps of
peace of mind,
that I may lay
myself down to sleep
if ever so briefly,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


When I prowl the mid of night,
the fever of combat fear,
my skin sears,
and there is no narcotic
that anesthetizes
even surficial  
the anxiety,
the ailment of
melancholia
that hallmarks my soul,
the overflow of which
spills over the ****
of my vocabulary

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul
yet again

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}


Once I was a soldier
who wore the
black and white stripes
of the uniform that stretches
to the four corners
of the world.

I used to sway to the R&B;
of someone else's tunes,
prostrate fell to my knees
speaking someone
else's words,
touched my forehead
to the ground.

but the melancholia that
sterling hallmarks my soul
never disappeared and
renewal was a gift
denied and refuted,
by the lack of clarity
to which I was not
part and parcel

and l guess I am just like
{you, man}


Took a new oath,
swore allegiance
to the alliance of
I don't give a ****
and acceptance of
the infection of
flawed humanity
inside of me
lies buried in the
permafrost of my mind,

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul,
yet again

The first new words
daily uttered,
chanted with vehemence
of an out loud prayer
to no one but we two,
me and you, man,
unashamedly clear and enunciated
not mumbled,
not muttered,
seven parts blessing,
three parts curse,
are these words.

l guess,
I am just like
{you, man}


Found and founded a brotherhood of me and
{you, man},
one mantra,
you and I are just alike,
now we have a new
holy romantic empire,
we are human
{you, man}
slaves to
nothing,
no one
but each other.
How I used to write...when I was....
For every life, a life must be given.*
Nature knows this well; my mind reels in
fascination and revulsion at Nature’s ugliest things.
I am caught in wonder and disgust for the things they do.
Bacteria that thrive on flesh, parasites that steal life from life,
viruses that invade the deep and make us their home:
these are the beautiful and terrible of Nature,
slipping past our defenses to make us give our lives for theirs.

Yet, humans are clever and wise.

Clever because we get sick,
and when we’re sick, we’re fighting,
We fight on and on, we get sicker and sicker,
and when we’re most vulnerable,
when our bodies fall around us, and we shake from the fever of battle,
all the beautiful and terrible cry out in agony and
what was lost is reclaimed in health.

Wiser because some know they can give their own lives
to help each other take back what was stolen.
That is what I know.
That’s why you’ll see me there on the day of the battle.
I’ll feed spirits with faith and love,
bring medicine that weakens the enemy, and hold soldiers’ hands,
give all my hours, days, and weeks to help fight the greatest fight.
And when the battle’s won, I’ll send up a mighty cheer, toast the troops,
pack my bags, and head for home, content.
We'll live to fight another day.
I wrote this to try to gather my thoughts before I begin med school applications. This isn’t really the only reason, but it’s the one that was in my mind this morning around 9 am :) I think I will be posting more of these poetic thoughts about why I want to be a doctor, so stay tuned!
Oh such lonesome lives in the west
When the sunshine stings bleary eyes
and telephones receive no calls
How does one survive in the city
When the angular buildings suppress creativity
and free-thought is despicable

See the man, laying in bed for days at a time
With ASMR videos playing on a smartphone propped against a pillow
and his arm draped over that pillow, imagining a body
Bob Ross love affair, the television drones
Each night spent alone, praying for passion, or acceptance, or anything
and joyous noise when paintbrushes glide evenly

A collective of poets, posing as one man
Fraudulent minds, each with distinctive style
and all with crooked broken teeth
Trumpets in the jukebox, cat-calls in the world
Outside the window children are playing
and he cries, for the years are growing weary

She peels skin from her fingernails, mindless on morning commutes
He stares from bus stops, train stations and runways
and never blinking, never blinking, never blinking
The intrinsic value of repetition falling short of artistry
Given that metal machines are perpetual
and when the crow lands on fences in the morning dew,
there is no more life in Ironville, not for me, not for you
Little ones we were playmates that leisurely afternoon
The daughter of our poor maid she danced to my tune
Shyly quiet emaciated slim her eyes were bluish deep
One loud word a raised eyebrow was enough to make her weep.

She wouldn’t hum a single tune nor would ever dance
Loved to be there all by herself kept from me a distance
The lonely hour of that afternoon my mum was sound asleep
The girl was there I sniffed my chance for playing on her mischief.

I invited her for a time together to play with me hide and seek
With downed eyes she moved her head her ‘no’ was feebly meek
On that day I had to have my way to play some prank on her
My insistence benumbed her sense courage she failed to muster.

I showed her the room where she would remain till I found a place to hide
Should be there with eyes closed till I cooed my instructions she must abide
The windows of that room I shut them fast so no sound could come out
Explained to her it was to ensure from her place she couldn’t look out.

The poor girl followed what I told her she was a soul sans all wickedness
As she went into the room a cloud’s shadow passed on her innocent face
That afternoon in childish whim what I did I don’t find easy to condone
I played the game mean locked the girl in left her in the dark room alone.

I left her there in her nightmare happy to have caused her the pain
A playful prank a darned mischief in which the child saw a big gain
When they brought her out she was all weeping the captivity was hard
Time and again they questioned her but couldn’t get her to speak a word.

From that day I never came her way just caught a few times her eyes
There was in them against me no complaint only a sorrowful surprise
Years have passed that afternoon is still to rust she still knocks on the door
Beckoning me to play the game of hide seek pleading not to lock her anymore.
It was a cold dark night
Sailing for Hopes for Dreams
An Island beyond the sea
A home of victory
A home that will
Now never be yours 

Flashes of light
In the torrent of the sea
Father and child
Held on tight
Struggled for their dream
Before my eyes
I saw their dream die
In the cold black pit of the sea
I want to say
I am Sorry

I am Sorry
To all voyagers
Of despair and courage
Their lost Hopes and Dreams
Crossing to
An Island beyond the sea

*To the Hundreds of Souls lost on the journey to Lampedusa
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