I don't want to drown among the lovesick poets--
They wax lyrical about love all day
Moan in pleasure in the night
Convert to a religion of romanticism--
Fuels them high on romantic idealism
till they fall back down to grounds of realism;
Turning into the brokenhearted poets I want to avoid--
They wax lyrical of their 'wounds' all day
Moan about their pain all night
as if the sky fell down;
To these poets, I'll give you a word of advice:-
Yours is not the worst on the plate;
*be prepared to suffer pain if you only want pleasure.

Dear Father in Heaven
I have been the unsuccessful idealist
a muted convoluted mentalist.
Sincerely,
May this open prayer
Transcend through fear--

Dear Father in Heaven
Don't take them away from me
Why did you abandon me?!
Thus this body is now an empty shell
No spirit to dwell

Dear Father in Heaven
You said let there be light
I may be blinded by your light
but
my soul as a whole
warped into black hole

Dear Father in Heaven
Give me reprieve
Please spare me the grief,
My wounds! They bleed tears--
Rip my heart open with shears.

I was seduced by your tongue.
From the menu in it's ripe pink
bequeathed with syllables
of toxic waste pronounced;
production rivaling the healthiest liver
in this materialistic marketplace.

Still it is a delicate decadence
not for the faint-heart by recommendation
can only be served in it's ****** state
never preserved with age nor maturity
for it's zest for life can never be tainted
even when cooked
it still wags on and on....
churning more poison.

I placed my order
may the best man win,
I was not a coward.
Bon appetite.

She was beautiful
rolling of silken tresses
cascading her delicate shoulders
as if Niagara falls
i drawn of her beauty from afar.

She was unkind
her feet was bitten with wanderlust
i could never fetter those feet
with letters written
from her flighty dancing and bouncing.

She was skilled
she snowballed inspiration in her hands
caused diarrhea of ideas in my head
she laughed at me
while i made a mess
over my incompetence.

She was
a past, a history
abandoned her starving soul
till she left, died
and now my hands are left paralysed
paralysed in reminiscence
of her sweet voice...

Frog jumping
across
the moon
of floating lilies
sees peonies
bloomed in her eyes
fell
into the mouth
of a carp
sleeping.