it must be in my composition
composing lines of opposition
opposing the forces of inhibition
inhibiting me, and my mission

maybe the reason for my creation
creating lines of aspiration
aspiring to give my own translation
translating thoughts into formulation

=========thesis of completion============

i was made from the pavement of places
where faces are vacant of any translation
i interlace traces of those wasted cases
as a way of portraying their lost salvation

i speak from the streets of broken pieces
where the weak sleep in the heat of depletion
i seek to find some peace in my thesis
where these creatures reek of completion

Unclasp your fingers
Your clenched fists
And know the release of
Giving in

Let him drift away
Let the ocean stand between you
As a testament
To the vast expanse
That exists there now.

Stop fighting the waves.
Stop braving the icy waters
Arm over arm
To reach him on the other side.

The water will always win.
And you never were much of a swimmer.
He's just a distant island now
Shrouded in fog
Somewhere over the horizon.

Rest now,
The fight is over.
Your mangled, frantic heart
Can slow
And begin another tempo
When it's no longer bleeding over
An unreachable coastline.

I am Persephone;
queen of the cursed and the ******,
bogged down by chains made of
greed and desperation.
My value lies on a stained mattress;
my worth measured by the broken fingernails
left on the skin of my paychecks,
fragments of myself given for an hour of their pleasure.
I know nothing but chapped lips and blissful vacancy,
outstretched hands met with violence.
I am no longer a spring flower;
wilted beyond recognition,
I am better suited for examination under glass than
I ever was for life in damp alleys.
But for all my inadequacies,
there are three things for which I'm certain:
there's a price to pay for naivety,
innocence is a lie,
and we're not all created equal.
A pretty face is worth its weight in gold;
sold to the highest bidder,
there's no room for integrity
when wolves are nipping at your heels.
hard years have taught me this:
silver spoons nourish the undeserving
and even the virtuous come with a price tag.
We are all marred by what we do to get by, and ideas mean nothing
if wrapped in the skin of a *****.
And it makes me wonder;
which one weighs more,
a pound of flesh,
or a pound of promise.

- K.M.

Light creates images for us,
the appearance of Reality.

All that we know, all that
seems so real, is playing
a part we have asked it to
play. Unmanifest Reality,
appearing as all forms,
and all phenomena.

All that we know
is a dance of shadows
playing across
the infinite
ocean of bliss,
unboundedness.