if tears where cold,
would the eyes turn blue
would they sting less
and instead taste like sugar

Would they stop when i asked them to
turn warm instead of cold on my face
calm me down instead
and massage my face

My head shouldn't have to ache
when my heart's torn with rage
and face turn into a steamy mess
when soul's a confused wreck

I'm proud of my heart.
Its been played, stabbed,
Cheated, burned, and broken,
But somehow
Still works.

I'm leaning on the curtain -
back against the wall. It's 5:33pm
And my ink is about to
                                   fall

I know I breathe the same
air. Walk the same
                                   road

I know I drink the same
water. Or sit on the
                                   bowl

I know I'm not good in expressing
my thoughts. Or even making others
Feel...

Like how agony writers
Die like a spinning wheel.

October 7, 2014

I'm the wind, raging violently but they won't hear me,
i swirl off until i fell in the arms of the sea,
with waves that moved step and swirls alike to my rage,
till it died down now the melody is calm,
                                                                        the dusk has come,
the mood is intense but my spirit it light,
I am free at last,
I'm home and my task is to sleep in peace
                                                                         while peace lasts

Don't run from me, baby
he said.
You are asking for it,
it's how I know you want it.

Beneath fragile skin,
beneath tiny bones,
there is a woman
just like any another woman

and she wants it.


F.Z.**N

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.