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I knew the world
The world that I knew
Kept me spinning
On its axis
Still my feet firmly planted
Scented flowers, whirled down
Free, fresh off the tree
They fell on the lawn
Did they know, the cycle of renewals
Further they flew, blown away by the wind
Each spinning like a pinwheel
The paper flowers
Planted on the railings
Colours abloom
begin the
first day
new year
with
thumb and forefinger,
tracing in no organized
specific pattern upon
her arm’s smooth skin,
just a sliding meandering

she grabs the intruders
for a squeezing acknowledgment,
unnecessary, for the sensation
sensual is shared equally,
soft, of course, but so far beyond,
there are elements that lie beneath
that requires mining deep within
yourself, contrasting currents that
soothe the heart and yet, electrify,
simultaneous, a concerto for
piano and violin

this delightful touching is the stuff
of poetry, a wish, a commandment,
for long after after the first day of
the unknowns of the measuring stick,
a ruler with 365 ticks to check the
day’s of time concludes, the touch
will be
implanted on thumb & forefinger’s
cellular memory, and be carried on,
reusable, recycled, even biodegradable!

but then heart hears a lyric,
she is living proof
and now!
happily concluded,
is a poem that is gifted
a title, entitled, certified,
and recorded for

*every ordinary moment
when memory is required,
and the thumb and the forefinger
can be diverted to write this all down
for the day when a memory fades,
and the skin is eroded!
1~1~25
Through poetry, I found my voice.
Lost, long ago, shame gave me no choice.
I used to speak in front of hundreds,
thousands even,
and now I don't speak, I listen;
to the ballads;
to the tunes of the heart; the words we don't say.
The beats are the words I wished were okay.
But, by not talking, I had come out of sync
with who I became, needing to re-ink
Become proud even, to reclaim.
My voice sounds different now, softer and older, but the essence is still the same.
A little tattered
Broken

A little shaken
Shattered

A little scattered
Rattled  

A little fixed
Mended

A little patched
Stitched

With gum and glue
Old and new
Needles and pins
Tonic and gin

Up and down
Round and round  

I soared
I dived
I survived

With hope
Though a little weary
With a smile
though part numb —
I wait
wondering what’s to come
The world seems so much bigger without you in the frame. But when I was in your arms, the world felt small, and you were my entire landscape. You were the entire book—the muse of my desires. Yet, when I shut my eyes and picture you in front of me, why can’t I recall what you looked like? It’s as if you never existed after all.  

Your face keeps slipping away whenever I try to grasp the lover I once dreamt of—etched between death and indifference of innocence. You were once my favorite lullaby, but now it’s all disarrayed, never meant to be touched again.  

Your eyes, a saturated warm hue of the earth—where an old house resides deep within—mapped all over the floor, etched in your skin.  

As I close the gap in my eyes, I travel wordlessly from behind your ears until I reach my favorite destination—the soft, gentle place I once traveled upon in silence. As I close the space between the otherworldly, your lips, a faith I’d carry forever, hold a warmth I will bear to my grave.  

The map will lead me to you. Let me explore the intricacies of each story etched in your skin—from small shadows quietly placed across your body to the muted, tiny traces of constellations.  

And the way the wind reveres every strand of your hair, dancing flawlessly in the whisk of dawn; your eyes embrace a dark, long, fiery gaze.  

Scrutinizing my already flawed hands—I reached for the stars, and you left me with nothing but the wonders of the world,  
etched just seamlessly in your skin.  

The earth once revered your name. I once kissed the ground that birthed you, yet when I try to remember, all that remains is the ghost that haunts my fragile heart—leaving me nothing but estrangement. Etched deep in my skin. Burning holes within as I keep on remembering,
to remember,
to remember.
this poem is supposed to be disjointed, disconnected, and messy. it wasn’t written to be understood, to be criticized. it was meant to be felt. how longing can destroy one’s point of view. how remembering is supposed to be heard, not read in a structural way.

guess this month, I’m feeling unmoored.

songs you can listen to while you read this piece:
my tears ricochet - taylor swift
about you - the 1975
do what makes you happy
and the rest be ******

forget the critics
the naysayers
the reviews

forget those who pounce
at first glance with
unsolicited feedback

forget those who wait
with serrated edges
for the unveiling
of your back

forget those who lambaste
and castrate your creativity

or worse, those who
try to help you
improve it

and then there are those who
uplift and support your work

say thank you
and
forget them
too.

forget about polishing the knobs
off the editors of poesy or
the literary brotherhood
and sisterhood

forget about your friends,
your enemies and
your audience
all together

they are a cough drop
trying to cure an illness

do it
the way it was meant to be done:
without obtrusion
without approval
without asking

don’t allow them
to cloud your mind
with judgment
of any kind

do what makes you happy
and the rest be ******.
Happy New Years Everyone!
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