We are the authors
       of our own pain.

And it writes verses
        that fall as raindrops.



Of our collective
             images, that collectively
   condense as life's imagery.

Our lips like sunsets
        holding on till that
last moment they set..

Releasing from the emotions,
that kept them aloft in motion
                         but as they part.

They await for when they arise,
         motions shine
                        on emotions.
                      eclipsing on another..

Poetry is a wrist,
                  weeping.

But the tears do not fall,
for the life ebbing to
                nothingness.

Its for the words elegantly woven
of life that caresses this canvass.

Purity of two shades become more
than was non-existent.
               Live and death serenade.

Till both are still, and the words
       stain the wall.
The readers mind, silent, static

These are the poetic words of life...
           For even though later washed
away,
The stain of that lingers, remains

This is our little corner of the earth
Right at the edge of the world.
Fall off,
Fall off, you tell me
There's no going back once you do.

To say that I am

Broken

Would imply that there is
Something left
To fix.

And pain is nothing really.
Nobody feels it except for you.
Therefore it can't possibly exist
Right?

I'm so confused.
There's a gun to my head
And it leaves kiss-shaped indents
And I'm bruised black and blue.

In a coma.
Or something like that.

I love you.
And honestly, I hate you.
And you're all that matters in my life,
And I don't care at all about you.

Because I don't need you.
I don't need you.

I need oxygen and hope,
And happiness, too,
That's true.

But you give me my happiness
In rations
Like it belongs to you.

And the air we share will run out
One day,
And it's hopeless.

But it's the best thing that's ever happened to me,
Discovering bedlam,
Bed land, with you.

So to Hell with it,
Say it, won't you?
That you love me too?

Because I do.

I do.

I do.

Just a little spinning oak
Leaf

Flimsy,
Born of strong roots

Destined to decay.

I wanted to be so much
More

And perhaps I will be kept pressed
In a book

In a romance novel

To mark the page.

Close to the words:

'I love
You

Dearly',

But never quite immersed.

I dwell apart by the River Qi,
Where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills.
The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees;
The river glistens through the villages.
Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets;
Hunting dogs return following their men.
When a man's at peace, what business does he have?
I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.