Monodies

There were songs left lost with chords
of lonely aims, of hearts unclaimed
of things like death off-beat.
like doom of keys now breaking
or doors kept sealed kept screeching.

The poem,

This heart that lost its melody
and stopped its pace but not its peace;
of caged laments, unbreathing,
self-poisoned, imprisoned
still not unhoping.

The poet,

The voice of a silent noise,
kept sealed with unheard poise
of love, kept locked, forgotten;
remembered duets, of you and I
of the beats and the claps and the vow
of a written song unsung, till now
was a beating never present;
and we are never one but two
melodious but no harmony
together, alone.

The lines,

All connected, but not you,
and I was left still singing

The love,

still not unhoping.

Fred has to be a male,
so, he must be masculine,
a muscle man, an alpha bag,
with a core made of ego.

Fred as a noun is something known,
He must be working with his hands,
not with his mind, no thinking.
He must be strong, and fit and sporty,
not a kid who is gay for not lifting
- a kid is a gay if his not sporty.

Fred is a guy so he must smoke,
adore the feeling of the coke,
Drink his beer and get a toast,
he must be **** smelling dope.

Fred is a man so he must have pride,
Never cry, never try to apologize,
and he must think he is always right;
like the way fathers, brothers,
often won an argument,
as punches and fists were persuasive.

Fred is a male so he must love women,
women as in **** ladies in bikinis,
**** ladies as in ****, making love,
so he must love ***, love as in having fun,
having fun as in playing with everyone,
and he is macho for doing that.

Fred is a name who is always feared,
of his tounge and cursing,
acting tough, controlling,
like a god, he is supreme,
his words ****** every being,
with hurt, and dissappointment.

Fred is a dude so he must be a champ,
he must be the first in every rank,
he is the strongest and toughest guy,
and he must be vain for looking tough,
looking at the mirror, self-adoring,
“Who’s the fairest of them all?”

Fred is a man, so he must always be mad,
mad as in angry, always ready to fight,
his enemies were himself if his outsmarted,
her girl if she’s disobedient,
her wife if he thinks she’s unfaithful,
the gays for they are sinners but cowardly;
and all his anger is a real strong punch,
or a slap, or a curse, or a high-sounding insult,
or the smoking of a pack of coke or puff.

Fred?
He is a guy, so he must fail to express himself.

It was all about her and I, separated
by the sheets and the **** of my ego,
and the scratch that left a scar
bleeding once again.

Tonight is a night of cold stares,
of I talking to the wall,
her eyes darting on the door,
a soul wandering what’s left to hold,
but there is none and I’m alone.

The bed is a cage for forgotten sorries,
with the pillow as the lock,
and our tears, the key
to our broken hearts,
It will flow till we regret,
what we don’t know,
Till we are united
by the fluids
of our love,
again.

Love is formed from spoken thoughts,
of disgust, or remorse,
or *** and love,
until our hearts stop beating.

There are no lights after sunsets
no small talks, no masquerades,
no wavy lights pretending,
no hazy smokes, no darkness.
everything circling reality.

with echoing laughter at night
once slaughtered sights of sleep
undressed the veil, unveiling horns
I was walking in the dark to deep
-there I lost my wings, and fell

for once, we are one in the dark
in memories too soon forgotten
no vivid sights, but echoes
to the heart or to the soul
inside our small earth, enveloping

the night, once innocent
with the dawning of every soul
once a place of redemption
now with fire burning beatings
of  hearts unwinged uncoiled.

and our laughters kept going
like a duet of curses in the air,
a song of the world, of reality
of the unweaving of the soul
once masked, now true.

There are things hidden behind walls of homes
seemingly perfect allusions- illusions for living
with peace, or pretending, just to keep ties together
-blood-drenched ribbons of red or violet for silent grievances

for souls once screaming prayers in the day for the night to stop
as nightmares keep ruining, and stabbing the trying to be healed
by illusions that people grow with love, not pain, and changed
in time, not painted, by colors of  black and white, pretending
to be good or bad like riddles, trying to get rid of the other devils

not the angels, but monsters, or the devil, or the demon in a nightmare
frightening the child inside the cage, of seemingly strong bonds of love
preventing cries to be heard, shoo to the bad spirits, shoo away the ruins!
but the cracks are still there, thrown far to be forgotten, or to believe
that demons can grow wings of angels, and break their horns in time
-for the need to keep the ribbon tied, and bleached to keep clean from stains.

but the feeble child was still there, behind the walls, weeping
a weak angel screaming curses from his heart, remembered
though I’ve grown horns and tails for breaking His laws.
now I am awakened, but the white walls are still there
and the ribbon still tied, but the stains are marred, still fresh
like the demon  still not forgotten.

To love a bird, you must let it fly,
for it belonged up in the sky,
always flying, wings flapping
always touching  heavens
but not I.

To love a bird, don’t cause its death
don’t cause it hurt or curse its birth-
wings are meant to fly,
hands are made to reach the sky
like love forever hanging.

To love a bird, just set it free,
just take a look for you to see:
a flight so beautiful without an owner,
wings of freedom, unchained forever.

To love a bird, learn to let go,
and never shed a tear or so,
birds are never caged after they’re freed,
learned to seek another single tick.

To love a bird is not to own,
to love a single day, but not the nights
to kiss a bit of heaven, but not the sprite.

Loved you in my thoughts
for there I found no rejection;
a dream surreal no pain is felt
-a dream so real that love is meant

by words savored, my thoughts
in pursed lips imagining:
we walked together,
drink our thoughts,
shared our bodies
-redemption.

Inside, our lovelocks never rust,
in dreams of bond and trust:

Beating one not two or three
no pace, no race unfelt
breathing steady, I’m  unfree
of words of love unsaid

Of illusions fooling the man
in failing search of an embrace:
no heat is felt on painted hugs,
no beat is present in your stares.

The blind, in love, will never care.

The mute, in love, still waiting.