For a brief moment,
I felt happy.
I laughed, I cried,
I was no longer numb.
For a brief moment,
I socialized.
I talked and chattered
like a twittering bird.
For a brief moment,
I was me again.

I come from a land
far, far away
where the grass is greener
and the trees are taller
the sun rises higher.

Please forgive me
if I cannot understand
your language
or your customs,
for I am not from here
I am a foreigner.

You told me
you would never forget
as you took the train
and you left,
but you forgot
that promise too,
not a lot
but still untrue.

A penny or coin
of copper, silver or gold
flipped into a fountain
with the promise of a granted wish,
a claim of the impossible.
And yet,
we sacrifice our currency
to pray for what we do not have
in hope that the fountain
will shower us with our desires.

Angel kisses caress your skin,
Orion's Belt on your shoulder,
Pavo above your navel,
Columba upon your face.

Angel kisses caress your skin,
as do constellations.

Were we ever free,
with the boats carrying us unwillingly
over the sea?

Were we ever free,
whips splintering our backs,
slashed like cutting boards?

Were we ever free,
working until our knees gave out
for the fear of being punished by aristocracy?

Were we ever free,
knowing or not that we'd lose our children
to the hands of greedy men?

Were we ever free,
crying our eyes out, holding the hand of a corpse
asking it to speak?

Were we ever free,
will we ever be?

I'm not allowed to love you,
but that's alright,
because if I can be your friend,
I may still enjoy your presence.

If you remove a silver sterling blade
from a sheath of thick leather,
you either make an oath
or make a killing.

When I met you,
you had plunged your velvet fist
deep enough to reach my heart
that was frozen over, ever so cold.
You squeezed it tight and the sensation
oh you ripping it out
was painful at first,
but you proved to be
the one who could thaw my freezing heart
and bring me joy once again.

The slurs may have been passed about
so easily from a pair of malicious lips
to another, but ours did not quiver.

She loved me,
and we had so much in common
because we loved what we were;
girls.

If a bayonet of a musket shall pierce your skin
and you fall among the wounded, lie peacefully;
if eternal slumber is now your Fate, so be it-
they may have told me, maybe not;
it was you with infallible memory, not I-
sleep among virginal blood spilt
as a war of man versus man continues.

the wind blows grains of sand
hopping from the shore
before the waves swallow them whole
and the sea steals their souls.

I know loss,
and at first it's heartbreaking,
but once your grief has diminished,
you'll realize it was the best thing
for you.

Evoke the reflection, see only candor, you seldom cry- have you no shame?
I cannot console you as you engage in this feud- the mirth of your eyes clouded with smoke, can you see? But of course not!
You move, languid, with the wine in your skull- where is your chariot, maiden? Where is your shame?
Have you none? But of course not!
You shan't walk free, for you have succumbed so easily- and with what risk? Was it worth it? But of course not!
Gold embroidered in the finest silk caresses your *****, a veil hides your tears- but alas, your soul is raw and ragged- why has thee left it loft in the sea?
The vernal land smells of petrichor- the stream runs eager! Where have you gone, what have you done? Have you run, one of seven brides to be wed? Have you no shame? But of course not!
Shall we await your return? But of course not!

"I will give you a choice, heads or tails?

I wonder why, at my death row, I pick the side of a coin?

"Tails."

The coin flips with the flick of the executioner's thumb and it flies through the air, an inexplicable suspense.

"It has landed on heads. Instead of a flogging with the Cat o'nine Tails, you shall receive a beheading."

I sigh, but this was inevitable. With my wrists burning from rope, I lay my head into the guillotine.

Thee is so deeply versed in the art;
bind my wounds, eliminate my chagrin
with your practiced eyes,
calloused hands- do me this favour,
if you please;
I am afraid I cannot offer you fame and riches,
but I can offer thee my generosity;
I shall bring you rye when you so desire
and bring sinew for you clothes;
thread my wound with the needle cleansed by wine,
thank you,
I am in your debt.

Do not cry,
child,
for someone
who will not cry rivers,
lakes,
oceans
for you.

A temporary print on my skin,
no particular meaning,
but beautiful nevertheless.

