Plant me a rose, plant it down on my skin
Dig it to my flesh, wound what make sin
Grow the thorns until it pierce my heart
Let the four chambered wall torn apart

Crimson flowers, bloom towards my skin
Turn me into something, I've never been
Watered by blood, drain the endless pain
Nourished the knife that blood stained

Flower of thorns open my beating chest
No one saw the beauty, let them see the rest
Darkened blood and the broken promises
A garden to have, to care that wishes

Grow into me garden I've always wanted
Dreams I seek and the love I've pleaded
Creep into me bouquets of flowery blood
Just this time give me what I can't have

My couch,
Is death,
And avoidance is a second language,
Ask me do I speak it?
Conjoined twins,
Of misery and manipulation,
No calls,
Only cushions and customer's custom complaints,
From tomorrow,
The phone wont ring,
So I'll stay down this road,
Listening to headlines and headlights
Sing,
Moody music dwelling,
Where the lies and shame met in between,
Cut the cue, end the scene

The stage has been rebuilt,
We talked like teenagers,
And you told me that I've changed,
But the same,
Still that same number,
No more gap,
But your smile still kills,
Pain with palendromes,
We were here before,
And so again we,
Our fighting saying goodnight,
Street lamps in different cities,
Static.

I'm just fine,
Playing my part,
My mainstream maybe different,
But
Obsession has been overcame,
By the rising tide of a smile,
If the teleprompting signs shine through,
Meanwhiles and meditations
What can I do,
Except hope I'm reading,
The
Right
Script,

The couch,
It asks,
Where have you been?
I set down another,
chip.

The curtain had risen now the play must start
Put on the stupid mask and wear your fake heart
Say all the lines clear so they must not have to hear
That all your smiles are sobs and all your laughs are tear

Give them the show, the one they always want
Your pain is amusing, entertain them with stunts
If they want you to be stabbed and cut by a sword
Close your mouth, just follow, don't say a word

For no one cares if it will cut that **** deep
After all you're just an actor forced to play the script

Bleed until I was broken

Was life still worth it?

Gone from my safe haven

Should I jump towards the pit



Shallow mind so I can't complain

Stuck in this void, in this crowd

Even I, don't know my pain

So I could not be that loud



I failed to live so must to die

Maybe I could have breathe

Put me in the coffin away to life

In that way maybe I could live

~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!

the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs

summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)

but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early

got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived