Peter Pan,
he never could die.
He could never grow old,
yet his wisdom was bright.
He took children on a journey,
to Neverland, they say.
But where would it be, if not on a map?
Where would they go, away?
Well, you see,
it's not like the tale.
They didn't sing on a grand boat,
raising a sail.
Peter Pan would reap the souls
of late children
who died to soon.
He couldn't let them stay,
he wouldn't let them brood.
The Robin Hood
of the reapers, he was.
To bring children through the gates of the Heavens,
where they wouldn't age,
it was his only cause.

The pines stood tall on the alpines,
the snow sat heavily, splendidly,
on the prickly branches
or the top of the mountains.

Alors que le soleil,
précédemment brillant,
était à peine visible,
le crépuscule était jonché
avec des étoiles, l'obscurité
et des lucioles.

They enjoy the rebellion,
the revolution,
the adrenaline running through their veins
at the speed of light
as they embrace the burn of liquor
as it travels down their throat.

I was always so engaged,
curious to see what my fingertips could create,
what litterature my mind thought of.
I sat, brooding over the words to come.
He addressed me with a grin
and told me I needed to hide from the world
to explore my imagination.
Handing me his sweater,
I held it over my head,
writing my heart out
as my imagination soared.

You're rather agog,
enthralled, really.
Marauding youths,
they are reckless, audacious,
imprudent.
How it interests you so,
how you yearn to live like them,
I cannot comprehend what passes through your mind.
Do tell, why?

The apparent gentry
written upon their faces
by an ostrich feather quill.
Thus, not smitten,
rather inconsiderate,
they are.
So, turn,
avoid piercing eyes.

There is a fine line
between the utmost bravery
and utter stupidity.
I remain treading carefully
across that line
as though I were performing for a circus.

I'll deny it,
I really will!
Still, you can't hide me
from the adrenaline,
the thrill.

So don't even try,
you're wasting your time!
Just wait and see,
you'll understand why.

My perspective on the world,
it has become tainted
over the years.
The colours swapped places,
tricking my mind,
it seems psychosomatic.
I open my eyes,
scared of what I might see;
it's not too bad, I suppose.
My iris' are now
windows of stained glass
as I gaze upon the world.

As a poet, I can confirm,
I can assure you, we know the words.
We can shape water with our minds
and speak of what we were.
We can crystallize our wonders,
we can make them seen.
It needn't still be
no more than a dream.
This is my confession,
my work here is done.
It was once my obsession;
now it is gone.

Fields of amber grain
clash against the greying sky;
The smell of petrichor coming from the rain
makes you wonder, why?

Is there a reason you're here?
Are you, perhaps, a godsend?
It's something to fear;
When will it end?

Small and plump,
a slow bite into a fruit
that sings a song of sweet and sour
until you clash into the pit.

Tu m'as sur des cordes
qui tirent à me fendre les poignets.
Ma tête tombe mollement,
mes yeux sommeillent.
Tu bouges les ficelles,
tu fais un spectacle de moi
dans une étreinte manipulative.  
Tu me contrôles
comme une marionnette.

Every line the pencil creates,
a sharp turn or a thick stripe of lead
seeping into parchment
will create something beautiful.

The harsh bite of the Nordic winds,
how it harmonizes with the moon
to push white waves across the ocean,
it's a true wonder
how the wooden ships drift so raggedly
on sapphire waters.

The air is smokey
my eyes water,
my mouth is dry.

The air is smokey,
I find it hard to breathe,
it's too familiar,
like the symptoms of anxiety.

When you hear the word "*****",
do you think of the whistling melody of an instrument?
Or perhaps the rythm of a beating heart,
and the pattern of breathing lungs.

We may try to put water in a mold,
to shape it forever without letting it freeze.

Impossible.

It will drift quickly upon a river,
fall fast when shooting out of a faucet,
sail openly on cold metal
and sink when in contact with fabric.

Water has no form, yet it possesses one of the most
magnificent beauties of our world.

It was a falling, tingly sensation at first.
And once I opened my eyes, well,
I couldn't believe what they were showing me.

"Oh, hello! Welcome to Hell!
What's your name? Oh, there's the bell!
Tell me your sign,
and I'll tell you mine!"

"Oh, uh, Emilio," I replied, hesitant.

"As the French say,
enchanté.
Persephone is my name,
let me lead the way!"

"It's not what you think,
no fiery pits of blazing brimstone.
There's no torture, torment, and you're surely not alone!"

"Welcome to Hell,
there's plenty of pros,
just don't venture to the well,
don't touch the rose."

"You live normally,
and to Heaven you go,
just as long
as you do all your chores!"

"Oh, take the left,
this is your dorm!
Please, make yourself at home,
you have a long way to go!"

"I beckon you good luck,
come out of your shell!
As I said before,
Welcome to Hell!"

You would like me to brood
while you remain aloof,
how is this fair, I ask?
What would you like me to do?

Your voice is smooth,
an angelic rumble of laughter,
a serenade of sweet nothings.

I don't know what to call this
sensation,
your voice like running water,
it must be an aphrodisiac.

Go to sleep,
enter your world
full of dreams,
and soon you'll see
the sun rising above
the beech tree.

You can attempt to protect him,
but he simply can't be saved.
You are simply a toy,
a pawn in his game.

