This smile that makes your day...
This undaunted smile that seem to say.
Show me yours too so we both could play,
On a plane where everything is fine...
Everything's okay...

This smile that reaches out to you...
With nothing but invisible arms.
Caresses your eyes and draws you in.
Entices you with the sweetest charms.

Whispers you tales of a brightly lit future;
Where we're trapped in dance with each other...
Supporting...
Leading...
Lifting and,
Seducing one another...

Let the music ring clear,.
Over the thumping of our heartbeats...
Aggressively segmenting, framing the dance into seconds that would elapse.
Like two duelists entranced into committing tender jousts and retreats.

But know that...
This smile screams only lies.
For it is but a routine mask.
So well worn and adequately rehearsed...
You'd never see the need to ask.

Instead you'd just allow yourself be taken,
To a place where the tide gently beats...
Upon the shore our two ailing hearts.
A place where earth and sky would meet.

When in fact,
It hides the turmoil and agitation.
Guarding the storm that brews incessantly.
Continuously threatening
To breach this shared sanctity with me.

A haven would've then be erected.
That very instant we allowed...
This dance of smiles
From time of first contact to the time we bowed.

This smile... Only took a second
To paint a peaceful picture upon my face.
Free from the pressures building behind my pursed lips.
Just take this smile so that in that second,
We could get lost in the promise of a heavenly place...

Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten

its the small things that
entice me to you
the way your glasses
kiss your cheekbones
the way you blush
when I cant
contain my stare
the way
your
voice is deeper than the pacific
and you are
as tall
as the leaning tower
I love how you
are scared of spiders
because I am too
I love that bone that gently emerges
when you
play violin
first chair
but that bone
entices me
almost as much as your smile
because you
fill the sum of your parts
with music

Please O' Lord
Don't let this consume me
This burning urge to do injustices
To violate her sheets
To desecrate her temple
God Almighty
What a beautiful temple you've made
Carved to perfection, it entices me
How can I resist this temptation?
She is my every craving
Tell me Dear Lord
Is it wrong for me to admire your art?
To gaze upon the bareness of her walls
Feel the thickness in her stature
And if So...
forgive me Father
For I can no longer restrain my hands
My tongue can't stay in its cage
My body can not be with out hers
She must be consumed by me
By My lust
~Corona Harris~

beauty marks and
kisses from angels
dots on white
checked every year

they made my mom sick
they burned them
cut them
froze them
they cover her more than me
like sprinkles
little moments in time
spread over her body
my fingers would trail them
feel the way they changed her skin
I loved her dark spots
until I realized they did not love her

I've grown
my skin has stretched mine
pulled my dark spots apart from where they started

If I could show you just how much I've changed
I would show you with my dark spots
I would show you how they started here
and moved
and changed
and grew
I would tell you how one dark spot has tracked my growth
it never expected to be pulled down with the years
but my growth prevailed and there it lies
miles away from it's home

I would show you the one that I touch when I am nervous
but not a bad nervous
the nervous that excites
that entices
that knows there is more to find
an adventure abroad
your love to steal
I touched this dark spot when I first saw you
I still run my finger over it
every time we meet  

I would show you the scar
where one was cut out
where my kiss from an angel
was suspected to be a kiss from cruel fate
where my Mother's sickness
shined through me
where I felt mortality for the first time
I lost my first tooth that summer day
hours before they took my first dark spot
it was as if my body knew it was time to grow up
now that I had thought of death
there was no point for baby teeth
their assessments were wrong
my dark spot was an angel's kiss
but the risk was too great
a lighter body and an aged mind moved forward
my kiss gone
my blessings gone as well

I would show you the ones that come every year
that lightly dust my nose
I would run your finger over the skin
to show you that they are as fleeting as the season
that they pop up as fast as they leave
just like you did
you left with those dark spots

I would show you the ones that make me who I am
make me who we are
the triangle on my left arm
the triangle that all the women in my family share
the women that are the strongest I know
that have their own dark spots
their own stories
such a vast valley between our lives
joined by our love
by our past
by our dark spots
all in the same shape

I would show you my fourth dark spot
I would show you the thing that I am most proud and humiliated of
the fact that I am not wholly one of them
the fact that I am my own

I would ask you to flip me over
to run your hand across my back
to clutch my ribs
to touch the dark spots I cannot see
to give you the dark spots that are for you
I would show you the dark spots that are for you when I walk away
when I lay next to you
under you
in front of you

if I could show you how much I've changed
I would show you my dark spots
the ones that belong to you
the ones that belong to the angels
the ones that belong to the cruel fate
the ones that are from my mother
I would show you the ones that bind me to the women in my family
but most of all
I would show you the ones that are just mine
that only I know
I want you to know them too

I want you to know my dark spots

You are a victim.
A victim of your vices
giving into everything that entices.
That leaves your heart
colder than ice is.
Your actions are the worst,
but I can't blame you.
You are just a victim.
A victim of the thirst.

Your flesh is weak
but you know that.
You can't help yourself
So you don't fall back.
No attention at home
Makes you feel all alone
and your soul is crying
for some contact.
So you scroll through
all of your contacts.
Wondering who just might
call you back
As your mind paces
back and forward.
The thirst begins
to call on you
and that is when
you follow through.

