When you know who you are and find out who you are not, how can you bother sleeping at night? When it holds us down and it’s done dreaming of the enslavement of billions because it has come to life inside our minds. The days’ endings are coming and seem worse with each passing slide of childhood memories and tearful age. Who you know is so tired. Each and every of the billions’ voices is stifled.

“I know my heart and I love my family. They give me joy though I watch them suffer every day. Of racial profiling, religious hate and sexism. I pray the young will be spared my fate. So I pretend not to see and enjoy all my moments with them because all I can clutch, keep my control of is now, is this very moment. Now is all I can see. No influence on my future comes from me.”


© October 27th, 2013

I’ve been torn down when lovers’
knowledge told me not to be protected from
my faithless heart frame. It tells me that
it’s not built to last and was

never true anyway.

All these times that I knew in facing the mirror
every thought turned into that light, shifting
moments to disclose the deeper meaning of
just being here. Knowing this, holding myself in an

act of reconciliation, that part of me burnt out
my soul, bound to exile, dangling from me, is my
own self esteem. /Prohibited. No one whose presence
I feel can forcefully lift it back in, this heavy it’s my burden.

Nothing but true unadulterated love can
hold me, if only for the fragment it takes to
relieve my distrust, of anything, of all that is able
to console me. Then it passes and barely leaves

me only the memory.


© April 16th, 2015

I cannot stop you from loving me but I can start hating you. That would be my last act between us, with all your voice can do to me. When mine grows hard and nothing remains other than kind cruel empty. Then I would fling myself off the edge.
I wonder sometimes what it is like to start all over again, there is little to burn before I could do it. Take that risk. Go somewhere else with no one for a family or close in heart. How quickly I would find that prolific beauty that is stranger than its own kind. - There is this obsession with kindness and the word kind, I see. - But what of that place if it were not there, nothing inside tying its meaning to material existence? Even to all the people I know my kindness grows small and I snap off anything that could take any of me with them. Steal my heart, take my love, in kind, for granted. To use it for selfish grand or minor schemes. I cannot allow. I cannot let it. I will not.

Sometimes I smile and there is laughter, I soften to a response. All that was made before is still there, before anyone knew me, and stole those bits I could have kept. I shield myself, protection in hindsight. Is it still necessary?
There are those whom I love and they are far away. Where, when they are close by or shadows across misty seas of distance. This might eventually give me shelter. Possibly.

So now I make myself to hate you. Out of protection for my soul. But I feel cold. The flame is all I have to keep me warm. So I ignite inside with fierceness. I cannot be held in, this need for freedom is stronger than anything. If to feel this faith of an illusion is to be caged within myself again.
How would it feel to know it the right way? There is still the empty, the vast and vacuumed void to deal with. I ask God if I should dive into her and discover my true core. Acid stripped, bare and bleeding out. All that is left is what existed outside of my idea of you and all those whom I liked to be like you. Objects of some kind of figmented affection: clinging on and sticky with the tears for replacement of what I once had called love. Then I would walk the long road to healing again.

So, now I hate your voice and the memory of your broken English accent. All the ones who had come before and after you. They get not the reverence I give to you. Those clear brown eyes that turned out to not care enough, to save us. Or was it me that made it so, after our forced end? Only once, you showed the daring to break from my spell. Through redacted words though, not the voice that had given a haunted home to my thoughts. But they held no defence to my pleas of anguished honesty.

Once, I will be through with you. I will have learned not to hate despite your love. That one thing which makes me feel still so course. Your silence will have sanctioned my forgiveness and argued the release of my heart. Perhaps, I could cry with someone again.

© December 31st 2012

There is a place in time one
wishes happy endings to arise, but will
not see, that it is meant to
last. I want love but don’t expect

any lasting effect. Almost always, one
falls out, though it is not impossible. I see the
faces, the eyes which show the
experiences. I see more in the soul,

I know they can tell I search.
Maybe, when I see that light, I will
be able to say, discern a path given
to last to the end. But I can’t until

I’ve searched long enough, given
enough of myself to have earned a respect
from life, the cosmos, to take away any
doubt, and let me sway to the eternity of

love. Tonight, I just want to feel thrill, behold
it how I feel it in my soul, no matter how
contrived. I see a way beyond the reflection; I look
into my eyes, see whole worlds within. I wait

till someone, finally, can see mine.