Tu devrais être prudent,
mais ne crains pas l'obscurité,
utilise la sagesse de tes cicatrices
pour t'aider à t’évader
la nuit.

I may be adorned with eye-catching jewels,
and yet,
I am sitting, lonesome.
A large table that takes up so much space,
and I'm here alone,
listening to derogatory terms
thrown about like
compliments.

Philophobia (n.) The fear of falling in love.

I've been hurt
by a lover
and perhaps falling in love
isn't all that matters
if that's how it ends.

But I want love,
I want to be held in my obscure moments,
may love isn't all that bad,
maybe philophobia isn't for me.

Perhaps it's
agliophobia
the fear of being hurt.

Agliophobia (n.) The fear of being hurt.

The debate of whether or not
our universe holds secrets, other dimensions,
carries on to this day.
But people can be truly oblivious, don't you think?
There's a different dimension in every word, every sonnet,
every story.
All the bookshelves collecting dust
hold thousands upon thousands
of different worlds.

I'm an amateur poet,
passing along messages of sorrow and wisdom
like a child passing notes in class.

You lie upon a surgeon's table,
where masterpieces are crafted,
where changes are made.

Your vision is blurry with tears
as the surgeon, he asks
"What shall I change for you?"
and you blink the stinging out of your eyes,
as you croak solemly,
"Everything."

Her eyes darted back and forth, from wall to wall,
in a room fogged with darkness.
Like a pendulum that wouldn’t cease to swing,
her heart beating like the ticking of a clock.
She remain idle.
Ebony skin, tainted,
by tears.
Where did this come from?
How curious, she thought.
She knew not from where the feeling stemmed,
but it lay deep within her, coursing through her veins.
Isolation.
The iris’ of her eyes, still swinging like brass pendulums,
Soon disappeared behind tired eyelids.
Drifting into sleep,
where isolation would be no more.

a stabbing
a burning bubble in your chest
your heart fell to your stomach
and your vision is blurred

t'is the sensation, the desperation, of anxiety.

A plaid scarf
wrapped tightly, suffocating me,
protecting me from the biting wind.
A silver snow whisping its way
down the road, in the trees.
I was awaiting someone.

"Jack Frost, you ought not be here."

"No need to worry, Midd Summer. My turf is yours."

"The fae will not be pleased."

A scoff that chilled,
that sent shivers down my spine
was pressed against the nape of my neck.

"That's fine, as long as you are."

Once upon an August dusk,
I relished summer as the sun set
and a crescent moon took its place.

The sky was tainted with the colours of dawn,
the sun rising slowly, but surely,
to meet with the sky of pink, orange and blue.
A breeze swept the leaves, ever verdant and green,
as the monarch butterfly
pulled the sun into the sky.

they say
  insanity is repeating the same action,
    not knowing right from wrong,
      and expecting a different outcome.

        maybe that's why I think, every night,
          that it won't be like the others,
            that my eyes will close,
              and I will be engulfed in slumber.

                 alas, it never happens,
                   no matter how many times I try.
                     am I insane, then?
                       is this a lie?

Silence is loud,
when listening to a draw of breath,
the rythm of a beating heart,
how unbearably quiet.

I pick up my mandolin,
made of fine mahogany,
and strum the eight strings.

My fingers rehearse a melody,
one that I know
better than myself.

It cures the silence,
how pleasing.

Elle avait la peau de porcelaine,
des yeux malicieux,
une sourire narquois.
La forêt verdoyante
était sa place de refuge,
où elle pourrait parler à l'homme
dans la lune
sans problème.
Au dessous de la lumière formidable
de la pleine lune,
les personnes du village l'appelaient
la dame blanche.

I'm rather agnostic,
I believe not that violence
is the essential way to win.
You're rather licentious,
no bounds, you're not grounded
and violence will be your ultimate defeat,
not your victory.
Nevertheless, you take your musket to the battlefield
while I wave my white flag with strength,
not surrender.

Il m'a écrit une lettre
pour me dire,
«tu me manques»
La lettre, remplie de chagrin,
une paradoxe de la prospérité
et l'amertume,
cela à causé de la douleur à mon âme.
Par contre, la seule chose
que j'ai vraiment remarqué,
c'était qu'il m'a appelée
«jeune libellule».

a scream as piercing
as a furious bolt of lightning
crashing violently against a peaceful midnight.
to cope with the loss
of someone who filled the empty, sorrowful void
in your soul
is abominable.

The rippling whispers,
as the water flows downstream
jumping across stones.
The sound of the river,
it told me to swim.
It hypnotized me into
numb bliss.

no means no,
not that i'm timid
or hesitant,
it simply means
I entertain no wanton.

Like a jellyfish,
you needn't attack unless preyed upon.
You are silent, yet dangerous.
A petrifying touch that everyone
seems to crave.

you kind of remind me of a turtle's shell.
you're colourful,
strong,
and you've always got my back.

I don't see why
you would choose me,
I don't know why
you're here.
No, I cannot deny,
I don't see why
so I must be lucid dreaming.

your love is rough,
like newly bought denim.
denim that fits like a glove
against my body
as it brushes roughly
against sensitive skin.

your pupils, dilated
your iris', fluorescent
full of desire and
show me how enamoured you are.