I don't write to pretend i'm deep,
I just am

your warm breath against
my skin
your fingers tracing my ******* roughly

one of your hands move
lower
intruding my space

this is not right
i do not want you here
i do not want you in my body

i say nothing
hoping you would read my mind
take a hint from my pleading eyes

my insides curl
as you take away my innocence

i am no longer myself
who i am...
is you

On new year eve when the sun on the west hung low
And the east wind on dead leaves blow
I paced to the yellow woods
And sat on my favourite wood
Where not long after I fell into a trance
Not of any divine trace
But a dream from my person
And I saw a vision backwards:
365 days ago, not long ago
I was on the same spot
For the familiar new year ritual
That of writing my aspirations
My fickle fingers wrote my dreams on the hard earth
On the passing sands of time
But no traces of them was left
Perchance carried by the furious wind
To the store house of wasted words
I continued in the vision backwards
When I heard a voice from me saying
" Don't write your dreams on sand
Write them on your heart "
I woke from my short trance
When the crimson moon was awake above
And the night owl hooting echoed through the woods
Left the woods without performing my ritual
Because i heard a vision backwards
" Don't write your dreams on sand
Write them on your heart."

He spent his lifetime chasing rainbows,
All the colors, bright and bold
But the years of stormy weather,
Left him lonely, gray, and old.
For the sun to make a rainbow,
There first must be some rain,
For the soul to be forgiven,
There first must be some pain.

Judge not the book you haven’t read.
Your conclusion may be wrong.
The bravest of the armies
May not be so very strong,
For when the battlefield is littered
With bloodied bodies of our youth,
There is still a final chapter,
And that chapter holds the truth.

The sun shines bright and warms us,
Then it hides behind dark clouds,
Skies overtly ominous
Suggesting funeral shrouds.
He sees the remnants of a rainbow,
Fleeting, fading fast,
Strains his aged eyes to see it,
And he prays his faith will last.
Phil Lindsey 2/11/17

My always black shoes
I love them so much
Reminding me of the size of my shoes
When too little...
Children are playing
Hearing their voices
Bikes are laughing
rainbows on their pictures...
Why are YOU laughing ?
When the Jasmines are not white
anymore in my every month's loosing blood
I love my black shoes so much
I cry when looking at my mom's face


کفش های همیشه سیاهم
من آن ها را خیلی دوست دارم
اندازه ی پاهایم را به یادم می اندازند
...وقتی خیلی کوچک بود
بچه ها بازی می کنند
صدای خنده هاشان را می شنوم
دوچرخه ها می خندند
...تصویرشان رنگین کمان دارد
تو چرا می خندی !؟
وقتی که گل های یاسمن دیگر سفید نیستند
در هر ماهی که از من خون می رود
من کفش های سیاهم را خیلی دوست داشتم
به صورت مادرم که نگاه می کنم
...گریه ام می گیرد