© 2004

We know which sacrifices what we believe in brings
So we will sit together amongst the trees to celebrate, the destruction and the fluster of
All this released creativity. So we know that only with standing together
We can own the future that comes to us, something we fought tooth and nail
To stand for, to gather for and burn our empires.

On the pyres of our ruined privilege we cry. Our holy times,
They have come and gone. In the emptiness we find our souls again and
Reclaim the soil that was born from all our forbearers together. And we know that
We own whatever will comes fleeting toward us.

In our clenched fists we hold hope and crush
The remains of past empires and privileges.


© 24 November 2013

You killed my heart, what did you do to me? My own skin seems someone else’s, and these eyes, they seem like strangers glaring back at me. When my nails tap the porcelain leaned against my waist they echo harshly. I feel my hair that somehow feels like straw. The long strands wire down like rope. When once I knew warmth there is only distance, not even the cold.

How long to have gone without that touch so pure. ******* to the lungs drawing in this air, my breath is taking an eternity leaving my chest. This self knows nothing of it. What has it done to me, this life of this body it longs so dearly to complete the song of her mother. I chose not to make it exist, like all the ones before them. We just are. Sometimes we take that life, this blood surging for naught, pretending it had meant nothing.
These glazed eyes, my callous soul seen too much knows too little. Oh this curse of blessed life. This blessing is cold to my nose pressed against the glass, blowing fogged stains. When will I know this comfort of loving what someone else chose to exist? I didn’t know what it took to keep inhaling, this sacred air, and these holy breaths. The decrepit guard of clergy took these words from us. Outside our choice, much like our parents, our creators, separate from our will. What are we then, but helpless children flailing in thin air?
I gave it all my being, that my teeth and tongue meant for sacrifice of sacred love that was my choice yet not a choice to want, merely whom to give it to. To give and not taking is all that is necessary for me. I never wanted to want, from him, the clear brown eyes that he hurt, though it ended up this way. Feeling hands, soft skin and the touch of warmth. Our starving bodies knew our desires.

The cold glass of this mirror, stripes and wipes on top of my reflected eyes looking back, she confronts me with my own emptiness. What was real will remain past, my distance dystopian darkened light. The porcelain gleams around my veined hands, and I had warmth dissipating to it. My lips once told long stories and cradled my voice through darkness, caressed his skin and soft hairs to sleep. But what am I now, if only I can recount these miseries? That I had not my visor on my own heart but on his bliss and pain. Who can I tell when I am alone what happiness once meant to me? How the joy comes from fleeting concerns and then leaves without a word for parting. I know they will come back to dance with me in the night kissed grass. My bare feet have taken its colour, and when they get cold the veined hands hold them in their cradling motions. The moon comes out to greet this marvellous sense of awareness and freedom until she sets before the sun again. This night air knows that I know her. When I was solitary once and knew all inches of my own heart. No one in sight, chipping away pieces with the chisel I gave him. No one knows my heart so I will teach myself yet again to see it as it is.

Me. Myself. My reflected image.

© March 31st

Maybe only slowly, can someone
come nearer, and closer, in thought,
where he might be a sliver

of painted visions on a glass
ceiling. Somehow, as thinking fades
and the colours take precedence. Blue

purple hues, taking place on the
pink of a lovely sight or thought. He felt he
needed to trample what I have come

to, shatter this illusion of a
benevolence. He cracked my gauges,
took the defenses right away. As my

last stroke failed, a broken lance of the
first. Silently he cuffed away his iciness, pursuing me
with a granite effortlessness. Then the impermeable

onyx kissed my mouth and went away.


