i finally have everything
i have ever wanted
in a human

yet it does not feel enough

he is kind
he is caring
he is artistic
he is hard working
he puts in so much effort for me

yet he is not you
he will never be you
i know that
i understand that

but ****
this is so hard

i am petrified
i will never feel
the way you made me feel

”good night, good travels, pitch black”

depending on how one counts,
cause size matters,
do have I
one small blessing


though little do I get, more-less,
in each twenty four measuring cup,
when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling,
lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation,
it’s less than sixty seconds till
dispatched to where all poems
plead like unborn angels for
good parentage

the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed
with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side,
preceded by, a single solid smacking of
an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow,
then lost in pitch black galaxy travels
with other sleep-drunk little princes

instead of the wavering, singular word,
a traditional goodnight,
a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing,
undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,

“good travels”

to places where ferment the aging words under
the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening,
names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes

When we met, love Obnubilated me.
I became bananas about you.
I wanted to be luculent.
Just to be Pauciliquent.
I however felt like a blatherskite.
You probably thought I was a glaikit.

Did I sound like a meacock instead?
If so, it’s due to kakorrhaphiophobia.
I might have operose my feelings.
Did it seem like I wanna mamaguy you?
You behaved like a frondeur.

Your callipygian body looked extramundane.
Your hair looked ulitichous.
Did you feel like I lusted your Callipygian shape?
I foresaw a love that won’t flatline.
If it does, it will be eucatastrophe.

Now we’re together, I’m disenthrall from Misogamy.
You’re a deipnosophist and a mixologist.
I’m edcious.
To keep you happy, I share a boffola.
To me, love felt like a Humdudgeon.

Running after ghosts of the past,
whilst stepping on glass shards,
you spend your days chasing the next high,
not knowing that you’re getting caught in the lies.

Like a spider that
meticulously weaves
and endlessly plots,
you take your strides cautiously,
yet still with a hint of mischievous spontaneity.

But the train tracks ahead of you
that are littered with rocks
and the crunch of footsteps behind that mocks even you,
never falters, never ceases.
You pace yourself as though you're running,
but all you're really doing is falling.

You’re drowning in quicksand,
making waves in the pits.
Distressed cries; not knowing where you’d land.
You wait to see if anyone will save you,
not knowing that all you ever needed was yourself.

Do you not see, do you not hear?
That your heart is hurting?

Its asking you to love yourself a little more,
to let your guard down and soar,
to bless yourself with change,
although it may be strange (to you).

This life is an endless journey of self growth,
charted by fate, and
accompanied with love,
but only when you let it happen,
will it make you great again.

i have loved you from afar for years.
i never dared to get near for the fear
of making you scared.

now the leaves are set
to fall and
we prepare to say goodbye to yet
another set
of girls that we both have loved and
i'm not sure if i should love you from afar
or up close,
because right now you're comatose
and i don't know what i'm supposed
to do so that you can learn to cope.

even if you push me away,
i want you to know that i will stay
for as long as you want me to.
though it is not today,
nor tomorrow,
nor real soon,
i will continue to love you from afar
until you love yourself too.

the spotlights come up
and the crowd cheers
you put a smile on,
stifle back the tears.

gotta hide yourself,
become someone new.
entertain the crowd
'cause they're judging you.

go with the script,
don't improvise.
do what you're told,
or they'll criticize.

don't falter, not at all;
don't be yourself until the curtain call.

break a leg,
the show must go on.

With
passion pray. With
passion work. With passion make love.

With passion eat and drink and dance and play.

Why look like a dead fish
in this ocean
of
God?

Crushed flowers are beautiful,
dried, pressed
not useful but certainly nice to look at
My sister affectionately called me a 'delicate little flower' one of the many times you made me break down, crushed from false accusation
until i eventually dried up
pressed myself until the pain no longer hurt.
I wondered why i had become such a fragile thing
shouldn't heartbreak build you up, a learning experience rather than reducing you to a few petals and a stem.
i feel more like a tree
green and great during the warm summer months
unaware of the freezing winter winds that will blow away all my protective leaves. barren. cold.
i hope someday i will become evergreen
beautiful, tall, luscious and full- pine or cedar or spruce
staying fragrant all year round

but for now i remain a daisy
nothing special
dried, pressed and crushed between these pages, within these words.