There is a host of different men
populating this blue earth;
like piglets in a barbèd pen,
we share both our death and our birth.

Some are merely pallid ghosts
of what they once aspired to be
boarding boats on craggy coasts,
then sailing to eternity.

Some are statues carved in ice:
beauties 'til their time runs out.
Frigid, cold, they pay the price
when comes along a cruel drought.

But we - the poets - are different still.
We arm ourselves with brutal pens,
and from the crib are taught to ****:
a blank page is a thing to cleanse
with words that swarm in like a flood
with words like trails of crimson blood.

However we are oft the same
and with the years are taught a name
so that at length we all turn tame
and somewhat quench the inner Flame.

We are the captains of our lives:
Stranded ghosts in mausoleums,
Artifacts in cold museums,
Killers in a coliseum.

you're a game of "fill-in-the-blanks"
and your soul is a canvas
etched on in the manner of Dorian Gray's.

you're a prototype and an original
you are "buy now because it won't be printed again!"
but you are also a stickman made out of dough
cookie-cut so you fit into your box.

you're fast when you run
you're a storm when in love
you're a puzzle and a statement
and a Rubik's cube with 54 facets - all different colors.

but you're not a problem that needs to be solved
you're not the only solution to a problem
And sometimes you have problems
and not solutions
but that's the Struggle for you.

and you're quite small, really,
if that's what you believe.

*Not everyone can change the world; it's true.
But *someone has to do it, right?

When you feel the wall going up between you two,
Slowly at first and reaching 7 stories high,
Know that you have lost.
Know that he has lost interest and is looking elsewhere
for someone else that has smiles like sun rays and moonshine in her eyes.
Know that when you see him look at another girl the way he used to look at you, that you indeed, have lost him.
And you cannot get him back.
When others and even you, question whether they’re in a relationship,
When he stops calling you his princess and starts calling her his queen,
When he talks to her all day long about nothing and only messages you to say, “I hope everything’s okay”,
Know that he no longer cares.
That you had a special place but you lost it,
And the girl that made him feel less lonely, he now spends his nights and days with.

See, the way to see someone’s true colors is to make them wait.
To make them wait months for you to be theirs, even if it’s for your own good, just make them wait.
They will promise to wait at first and then get bored and then leave.
And when they show you their true colors, do not try to repaint them.
Do not try to hang a beautiful picture over their face,
Pack your **** up and move on.
Because you deserve better.
Because the right guy will wait years for the love of his life.
Because he won’t hold someone else’s hand to make the wait easier.
Because if he can’t wait, the gift just wasn’t for him.

mood // The Knowing

-g.e.s.

I only had one window in the world.

This window, like a scrawny kid, had been recently clobbered by the rain.

Just looking at the trickling rain made me all cold. That was when I pondered
all the things we
could have done
yesterday,
eyes closed,
lying above the sheets.

I thought about your breath close to my ear,
staccato, powerful,
like wind during a storm.
And I thought about our bodies: mine, cold; yours, burning - entwined, our bodies make a
Hurricane.
Then again, it is what it is. Your heart is cold to me; you think my heart is too feverish: you think it needs to be exiled, quarantined,
outside
underneath the rain.

ORIGINAL POEM (OR CHANCE TO ROCK OUT YOUR BEAUTEOUS FRENCH ACCENTS)

*Je n’avais qu’une fenêtre sur le monde.
Comme un gosse maigre, elle se faisait
tabasser par la pluie.
J’avais froid rien qu’en contemplant le
ruissellement. C’est alors que je pensé à toutes les choses qu’on
aurait pu faire
hier
au-dessus des draps
les yeux fermés.
J’ai pensé à ton souffle près de mon oreille,
puissant et saccadé
comme un vent de tempête.
Et j’ai pensé à nos corps: le mien froid, le tien
brûlant - entrelacés, nos corps font un
Ouragan.
Mais enfin, tant pis. Ton coeur m’est froid;
mon coeur t’est trop fiévreux: il le faut
exiler, il le faut mettre en quarantaine,
dehors,
au-dessous de la pluie.

Our love was like an autopsy:
you cut open my stiffened chest
and browsed through my anatomy
and found your image in my breast,
and found my dreamings and the rest,
and found the place where we were blessed.

My papery, vulnerable skin
once smouldered under your touch;
I was always one of those open books:
burning too often, and showing too much.