© 2006

You are not for me; I need to let you go. Lack of means in more than one way and prior relations have us locked in our separate positions.  If only for once more I could hold you to my breast like I did that one night you called my lips cherubim red and I did not squint. You have not known how much you were the sweetest thing that happened to me in that thin sliver of time we spent together.

We cannot stay. We cannot stay like this. Sometimes the need to see you is strong but I know an impossible affair, as well as endeavour. Sweet smiles shared on the phone summarily lifted the fog on the awareness of each other’s existence. All too familiar and yet a new sound your heavily accented voice was. We had not exchanged a word in months, maybe a year even but how we seemed to breathe the same air and kissed the same thoughts during these nightly hours we spoke. Resounding in the obscure vacuum that was, though cannot be called, a relationship. For this, one needs to know the other often enough, at least in the mind. It is suspended across the space and time we live.

Soon we have the opportunity to meet by chance but if I lived only for this moment I would be wasting my time. Furthermore, I have not thought to bring you anything but myself and maybe a small reminder of the country I live in. This is a little mock bird, supposedly a sparrow shaped thing, tiny mascot to a nationalist sentiment of sports themed victories. Its tail reads two lines to my not so national anthem.

This last night our voices met it was like rekindling lost hope yet keeping it in stasis simultaneously. How brave and nervous you sounded through that landline, surging all across the way through underwater cables. And we discussed all our difficulties and doubts as though we had been long lost lovers trying to rediscover each other’s souls in spite of our absent bodies, fearful to disappoint the other from our learned perspectives and life experiences. It was not long before we declared our love in hesitantly explorative tones. You were prepared to take it back again.

I want to change we way we are to one another. But now, with time passed and these thoughts and words are reduced to mere passing sentences inside a screened window. Mostly I know of no answers but when they do come they are ever so lovely and kind. And they shout your loneliness from across the sea that divides us.

I know that you are strong, stronger than I have known you before. Though you do not realise...

So I believe this will be our road not taken, despite the one night we embarked upon it in temporary foolishness. The best mistake I could have ever made.


© June 17th 2014

I long to kiss you. On your lips, on your heart, your soul. The inside being that trembles with light and energy. Open the space like a cavity able to be entered. Upon where a 50 foot drop ensues, to show the actual depth of your being. I have been here before but I never want to leave. I can only forget, that I have ever been here.

I want to kiss you on the inside. Softness and warmness against myself. Like enduring comfort of a welcome omnipresence.

Somehow it slips away, and that is true, as well. The heart of you is so transitory that it does nothing but constantly change and move away to other places. Some dark and some light. I cannot change you to desire one special, particular or sacred place.

It is that you turn your back, your sweet closed skin and become unaware of my presence, like you have forgotten me. And so I need to dive up, back up to the surface, to simply take a surviving breath. Your liquid oxygen is unequipped with sustenance beyond your attention. The persistence of my love is drowned out by your absence of mind.

© 2008

Purple hair, purple jewellery, and clothes.
Purple everything. The cross between male
and female. Mixed in a painting *** with dried up brush.
The coloured high of the ultimate low, for me.

It has caused me to see, beyond
my own yearnings and see that of more deeply
penetrating needs. Another living in my
soul. Cruel to me. One I couldn’t have fathomed had

I not fallen, into the dark. To see, to
need the pain and crush the happy thoughts.
Crave purple things above all. Crave a taste bitter
only sleep too long can create. Any creation is

hailed, heckled as the act of treason. How dare
you feel anything constructive?! And hide in
a corner till it’s gone. Till the thoughts vapor into
thin air and nothing is left but empty blackness.

Stand up, failing at first two attempts, and gain the
strength to not be ridiculed a third. Falling forward,
hanging in mid air. The wood hits the ribs, and sharp
pain adds to the blunt. The thumping in the words,

the washing of blood in the ears. The whinnying noise, tone
of loneliness reaffirming this connection cut off
felt from birth on. Never able to join the ranks of the
careless. Whether one lives or dies. Afraid to live, stuck

behind a thick glass wall. Alienation from birth, being
addicted to the dark. With purple hue. Purple ledged
in the deep of my soul. Purgatory keeps a flame to warm my
naked arms and legs. Huddled in the moist cold of

the hidden part of the mind. The most fundamental. Foundation
to build a life upon. Not fully corroded but hole ridden and
making for a perfect tomb. When life ends and you are
left with the colour of both male and female the same. Colour

of sadness.

