You tell me that it is wrong to look at myself the way that I do
Yet you, too, have your own toxic thoughts regarding you
You ask me if I've prayed about it and I say that I have
because prayer is the only thing that calms the voices in my head
And you are there for me when you want to be but not when I need you
Your spoken words and 'i love you's seem to pass right through
You ask me what you can do and I don't have the words to say
Again my broken record of a mind recalls what happened on the day
When I learned that my feelings have no value and that people never stay

She is saying goodbye
to an old friend.
Discordant telephone cord
pulls itself away
as mosquitoes emasculate;
warm summer night.
Her voice lingers in the humidity
perspiration
drips, slides;
empty whispers.

Crickets and cicadas circa 1947,
running through fields at midnight
riding the bike pass the gallows
that was Uncle Mike's,
tender breeze through hair
like a mother's stroke.
Shoe soles stomping cigarette buds
in haste,
driving through cliffs
diving into continuum (then)
holding out for whatever comes.
No more.

All is left—
rustling leaves
sepia tinted photographs
tattered edges;
reminiscences of warm summer nights
retold to a child.

I see she changes
She changes because of me
Like I showed her a sun
She could not feel
So the artificial light
Makes her feel warm
And she is not outside
She is a flower reaching for a light bulb  

And is it my fault
That I loved her so
I loved her as the ocean loves the moon
And the tides roll into shore
But there are sharks in the water
Smelling blood
Hungry for flesh
Eager to ****  

Well I am to blame
The things she says to me
Are but a dream
Heavy with the Dramamine  
Because she Is moving
And I can't be there
To hold her still
And show her what love is

But I do love
Without knowing why I feel
I love without care or pride
Or fear of pain
Like the days last cigarette
I know it's killing me
It's not something I need
But I enjoy it until it's gone  

I hope she understands
I pray to a god I don't believe in
Because it becomes
History repeating
And I've done this all before
I've felt this all before  
But it never meant more
It's never meant the end

Sitting on the table are white memories
Spread out like a piece of paper
Begging to be colored in
Begging to feel again

Beside of its mystery
Sits a candle
Shining brightly
Smiling my way as I walk inside
It is clueless of what I've been through

Colors gather around the lifeless sheet
Wondering where they will roam
Questioning why they are even alive
I am the painter of my life
They will know every inch soon enough

The paint brush knows my hands
We will build each memory together

RED
Our love was like a rose
Its beauty was flawless
Our bench by the rose bush smiles brightly
Your lips are all I can remember

BLUE
Those lonely nights when you would weep
Rain drops falling from your ocean
Filling our bedroom with water
All we could do was drown
...Together

YELLOW
The sun lightens up your smile
Oh your smile so beautiful was it so
I use to smile every time I thought of it
But now I shed a tear

GREEN
Your favorite color
You would always wear the emerald I bought you
You would cherish it always
Now always is gone and the emerald is at the bottom of the sea

BLACK
The lies
The lies of him
The lies of you
The lies of us
You left me all alone
Weeping unforgivable lies

The white memories are full of color
Full of emotion
A colored heart that bleeds of rainbows
Sits on the table
By the candle that frowns while I leave
It has grown fragle
Just...like... me

When will that candle fall
And burn my house down?

I long for your cooling embrace
After the relentless flames of the world;
Give me repose, Mother Ganga, for I come to your arms as ashes.     1
Increasingly irksome was the mortal garb,
And the silken ties too tight.


The skein has unravelled,
And I am one with the sky and the stars,
Those symbols of eternity;
Have left behind mortal playmates, fickle emotions...

My pen sobs
And I lack the courage to speak the truth,
To let it know
That it has finally run dry, and I, empty.
Words fail me, like the 'Brahmastra', at vital moments.       2
Perhaps I, too, carry the curse
Of some Bhargava ?       *2