Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?

Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?

When I was a little girl my dad assured me,
“Sticks and stones may break your bones,
but words will never hurt you.”
But he was wrong all along, because he didn’t know
You.

He didn’t know that you’d be gifted a tongue as sharp
as your mind. And how was he to know that beneath the glow of
your smile lay a row of teeth, ready to feast on my tender flesh.
Nevertheless, I’m impressed.
Because your lips, which once tenderly rested upon mine,
morphed effortlessly from a loving simper into a resentful scowl,
clinging to every syllable and vowel you
expeled.

And your eyes.

You’ve the kind that can burn holes through
my skin, capable of scalding even the toughest of souls
into recession. See,
I adored the way your eyes burned when they were
aflame for me. But today, I am meek.
My eyes struggle to met yours, for I learned that one solitary peek will
set me ablaze.

But still, I love you.

So light a match and tattoo my skin with burns,
for over the years I have grown and I have learned.
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

On a quiet night in late November
I fell in love with a sunset. I grabbed ahold and rode
him into the night, but gradually he shed his vivid garb as if
it clung too tightly to his celestial frame. It’s nothing short of a shame because
what I adored the most were the enthralling ways his hues danced
pirouettes with precision,
softly staining my skin and sinking downwards and inwards,
tinting my innards with his alluring, warm palette.

But temporary tattoos wash off with time and cold water,
and the most psychedelic of colors will one day fade to a prosaic shade of grey.

I wanted to stay

But the starless black sky that he raised before me was filled
with unknowns and I’d rather be left alone than let down,
because I am only human.
So mortal that when he abandoned his dazzlingly
colorful mirage, I sabotaged every flicker of light that I’d learned to hold on to,
heedlessly metamorphosing until his dispirited shades of blue
became one with my shades too.

But I want to thank him for letting me in.
Because before him, I never knew how a color felt
or how it tastes.
And as I chased him across the horizon,
he taught me that yellows and reds taste like eating candy for breakfast
and feel like soft skin, akin to his own.  
And when he let his blues and blacks linger on my tongue and
occupy my lungs, it felt like tumbling down the most precipitous ravine
where at the bottom, unseen, the flavor of dirt overwhelms
your palette.  Like choking
until you’ve a head bursting with fears and muddy tears in your eyes,
obstructing your view of the most beautiful sunset our Earth has seen
in it’s years of being.

Thank you for helping me see.

And I can only hope that one night when the sunset has begun to die down,
you choose to wipe the dirt from your eyes and
become the sunrise.

Because just as colors fade, with time,
mud will wash away.

Have you ever met a beautiful soul whose fate
rendered them useless
60 years too soon?
Who, like the moon, had a gravitational pull
strong enough to move mountains? With a voice
so gentle and full, that it could lull the world to sleep?

If you have, you should know
how that creeping notion grows until you’re
entrapped
in an infinite web
of why them and not me’s. No self-fabricated answers
can remedy the craving
for a finite explanation.

I yearn for an idea, though
a meaning would be preferred.
Like a dictionary definition, a simple collection of words,
to sum up
why
I’M still here.

Tonight I decided that I love the way that he looks
at me.
With eyes softer than infinite rolling clouds,
they make the finite
nature of my haphazard existence feel appreciably less
confining.

His eyes burn so brightly,
they’re so amiable. Tell him.
If only to loll in their glow
for a moment.

Uncertainty.
It latches onto my frame, suffocating me,
extinguishing the tender flicker
that I long to feed.

But he’s breathtaking.

Bathed in light, sculpted with precision.
His figure merely a vessel,
a perfect receptacle, designed
to defy the weight of the stars.

But he is not mine, and I,
not his.

Nevertheless, his lips are full bodied,
kindred to a ripe cherry wine.
The power of his smile so electrifying,
it paralyzes my soul, frozen in time.

With eyes capable of holding every star,
every solitary wonder. He is resplendent.

But nevermore, mine.

and lie down beside me.

Lay your anxious head on my chest to
cancel out the echoes
of our ugly words and absurd thoughts, just

Breathe.

For now we’re distraught.

But remember,
our distress today says nothing of yesterday,
nor which way tomorrow will steer us. Whether it be high or low,
you need to know that I’m only here because
I want to be.

Because to be here with you, and you here with me,
is to create the most beautiful storm.

A river may be shallow
     but still holds more t
                                            e
                ­                              a
                                 ­               r
                                                ­ s than the sky falls upon it,

Never collecting more than
                    what washes on the shores of
                                                       reflection.

We are motions upon a finite whisper
            that drowns out if not listened to...

I watched as those that reflected on the
darkness, thinking I was about to be
obscured within oblivion, but can you
keep a secret that no one knows?

"I was on the dark side of your dream,

Oblivion is a black hole within me...
I absorbed the light, not only that
but the obscurity of light is alive!
Within me... see my shadow in the dark places...

They thought that it was shade,
but shadows move? Have you ever noticed that?
I weave within luminosity but feed upon you
when it lingers in hibernation.

Radiance is a puppet of oblivion, we let it linger,
have its say, make it feel that there is nothing
without darkness. But have you ever suffocated
light? It’s simple, turn it off and what, oblivion.

I let it have its motions, thinking it takes a stand.
But all light fades, and then there is only me.
I'm not inanimate, I'm consciousness and I'm
looking at you in the light, oblivion smiles.....