© 2004

She lay with her back to him, face to the wall, says: “Nothing is black and white. All shades of grey. I wanted it to be… just wish it was white.”
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.

Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.

© 2006

Jij bent een man om gekust te worden, steeds weer in mijn gedachten.
You are a man to be kissed, over and over in my thoughts.
Zoals het gezang in het zachte, een blijk is van de zachte aard van diens ziel.
Like the singing in the quiet thoughts, is proof of a gentle soul.
Soms is een taal die niet van jou is, het meest dierbare en meest gekoesterde, dat men er een teken in kan zien, een leven te beleven op afstanden verder dan tijd zelf.*
Sometimes a language that doesn’t belong to you is the most dear and most cherished, that one can take sign, to experience life in distances beyond time itself.

Someone who takes love on the inside, and is pulled
from pleasure, only to distil it in oneself. It is given that
the humour that one feels in only the thoughts, similar
to ones being, of hope, and giving of time,

and life, how can you be so careless?

To caress that face of time itself, and it takes away
from the love, and maybe one shapes these figures to see
how the plays and scene of life has, it escapes the trained
head and goes out to endless spaces.

These kisses are not meant to extract fairness and
lay a waste. Only to instil on you my vision and a way
to show gratitude to gentleness emanating from smiles, from
painted lips, pitch dark eyes and your sun crinkled skin.

Whether you’re granted a vision of this vocabulary
or are taken from its meanings. To show you my
internal love, which is beyond all material planes, and pervades
this desire to teach on a lesson learned.


© 2009

Sometimes I turn my head
showing my pain by averting my eyes. Nothing I've
done to deserve this, by how you treat

my old words becoming something static.

Many mistakes made cannot be
mended though I owe myself a smidgen
of humanity. So when these eyes crave a

golden horse for lost carriages and
then lash from dissatisfaction you can soothe
in my silence and disbelief for hole heartedness.


© April 22nd 2014

I'll be wearing a poor persons tattoo
Black and white
Of a tiger blazing through


© November 4th, 2013

Sees the
trainwreck
coming, watches
it pass

by.

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

Sadness comes with me to you, and I speak the
words in my mind as I cannot say
them to you. Even as my blue grey crosses with

your brown, the emptiness fills my subconscious, as
your unawareness of not knowing penetrates; the drowning of
show and tell suffocates, inside me. Unable I am to satiate

my colours for the map, I drew for you lays unread, in the
dark on your desk. Inside my eyes, unshed tears are
burning, for their way to come out, as it aches and takes

the fabric of skin with them to reveal a shallowed
passion. I wonder, if I should make an end to it, and once
and for all be done with this…

But the look in your eyes, however empty of
apperception pervade into intuitive truth, though deep words
are few. I had not realized, been focusing on

the wrong things all along. So I bid, expand your
vocabulary on me, I will show you the wealth of the vast
universes they can reveal. Into your world they will bleed, as I will

read your little star sign book; and with the way in
which you devour written words, open up your mind and take
mine into it. Give me a reason to look into your

unsuspecting eyes, with a sincerity that is blind.


© 2005

The diseased roots have come to
lay bare. My fear so strong, this one thing secretly
paralyzing me, feigning it be a natural
friend or even the paper on the wall, written in
reflecting ink, permeating every part of me.

When time calls out for the necessity of my
bold action, I will run out into fire for another
but for myself, I hold no peace. So how can one

come out for other beings like this? It’s no

fact of toil, the lot befallen to us, all
the weary, is love. So when these hearts have the space
to call for justice, the lone world will tremble
from our contradictory bravery, unity in the
numbers, forsaken by only the giro templates.

