song jives with the sight
dying sun burning the edges
golden leaf eclipse
i sniff my fingertips the
stink of rusty guitar strings

if pain's a teacher
it is the most patient one
for we never learn

"Come, sit down." the healer says
as her patient gazes emptily.
Clinic was dim, table's a mess
"Here's a cup of tea."

The healer dusts her hands on her coat
stained from making medicine.
"What are you here for today?"
"Same as last time, but I have caved in."

"I know just what you need,"
the healer unsheathes a frame.
The patient woefully sighs and
sobs without a bit of shame.

"I can't look again, it reminds me of her!"
to a portrait of a mother and daughter.
"Don't worry," says the healer,
"Tomorrow, it will get better."

The clinic was her art studio;
the medicine were the paintings.
The healer was an artist—
an empath in broken things.

"Through art, dismantle your heart
embrace the facts of your pain.
The wounds of the past shall heal
and your love for life shall remain."

they don't know, nor care
they laugh over her battle
of despair and rage
of how she crawled to get to
that desk they see as her cage

...with an alluring smile
a beautiful gaze of danger
That put me at home
with a familiar stranger

...with tired old feet
back from a dim pathing
That took my own pair to walk
without the fear of not knowing

...with present ears
assuring, as if they know
That I yearn to speak my heart
though not a word ever flows

...with a bold voice
words of calmness and strife
That conclude the question
'will this be an empty life?'

...with stiff trembling shoulders
sweating to take me all in
To a delicate world
where desire is not sin

...with succulent lips
that whisper like morning rain
I know they'll teach me love
for I know the pain

...with eyes closed
in a second of eternity
As I saw her
she saw me

bleed red and freak out
on fire then burn out

to the sun, run
forget tastes of tongue
count the smallest leaves
of trees on walls bound to grow

sea waves on bottles
cast woven patterns
delayed by meaningless curing

to the moon, fly
leave the webs they spun
liberate a conscious gale
a rift in the clouds
coupled with the rains of doubt

we only reach the top speed
with our empty tanks
an ice-cold strife
of the race called Life

throw away the maps
only to wander where?
sever the threads
only to feel what?

empty homes for the find
it only becomes real
when everything else is left behind

your dark ocean eyes
surpass the depths I have known
will your tides be here?
if I ever scared your waves,
will you want to conquer fear?

is to raise a wall
back to its preexistence
to halt a
read-between-the-lines
brand of resonance;
a wall to protect
those constructed surfaces
from even being scratched.
Now, you feel
              an
                  empty sting

when your access to a
digital counterpart,
a modern-day version
of a person's cognition,
is denied.
It's as if their posts are
the only way left
where you could
actually
hear the things
that couldn't be spoken of;
where you could
feel the
immeasurable heartbeats
that could never be
projected;
  and all of these
      illusions
          make you wish
              you talked more
                  in real life.

swaying with the wind
brown arms sprout where they were cut
leaves fall but they won't
life will always try to heal
from things the roots can't speak of

if water was mood
anxiety's a quake that
brings forth tsunami

if death's an exit
it explains the red carpet
on the bathroom floor
credits written without ink
paper slipped under the door