You came swooping down
like a blue-winged heron
almost as fast as you came.

I stop for water at the sight of the creek;
it is night, she had bid me goodnight
and in turn I made an oath,
I shall return- wisps of light
from fireflies, they cannot compare
to the white effulgence
of the man in the moon.

The man who wore the dashing tailcoat and brass monacle
was always fascinated by how everything is hidden.
He was considered isolated, introverted, perhaps even rude,
but in actuality, he hid from things hidden.
The sheer silk pillowcase on one’s pillow, which hid the feathers of pheasant.
The crimson carpet, which hid the cold floor,
which hid the Earth beneath it.
The clothing on the backs of every human being,
no matter satin, cotton or twine,
it hid one’s skin, thus their vulnerability, from the world.
Alas, as the dashing man sighed,
he could no longer investigate his fascination.
For he knew, under the fabric, whether the finest silk or derived from poverty,
hid skin.
And skin, it covers up the hideous, unspeakable secrets that no one should know.

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

you're sweet,
your soul dented
with every cruel poke
to your heart.
Yet, you remain so,
very so sweet.
Sort of like
honeycomb.

You really gave me hope,
just a glimpse,
but then I opened my eyes
and realized it was lies.

The men leave nigh nine,
after sunset brings prism light onto the raindrops,
now dewdrops,
from last night.

The furious wind
screams, it howls
in unison
with the wolf.

Hum a song like a bee,
no matter what they say.

human beings,
peculiar, are they not?
They worship fighting and violence
over nurturing and care.
The critisize unnecessarily,
and it all stems from insecurities
that come from others.
It's an endless, revolting cycle.

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.

Rules are only made to be broken
if they are set upon you
by a hypocrite.

I don't want to be the one to say it,
but I can't help but be angry;
I am to do what I am expected to do,
and yet
everyone else's errands are so minimal.
I can't help but be disappointed;
when you don't think of how
you not doing something
could be consequential for me.
I can't help but be frustrated;
that you keep saying you will make a change
but another day goes by,
and you still haven't done anything.

You never know when you might lose something.
A bracelet, a bill, a pencil that you chewed nervously.
But sometimes, you lose a person;

I was in a classroom,
with great big tables
and walls that echoed the teenage chatter
of my class.

My love, he sat beside me.
My friends, a tad bit too loud
laughed behind us.
A modest couple
chuckle in the back.

A brilliant, clever man
with cunning yet tired eyes
look at me happily, solemnly.

A smile was traced
by his beard laced with silver
and his accent inquired professionally.

I remember how much fun he had,
how he filled the void in my soul,
how he shared his stories and wisdom.

I lost him; I miss him.

You will only accept my words
if I am on my knees, inferior,
while you stand on your feet, superior,
looking down upon me.

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?

Insatiable is your thirst,
it cannot be quenched, no sir!
You are so avid, your zeal is,
with all candor and honest amity,
exhausting.

the extraordinary sensation
of my heart beating far too quickly to be comfortable in my idle body
is a pain that even i, a poet,
may find a hard time describing.
think of it as your body hosting the end of the world.

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.

O, golden chariot!
Look upon the geldings,
hear the locusts chirp in late evening;
O, golden chariot,
take me away!

O, how cynical- trust is not an admirable virtue, not to you; trust is found on the opposing side, that of the adversary- the lascivious mind of humanity, what morals are held?

I ask too many questions, but answers, none to spare! I am left bereft, wondering! But I remain alone, cloaked- I cannot be hurt!

But of course, I needn't be invincible- I need only a watch; the abstraction of time cannot be comprehended, the rippling incoherent- where shall I go now?

Heavy smoke hangs in the air,
lazily,
it's the smell of patchouli, right?

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.

Isn't it?
I mean,
there's not much we can do now,
but that's alright.
We will still
survive,
we'll remain
alive.

Your hand comes to caress my cheek,
to cradle my face,
but when I show doubt laced within my smile,
your hand returns to the blade in your sheath;

Oh, well, life is such.

It's raining,
it's pouring,
no one is mourning.

It's raining,
it's pouring,
you're finally done dying.

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