You have fallen.
You have fallen.
You have fallen victim.
Victim to the thirst
and with all of your worth
you have become
the worst.

The thirst of lust.
The thirst of lust
and the sin of vanity
has influenced
Your latest calamity.
That will become the cancer
that will eat away
at your very sanity.
Until all you have left
Is the thought
of your conformity
to the community
of the heartless.
Body, mind, soul,
Bound by your effects causes.

You are a victim.
A victim of your vices
giving into everything that entices.
That leaves your heart
colder than ice is.
Your actions are the worst,
but I can't blame you.
You are just a victim.
A victim of the thirst.
and with all of your worth
you have become the worst.

The darkness that consumed me made me feel like wanting
to die, even before the age of nine.
However, let's count our blessings that none of the individuals
in the house owned a nine. I find myself engulfed in these thoughts,
I make a desperate plea to hold on, just like hanging
clothes on a line.
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.

My heart remains motionless, resembling a lifeless mannequin, and if you look closely, you may witness the damages.
I cautiously open the door to my own insanity, but the idea of grappling with its dark influence feels overwhelmingly intimidating,— I can't handle this.
Fear grips me as I contemplate unveiling my eyes, for I
dread the somber reality that they will behold.
Once again, I urge my thoughts to remain steadfast, like
clothing hung on a line, as the echoes of the voices -
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.


A peculiar itch consumes my lips, almost as if I long for
the  Death's kisses. Within the depths of my depression, I struggle to maintain a sense of identity, for this overwhelming sadness has become my greatest weakness. I endeavor to traverse the arduous path of mental instability, navigating the metaphorical distance of a "crazy mile".
However, I feel invisible, unnoticed by the world as I bear witness to my own pain. The allure of escapism entices me, enticing me to run towards the temporary relief that a blade may bring,— cutting myself more this time.
Once again, I beseech my thoughts to cling tightly, like
clothes delicately draped on a line.
The voices inside my head ring relentlessly, like an
ominous chorus on this figurative suicidal line.
            1-800-273-8255
Please could you pick up, it's feeling serious this time.

Haters, haters, hiding in the closets, hiding in faeces
your putrid minds full of fears and all your weaknesses
You are not men but degenerates and cowards in excesses
but in your attempts to distract away from your deseases
Look the parents you have and you know you're like rat fleas
you lack a lot which makes you so angry and in pieces

Washing once a week on other days its wet towel on faces
smerge on stunted wieners never to be a winner at the races
You're un-cool all you do is pretend but you ain't got the aces
as charmless as chicken *** you're the left-behind in chases
Never had a true compliment because you have no graces
deep down you're a mess and petrified of background traces

You have ***** linens and bad secrets buried in bad places
you're nasty, think nasty and 've done things that debases
Always afraid you pick on your betters rocking in perfect places
full of inferiority complexes  real abilities get up your noses
You've wet your bed and at night  you knowyou're *******
playing macho when in reality you want to do men's *****

Nobody likes the faceless cowards and abject scorn they entices
partners and frenemies are there for themselves and free passes
They see through them and smell their weakness without paces
faking laughter at their hate and anger at winners they despises
Haters are sick sad losers miserable inferiors with dark devises
never happy, never content just slimy cowards in dumb disguises

Manila is beautiful at night,
Seen from overhead, high above rainclouds in the night sky
with a tantalizing view of car exhaust and the debris of broken dreams
Manila is beautiful at night.

It comes and goes like a shadow in flickering light.
At first, it hides behind wispy rain clouds, playful as a child hiding in his mother's skirt.
If you look closely, it's lights glisten-- golden and teasing
It's incessant winking, an almost promise of what's to come

From your aerial vantage point, you wonder:
"This is what it must be like to be an Angel when they fly"
Below the city, with all it's secrets, sprawls like a handful:
A rich lady's heirloom diamonds, thrown carelessly on a ***** floor.

It will somehow remind you of a creature: perhaps human, or Leviathan in it's wake
Cities, after all, are their own specie of living things

At first it is looks like a Brain, with neurons and synapses electric and active
Certain spots of the city: mall compelexes and large parking lots, like the nuclei of a brain cell
the roads that lead to and fro, the cars zipping up and down in red and yellow lines
remind you of dendrites and axons, stretching far
They communicate with each other in their own language; a code
Your imagination runs wild with untamed fantasy

On next glance, it looks like a heart.
The whole city pulses magnificently in unison it seems.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud. You feel it?
Your heart follows it's tantalizing rhythmic pattern, it's muscle beats
Though and through the city pumps it's lifeblood into each nook and cranny
Oh how it entices your passion so.

At last you seem to hear it breathing.
Listen closely and hear Manila inhale and exhale in steady tunes
Inhale, and exhale-- a silence comes over you,
And it's strangely reminiscent of amazement, excitement and bitter fear
Your ears dull and you listen to the rush of air in your lungs,
the deep drum bass of the pounding of your heart
the dizzying feeling that exists in your brain

Manila really is beautiful at night.
In the shroud of darkness, it rises from slumber;
Vivacious and lovely, it's seductive and free
Manila is lovely. Manila is a woman, as it should be.