If only this fear knew the strength I find
in lonely places, solely accompanied by sacred whispers
of revolution. How much we want it, I hear the call
in the night across the vastness.

The uncaring trees with pleading hands
will burn black, and the little birds fly free to
where fear no longer exists.


© July 28th, 2014

Let it come, the memories, which come
up in broken waves, of times too fragile to
capture in rash stories. Moments that

fade within thoughts that try to keep
near; the image of you, words attached to
fragmentary pictures. I remember brown eyes behind

glasses, while in contemplation, and that how in
silence, one tried to examine the features on
my inside. Lying down, looking up, into dazes and

blurry reflections. Can you tell the future by the
shine in my eyes and shape of my lips? I want to know what lies
beyond your clear brown eyes, though you seem to

read like an open book, I still see pages unread, appear
unwritten in unpainted ink. Where is the earnest, how does your
mind travel through dark open spaces? Can I deepen the

effect I have on you? Make it last, and have my
self succumb to more than just your touch, which does
ripple over me like ravenous waters. I want to

swim, though formally I’m not allowed to. Would you
let me see what is beyond that horizon, when I fall off the
world, will I dive into our pages then?


© 2005

Did he take his
wrists? First the right, then
the left? Because it was

easier to make the
last incision? What made him
make this decision? Something from

inside bartered for his sanity?

Never the external influences who
keep their thoughts to
themselves. What made him

decide to take the risk? It’s never
too late to see; how lovely things
could be. When I feel the

blood that pumps through
them, I would – I could never take
my own. I feel it too painful in

thought, too precious
to be. When I rub on my wrists I
think of him. How could one try to

take his own life? I ask me.


© 2005

I am broken through the teeth
you pull, and inside my small and difficult
madness I lay turbulent, when

during the night, I’ve had my last fight
to pick, with strangers who come in
dreams and with my dignity leave just as

suddenly. And I can’t fall through
spaces and conjure up spirits when I am
with you, because oh so careful I need to be  

with you, and in front of you I don’t want
to stumble and break. You are so precious and
delicate a moment to keep behind glass

for days, before I feel the need to fracture,
to crack, you again. And here I sit, knowing this covert escape
will pass, wishing I could leave with

something that would last, but I can’t
think of anything that isn’t like the snow. So pure and
beautiful when you are there but when

we hug and you depart, I’m left feeling
wet and bare.


© 14 August 2005

Bike so hard, my heart could
break through my chest, rattling its cage
and cracking ribs, one at a time, while lunging

forward and back. My breath scraping as
though I had been born with iron lungs coughing up
the resentment of myself. Tried so

hard to make my thoughts leave

the conflict of fire combined with water.
Hissing inside my heart and head, making me feel
as though I would crash of this overpowering

emotion that consumed all the
innocence I once held. Everything that
made me real had been a farce, was

as predictable as a badly written plot.
Taking every step as outlined despite
the wind whispering a tale quite

different. I fell, while it was howling of
imminent despair during my bike ride, over a
broken promise, a not kept word. I told

myself I could have him.


© 2004

I am crashing on the plane we know
but more than love. When truth outside honesty
scorches our skin and scars them

hiding tattoos on the inside. Rings of
hearts and haloes, wings of silver lined. Devils
are toed and grinning deeply.

Rain and acid flecks, they choose whom
are beyond this clasping granular grasp, and I like
this pain which is scratching wounds into my

soul. I know
that is broken to be whole
when I pierce with my tongue holy knowledge.

© 20th April 2013

I know there is a sense of
freedom waiting for me, in the rooms
of a house yet to be mine. Striding

through this spaciousness. Even if
I am a captive in my own home I will
still know to be alive only on

the inside.

Even if there was no light, it would
be part of my being, a very essence pervaded
in truth but this, not really a knowing.

I am my heart, and in it, my soul
knows its freedom. God, how I would love to
die for what I believe in but dead is

not how they want to have me.
Left in chains and broken spirited, I was
already tried through a society in a

world seeking to weigh me down by
taking away what ties me. To my family, my
friends, my fellow human beings, and what

keeps my feet on solid grounds. What I
know transcends down into humanity, even
if actions of violent men are

void of sanity.


