Synthetic thoughts,
compromised  by organic
                            reflections.

synaptic pathways
                           worn down
by rudimentary contemplations.

"What am I"

Am I who I see
                        or
am I just memoires
              looking back..

Paint me a picture
Of your skin
Does it bronze beneath the sun?
Or sizzle and blush
Like your cheeks
When you’re in love?
Is it soft to the touch
Like when your palms graze
The smooth surface of water?
Or rough around the edges
Like your favorite book
And its lovingly worn corners?
Does it melt in the heat
Like sweet syrupy treats
Dripping through your fingers?
Or does it welcome the winter
With wide open arms
As if greeting a lover?
Paint me a picture
Of your skin

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.

What else can I write, when the evening sets in?
The wintry old road, whispers to my soul-
Gather round the fire, there are
Stories to be told.

What else can I think, if the sky shouldn't sing?
I think I am getting old,
Like the wintry old road.

Like pebbles and mud and water and rust,
There would be time for-
Rebirth and trust,
And hope, I guess...
    But, What else can I think when the evening sets in?
I  think I am old,
    Like an anthem for a sin.

The days and the places,
Are numbered my friend.
The grass, the green
The gorging delight...

All like a bubble might vanish one day-
And What else can I feel and write what may...

I must treat the night with care,
With love, with patience and
With delight if I dare.

Since the pain would recede to the grounds, you see-
   And What else can I think when I am contained to be free?

I wouldn't be proud, and deaf to the
Tones of gloom and of death,
   But what else can I write if the evening rejects?

I was down.

And so I decided I needed flowers.

But not roses. Because roses have thorns.
And I am so sensitive lately.

I decided, not mixed flowers.
Because I’m mixed up.
And I need to stabilize.

I decided, not tulips.
Because tulips droop.

I decided,
I need gerbera daisies, bright.

Because gerbera daisies stand upright.

And so I bought some
in a wonderful shade of Fuchsia.

Capture the night
in one deep breath.

Allow the eyes to map
what swells in the heart.

Capture life...
Be wary not of thorns that *****.

Allow the love to bridge the gap,
even when apart.

I wake up
my arm
finds you not

only a pillow

you are not here

anymore