when (i) became the sun
i felt the trees and rivers (run)
(along) the deepest parts of me
i sang (the) oceans roar to sleep

the (clouds) arrived to give me space
at times, the moon would take (my) place
and i would gladly let her (shine)
knowing it (never) could dim mine

no reas(on) to feel jealousy
for everything is (one) with me
i no longer (fear)ed dark at set
for my own (light) i can’t forget

my warmth (fills me) even in snow
and (when) it falls, my glimmer glows
the contrast~it’s just what (i) need
it is the (plant)er of the seeds
~to (the) f l o w e r i n g
(love inside) of me~


(i run along the clouds
my shine never on one fear
light fills me when
i plant the love
inside)

—sun  stories

Contemporary words hath I evaded,
Sweared to swear thine,
Fo' the respect o' thee faded,
Throwed me, e'ry words o' fame thou lied,
Only for t'se blasphemious plight,
Curious cherishity o' mine birth hath taken,
Quiet blade o' thy palm, hath rest broken,
Unrelated bloods' related as blood,
Mates, masked t'en thy hath brought me to cut,
Tranquil drops o' life, heat kisseth, fast flow'th,
Taste o' t'se machetes, my body tast'th,
Final screams 'n my mouth, silence stuff'th,
Drops o' my own blood t'en blind'th me,
Lips o' thy blade seal my n'ck with t'at kiss,
Final beats o' my heart 'n thy hand pumpeth,
Mysterious reas'n attract'th my death.

I wake hearing the
Dog scratch, but I hope its you
Turning the door ****.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU
ARE THINKING AND IT'S KILLING
ME, but I don't mind.

The morning you woke
Up and kissed me is the reas-
on I won't give up.

You make me feel like
A seventeen year old girl.
It's good to feel, though.

I'd be happy you're
Home, but instead of my fail-
ures, I think of you.

You are a vampire.
When you are near me, you drain
Me of all I am.

I wish I played an
Instrument, so I could make
You feel how I feel.

Thy rose rots, ami'st my feet an' the door,
Pleading, the fragrance its to be sucketh an' bitter wine pour,
Blisters dropp'th from thy swirlin' shore,
Boun'less pain stabbeth me more,
Thy gift'd feather, thy ink pouch, leather,
Those symphonies maketh me smile, no more,
Beneath the cores de pumping meat, I solemnly adore,
Curious stem o' rotten rose whispereth,
Thy reminiscences under my chest crawleth,
Mysterious reas'n attracteth thy death.

U.
You.
Hue.
You.
You are the reason why I can’t write anyou
it is taking me so long thinking ofyou
styles, figyoures, metaphyours,
I can’t even finis-
any sentenc-you
Stop.
You’re the reas-you
Youarethereaso-you.
****. Even if I think faster, you can still keep pace-you.
You are a mountaintop between dawn-you.
I can’t write anyou.
How you can you I you write you any you poetry you
make you art you you you-
if there’s always you slipping between my wo-you-rds and thoughts.
I can’t you
You.
You.

Now I know why poets can’t write when they are in lov-you.
You.
You.

Sorry love but how can I make you a poem when there are no words
I can think of that can describe you except …
You.
You.
*You.