Sometimes you know that you
were in love, and you had to
let go. Inside a taste, or a smell, some
herb or spice inside the wood

of a joining never to have been.
Sometimes, I can only know what my
tears on the tiled floor mean, that I
don’t know, so much more than

certainly nothing. Only that

I fall, and that hurt is not to feel
anything through. Did you know, there was
emptiness locked out the doors of what
our kisses used to mean?

Silent words and my moving tongue
speaking for you. Always and endless, alone,
but no fault of your own. All that you
knew was all you could do and were able

to avail. No notion of me holding back
my self restriction and suffocating lovely dearest
aching pains. The push of that drug, rosiette goggles
creeping into every little vein, administration

rules to a ******* of theme. I stripped
away the childhood and then the future
of my illusions, staring into the blank, eyes a-wavering.
Sitting on the cold tiled floor, that I am little

more than nothing, is all I really know.


© October 25, 2012

It hurts as
much as it does not. When the
page is blank save for
these blue lines that

hold guard over this
****** piece of
paper. No beholder but myself
sees what is being

written by Man’s
hand. Or should I say a
woman’s… I touched it as
it filled my little

weary mind. Too

small to hold more
than two or three
words at one time. But I will
keep them safe on

this paper that has
lost its virginity to
their meaning. And it loves and
hates now, no more than

two or three words at a time.


© 2003

These days I lay
on the bed at night
with my eyes open and bare
to think of notions that move

me to compose resolutions
too small to recall in the morning. And
when I sit here, at
the keyboard, try to see where it

was when I was lying awake
on my bed. Not sleeping but
seeing in the dark what moved

beneath my daily routined thoughts.
Things I need to think, need to
feel when rather I’m lost in oceans of vast

possibilities. I am when I lay
there and I can think of universes where
love is not lost when she is con-
fessed and I can have what I want but I

would not lie here, then.


© 2004

I get to return to myself, a no one who did not even know what she was, whether it was constant change or stable constants. So we return to time. I have a figment in my mind of what it means to be whole though it has never been known to me.
I return to the heart that was me before I was holding onto it, trying not to lose it to the winds of people who claim themselves our masters. Far family and close friends, we all tend to play cruel games of replaying what we see.
I cannot be alone, which is to mean I am alone with myself. My nose is held in the air, insensitive to the scent of my own fear, even though it pervades, it permeates everything.
I have to relearn who I am but go deaf instead. All I know is being abandoned, first of all by me. They all merely repeated what I did.

So try now to hold onto empty air. It all falls apart though fairly quickly. My past lovers are haunting to dreams, when once kissed then speaking in minor rejections because it matters not anymore. Who I am, what I was, when I was that being of someone with them. They held my tongue and never really anything else. There is nothing to give away if I have myself not. And I tried so very hard to.

No one can really go back but we all restart again and again. This way we have no control over feelings which leave us broken down waiting for the next reboot and then resurface again, elapsing to the same old torture from before. And each time I am different for the river forgot me the moment I stepped out of her stream.

So in this vacuum what is to be known but this shape, it is all of me. Uncertain lines, constantly changing and shifting stable constants. The old voices did know even if they do not me. Regressive art is a following of reality that fades into a past, this distance not in existence.
Truth holds no choices and I seem devoid of the solution to desires. This force way too much pulling onto and imprinting it into me. I hang inside a pendulum unaware and unable of this changing which tried to **** itself by inviting others to invade her so fully.

I know, all I know, it is this: blank space. That all is really true. Nothing is ever solid.


© October 25, 2014

So now I admit defeat, when all my fantasies which turned me into a flailing solitary fanatic have turned down every reality once thought possible. Facing my own pain it’s the pages of easily written paper keeping me company. I’d like to destroy the only thing that is left of me and I never can grasp: love.

All the words in my head have ties to more things reaching beyond my brain. But all that is holding me down to the ground is what I always knew as life. The broken parts, shards of earthenware pots, and the earth that once gave birth to me. I died and part of the universe lived on. So now, this heart, which feels vacated. I feel most of all by itself.
Who do I know to be an actual true me? Is it the reflected echo of whomever sees and hears me? Who had ever loved a real me? Can they know if I don’t? I don’t know...

So I sing like the sirens that never heard their own call and knew how to fall for it. They never saw their sailors drown, so tragic to see their bodies floating in the water down the shore line. I always want the ones I can’t find. Since they can’t find me when there is nothing to be found. When do I finally leave this underwater labyrinth? To be released from my confounding prison I simply need to swim upwards but heavy water keeps me in my place.

No one has ever really known me. So I go down to my own loneliness again, once more descend, turning to the blackened sea crashing up an abandoned beach haunted by my lovers ‘corpses. No way out but up this cliff that is my treacherous heart. My siren song has led me to my own demise. It’s time to admit being shipwrecked.
My head ache turns me to broken black again, once more, hoping no more. What will take away the breathing room in this persistent solitude? It had never been so complete to let me rise from my body of memories, reborn. (Re)production lasts only if there is a past to overflow from.

As my head tears itself apart when my eyes witness loving kindness with souls bearing a sweet careless caress, it is this wait to let my long unfulfilled desires die out which is the excruciating part of my empty story. No one is ever together if they can’t be solitary, two reflections merged into one consciousness but I deny mostly myself. So ever can I let my heart break not for what I don’t have but for whom I know lies in the corner, forgotten which is me, sobbing from deep dark past secrets nobody cared to hear, from her, from someone who I had once been? I am not [me] and it takes a long time to get used to a dark with no glimmer of light. My illuminating sparks are smothered in grief.

© November 22nd 2014

Late at night, alone
with myself, crying holding
my cat.

© 20 December 2014

I feel how a deep hole falls
into me, in the core of me.
Once again.

Haven’t gotten what I wished
for anymore; how I can I blow your thoughts if
I can’t speak my mind to you? Once
I felt this but there was

something to long for, then. Now I see
nothing past the darkened glass.
As I draw words on it, I feel desire, as cold

air descends to my breath.

Softly, she whispers to me
in little sighs. The wind comforts me with her
numbing ways, toying with my hair as she
whips around my mind. I stood

up straight, here, by the water
ready to tip over and dip under but she held
me, in her incorporeal arms, tilting

me back to dry earth. With
leaves whirling all around me, mocking
like same brown colour as my hair, ****** dry of all life, as
they fall suddenly dead on the barren ground

before me. I can feel my tears fall as I
think of how once I felt, how I yearn to feel again. No hollowness
anymore, no more longing to long

what lies in the past.


© November 2004