do we you or i live life? I think so

we live life and experience things like the cosmos – nebula's, constellations and galaxies the speckled white backdrop of purple green on a black satin sky at night – so magnificent

we live life and experience things like that hobo – cold and homeless an image of pure sadness we look at the wretch and feel despair – he smiles, his shallow and sickly eyes say the opposite. So we wonder what is his story, his history – a mask

we live life and experience things like a rainbow – an optical illusion that has no end and no beginning, it is infinite and we reach and reach and grasp and grasp and and we never get a grip – a mirage

we live life and experience things like children – inebriated adults proclaiming a grin of innocence and a smile of sweetness in small form – we cling to our youth, much like the rainbow or the lion seeking his prey we hunt for it – its momentary *

we live life and experience things like exhilaration – riding a roller coaster, a high speed car chase – watching a man land on the moon, falling in love, and the times when childlike excitement fill our bodies – *the escape

life is so magnificent, who we are behind the mask, how we see a mirage, and its momentary fleeting passing, and our escape –**living for the escape.

Shattered glass, salt sprinkled sand.
Ruins. That is all that remains.
Nothing but bleak sorrow left to inspire.
Nothing but music to express.
Black and white shades adorn a piano untouched by the flames.
Yet how does it manage to capture so many hues?
My fingers rise against their own will,
I might be the pianist, but this is the melody my heart sings.
As soon as the first tune hits the bleak backdrop,
I realize how different it is from anything I have ever heard,
Anything I have ever created.
It inspires life, it inspires growth. The world starts to heal itself with these tunes.
It begins simply, this cacophony my heart is creating.
But with an arresting phrase. So simple, that it is as eloquent as her voice.
She speaks beckoning gently,
As the music unwinds, rising and tensing.
It spirals upwards, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing,
Yet at the same time, the music is more expressive.
It is free, wild and feral.
It is me.
The notes which flood out of the piano are surely more than a mundane one can hope to play,
Yet this is anything but mundane.
It is a piano made of dreams and hopes.
It is an orchestra.
The music. Oh the music.
More seductive than poetry,
Far more blinding than light,
Fare more comforting than the darkness.
It is moonlight cast into tunes.
Beautifully contradictory,
Extraordinarily breathtaking.
It seemed impossible to breathe,
Yet that was all I could do.
The music seemed to waft into something tangible.
It demanded a palpable presence.
And like something out of a myth,
She stands over the ruins that she has created.
And the dam bursts. The music changes.
It becomes a hurting tune,
One which is resigned.
A cry of heartache which resounds over my entire dreamscape.
How can pain be so beautiful?
"Why?" Her image asks of me.
"Why can't you end this?"
And I pause.
How can i remove her from myself?
The one who shines with the brilliance of a thousand suns,
Whose smile dims the entire universe.
Her voice like quicksilver,
Her lush curls.
Eyes like pools, lined with kohl.
I would pay any price but these memories to forget about her.
But sadly, my dream self asks me a question and I must oblige.
Maybe she'll know why as well,
For all dreams come from one.
"Do we not dream of dreams?
How can erase my most beautiful dream?
The one which changed me the most?
Stripped me of my armor and left me vulnerable and broken?
Do we not dance on the notes of lost memories?
I am adrift on the sea of trials and tribulations,
Waiting for my ships to take me home.
But till then, till when I reach the promised land,
Your voice shall call out to me,
More treacherous than the sea itself."

You were as stealthy as a slow gas leak, by the time i knew i was in love with you, i had succumbed to you. You were in the drivers seat of my car lighting a cigarette with the windows up so i could breathe you in. I quit smoking so your secondhand smoke was all you would allow. I watched as you brought the cigarette to your lips and dragged in as if your life depended on it. It was your third one today and i told you that you should stop, maybe breathe me in for a second. Do you know what i would give to become second hand smoke from your lips? All you would have to do is kiss me and i would vanish into thin air, become a noble gas in the periodic table but there is nothing noble about the element of disappearance. I have been shrinking away from you ever since you held my hand in that convenience store a year ago. I'm trying to convince myself to get over you because all i am to you is someone to **** slowly through your second hand smoke. I never knew I could get so addicted to nicotine until it came from under your tongue. When you're gone, it's hard for me to breathe which doesnt make sense because when youre here my lungs are filled with your sweet black tar. But you will be gone for months when you leave in two weeks. You said you'd write to me, but written words can't carry your second hand smoke. You can't build a home out of a human being, but that doesn't mean i cant find a home in your bed.

I panicked.

My brain attacked today.

It attacked my lungs,

Stupid sharp whistling sounds.

I looked out of control.

But I felt aware,

that I wasn’t breathing,

that I was attacking myself again.

It attacked my heart,

terrifying skipping stones in my chest.

Whipped one by one,

Muffled blows in my breast.

I panicked.

I looked out of control but I was aware,

of the guilt,

of what will drag along with me.

I can’t be freed from fault,

It’s not the way.

Because I panic;

is why I don’t relate,

is how I cleanse.

Fright being necessary,

like a dream

where you muscle tone fails you,

I was paralyzed.

My knuckles hit the laminate –

again, again, again.

But I don’t move.

Feeling my bicep twitch,

Feeling my throat raw,

My mouth wide open,

But I don’t make a sound.

Because I panic.

The power inside,

will never translate,

to the outside.

People may see flickers,

of insanity in my eyes.

They may see me tighten up.

They may seem me strain and ease.

But I will never translate.

Until it snaps,

Until I no longer attack myself.

Until I no longer panic.

Until I bellow,

Until I howl,

Until I wail,

Until I swing and connect.

Until it attacks outwardly,

Instead of inwardly.

The wind howls
outside my bedroom window
shaking me
my heart; my soul

it screams
while you sit there
drinking sweet-smelling coffee
a baby boy in Africa
cries of hunger
and aching ribs.

while you are curled up
under warm and soft blankets
an old and lonely man
wanders the darkest streets
looking for warmth;
a home

while you hide there
surrounded by light and family
with an aura of ungratefulness
you are lost in the rays of your technologies
with a frown on your angelic face
when a weeping woman
shakes and prays
for her gone children to reach Heaven happily
but you dare forget God to a screen?

my house shakes
from Wind's agonizing words
and a streak of cold
trickles into my haven
along with the words
"what am I doing?"

somehow
my stiff legs reach
a window
and the arms in front of me
pull it open
to reveal no sound at all

where is the wind?
did he leave just as
he touched
my heart; my soul
making me waver?
or does a gust not howl ,
speak,
and isn't heard?

no
the wind was here
for how else did the once-twinkling snowflakes
suddenly freeze
and lose all of their beauty?

no one but Wind
would take the innocence
of such young and beautiful white specks
just as they landed
in this cold,
dark world

no one but Wind
would flare you with reality
enough to make you cry with obliviousness
for this wind; my Wind
he is the voice off all those
who have faced
life's stinging brutality;
him
instead of
hiding under covers
and whispering morbid lies
that
everything is okay