Art is an extrovert.
She goes out clubbing on Saturday nights,
scotch in hand,
indecisiveness plaguing her mind,
dancing ‘til her feet are numb.
She rings the tune of a
White dress, black collar,
I know her face,
but not her name.
From the bar I watch
her obsidian silhouette expand
as her skin becomes rose petals,
and her hips conduct the music.
She looks like a drunken mess,
arms flailing, heels bending,
but to the peculiar mind
an alluring picture.
Inspired by Phosphorescence by J. *******
i was out of motivation to come up w a better title
how do I love myself,
when I can see myself inflicting pain
on those who loved me first?
not a haiku
in the flood
which has yet to come
in the prison
which has yet to exist
Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate
Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk
Not having entered
I’m already wounded and slain
I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality
Like the shadow
I am not
sleep apnea without sleep,
suffocation in a land of pure air,
laughter to a joke never told,
shame for things never done.
commitment to someone never met,
hatred for myself who never blossomed,
disgust by lack of talent never cultivated.
longing for situations that will never happen,
forgiveness to people who have been hurt,
pity for the wrong.
confusion paradox, numbness,
and until i see the burning filter i won't stop.
do i exist? i havent dropped a word in days.
gods, help me, i am stuck between the real and my dream.
yet, there is always a crossing of these two -
in both i am alone.
there is no peace at the gates to god,
just as there is fear in places of love.
Some days I will pick up an itchy caterpillar
with two pieces of cardboard
and move it out of harms way.
I will kick a harmless beetle
because it breathes too loud
too close to my home.
I never tried to be not nice,
but borders get dizzy sometimes
I am human on both sides of the coin