You spend your nights tossing and turning on your creaky bed
You hug your demons like a teddy bear
You try to hush your cries for sometime
But still a tear or two escape from your eyes
You attempt to think about the old happy times
But you can't evade the darkness that surrounds you
Sleep has abandoned you like your lost love
And all you do is stare at the ceiling above
You are broken tormented and terrified
In a vicious circle of emptiness and sufferings
You crave for the warmth of your lover's arms
But all you get is the coldness of your bed
For tonight, my friend let the moon be our messenger
Through it lets talk about our broken hearts, lost love and shattered dreams
Let's talk about the pain that clouds our eyes
Let's share the warm hugs of kindness
Amidst this pain, let's not forget that we are warriors
Souls who refuse to give in
We'll fight against our demons like the warriors we are
We'll rise above this world once and for all

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

The orchid is flowering
Opening,
a living mandala
Next to my bed
I hear it in my dreams
It's telling me very strange things
About the chemistry between us
And what being a flower really is
And what it really means.

There's a lot to learn.

The orchid whispers in chemical symbols

I danced through the night one night
I drank water in the desert
The sweetest taste, I've ever known
I heard a sound I've never heard before
The buzzing of Chi
Blowing in
while the curtains fluttered
In the night time wind.

Our time I know is limited
Forever wilts away

But while the orchid is flowering
That's for another day

I find myself longing for the scent of the night and at least
One more dream to go.

You don't begin with Guernica
if that's somewhere you're ever
meant to go

chubby baby hands grip the crayon
someday if you're lucky (or not)
they'll draw a thin straight line
in charcoal
just the least perceptible curve
enough to delight the eye
imperfection thrills the masses

then you paint and paint and paint
time and patience
some money
luck again, always luck

you're a master

maybe someone will recognize in your lifetime
most likely no
unless you're a tireless self-promoter

but your work
your work is sublime