I go to public places to be alone...

I sit amongst the crowds,
listen in to their instigating alluring words,
Exhaust myself with the false pretense of social-comfort
And think about death.
As it has always been and how it will always be-
More potent than human interest, temptation, enticement or fulfillment.
In the depths of these crowds I surround myself with
The culture of the unconscious.
Nothing has ever mattered but the collected cognizance of
The fact that no human being has the internal ability to become immortal-
And nobody who belongs to the crowds worries about that. As,
To be comfortably existent means to be uninformed about your own
Insignificance.
When I am aware of my own body I am more afraid than when I am not.
I watch myself from a blackening screen,
as I destroy what I was born into until it becomes
A habit instilled within both perspectives.
I let the crowds ruin me with glances and words and drunken love
That they will not remember.
I exist as a vessel, and let the pain of my future determine the pain of
My present.
I seek to hide within the dark of a night like this that has experienced my absence and enjoyed it but,
Their glances make me feel so present...

..I can only hide within myself
by pretending that I am outside of myself..
Watching from a blackening screen...

Back when I was a kid, the stretch of empty wasteland under a cloudless sky was my entire world. The sun was always out, beating down hot on my neck, and minus the occasional break, the cars kept on coming and the people kept on going. I hadn't yet a reason to believe that the highways had an end. I figured that if I kept walking, I'd somehow make it back to where I started. I never considered the possibility that I would run out of places to search for whatever it is I was looking for. If I would have known that nothing is infinite, I might have taken the time to remember the things I thought it wouldn't matter to forget.

Sweetness be ******
I'm dancing in hell
Dipping my feet in the sea of souls
Breathing in the scent of deadly sins
Slow and tender long faded past
Slapped to the precipice with a pendulum of flesh
As the sacred dagger of life
Stabs bouts of ecstasy
To the hilt
Hammer of the Gods
And all is right in the world

///

Either if that land comes to me
or if I go to near the moon
rather, if I count the distance between the heaven and the hell
whatever you see or say
but I see and say there is a space

How long or thick I don’t know, but there is a space
where there is a vehicle or wind even empty
and the spaces, we run through air, land or the sea
if there exists any light or dark,
even I go through the time on the light speed
there I have seen a long space

Even between you and me
a little or big space
the shadow,
when I close to you
it has grown compact and even sometimes turned to dark
I can't see you
rather I see there is a space between you and me

And the star to star
sun to other stars
earth and the moon
and the moon and me
where there is a you there is at least a little space
even it dark or light
neither true nor false
either life or death
there is a space between you and me
your road to my road
your home to my home
at least a river, ocean or a wall that has created a space
your heart to my heart
your soul to my soul
there is a little space either light or dark
my love, that grew the difference between you and me
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

~Christi Michaels~12/2014~
   ☆⊙☆⊙☆⊙☆

you with an onion
in the palm of your hand
pulling back layers
seeing just who I am

removing the papery
outer shell
the flesh beneath
holding slight color tan

folding back the next
begining to understand
sweet juicy onion
cradled
in the palm of your hand

brave to peel 
the next layer
spicey as onions can be
a tear begins to form
a tear just for me

now you are intoxicated
as only an onion can do
you pull back again
translucent flesh
coming through

sweeter and sweeter
I become
as you genlty find my core
you've settled in
found your way
what a delectable
delicious score

  ☆⊙☆⊙☆⊙☆
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.

to worry is wasted, I confess I am not immune,
worry of empty board deceives me so: I see through empty cupboards
and night without anything but the bellow of my empty belly.
I see a clear view through  leaded ornamental sacred windows,
see nothing but a pulse, a beating. I hear a beat once muted.
My graciousness bows down.
I hide as does the hungry dog until the quarry is near.
I will spring one day, alight,
into my meadow and seize the cow udder and nurse my being from
vast ****** fields I feed, of words paving my path into,
where I will stand and see me now. As weak and low. See from my arising into what I dream, me, in pity as I was.
To this mount I climb, up around all obstacles. Into the meadow alone.
One great Oak standing, his limbs reaching up.

I just wanted to fill my lungs
With corrosive apathy
And feel my ribs shatter free