© October 9, 2012

Locked inside a box
that encases my heart. The
light metal shines as
she rotates to the

manner at which my
behaviour tries to dispel
reality. I need

to break free, be
loose of this jewel-
ery box prison. No precious
thoughts as I face the

responsibilities of my fu-
ture to come. What I see before
me when I imagine other

families and how they
came to be. How the world was
built in one day and how
it came to stay that way.

How continuing struggles and
offerings made it possible for me to
thrive on the backs of

those most diligent, doing what
they don’t know how not to. And here
I sit complaining about myself and
writing useless poetry.

© 2004

What I left behind was my hope
of a dying, a blindness that caused the untimely
decay and fraying of time
and the spaces which are surrounding.

Sometimes was this little smile
on lips undeserving of the words that
were never to be spoken. I have climbed onto
this hill, embracing the sun and moon, they are

part of my heart, and ever leaving me in circular
motions. I gave up my longing but all that was left,
all that lied in the well of my soul was still
rippled and mirrored.

Crystalline laughter and shared sighs, he
was gone so spritely. And there was silence in these walls.
Black on the white so lovely dark, negative sepia
ground down to skewed visions.

He had his voice and he met me over, in the
pitch blackness this release ought to have been
a make of delighted freedom. It is not my
prison now, maybe just a form of grief. Never more

would I be as lonely.


© July 24 2012

That was all that we knew to
latch onto. This certain sensation of
what we knew to do, and how we can
match a mode of discontent.

All that we knew was that the grimace
of peaces surfaced the pain of underlying greed.
Not all with the food of gratitude, none left
of who could turn themselves into a single thought.

We are broken, and through our teeth we
grab what was past and smash it into
resistance. When screams are faltering to reveal
a song of latitude, all across the world we will

fall and rise from the ashes that were thrown
to blind us. But we have the guard of protection,
from a screen of human feelings so deep it is
impossible for the ruling classes, minority of

the masses, to possess.
This war cries to jubilation, when all we know
has fallen to replace our own souls with
a being completely free in collectivity.


© 27 March 2013

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

Hardly any little
darlings come over to us. Of
having seemed to be hurt or maybe they are
dreaming of times so past

that they sound like tiny lullabies.

Have you thought of keeping
me in tight holding arms or lying right beside me
in the pain? But something that

you couldn’t come to relate. Never you’ve
been like that, how I feel that reality comes
into parts. Soft little face, huge brown eyes

uncover the surprise that eyebrows comprise.
Longing to be held so soft but never there. Beating
hand on your heart and the

Affliction of Love to us.

Sickling in the things that tie me in so many
miles closer to you. Open up your wides, pupils
dilating to take in the very first, who came this close to

melt your loving heart.


© 2006

Please be careful with me, I feel like
a fragile soul. In reveries and new music, does
the feeling flow through me like an aching
of hands growing tired. If you lift me up I

could snap in your grasp. So please, be
careful with all you do to me. In your words I see what
I think comes from me. How can you make me

feel so untired of you?

Delicately, and then you leave and make me
think of that lightness, I feel like it is fragile as the
heart that beats inside right now. Leave me alone, with the
words I have to keep you in my mind

still. And as I sit, I become aware of my
toil and spinning, don’t know what it is that holds me
in your lingering. The promise you never told
me, I don’t understand; do you want to be

with me, here and reach into me blindly whilst
sitting next to me? As I sense my fragility and the life that
comes from me, feels cold and shaking. I wanted
something to be warmed with, but the soft light you

shone only gave me a frail picture
of it.

© 2004

I am the madness I could handle, for love
is one, of which, all passions cease to dawn.
And I was more, I used to feel and know.

Laying down darkness, layers of layer upon my
left lives. Wishes outgrow this space and I was none
to be it in belting down lost cries into

the ravines of the unknown.
I held your hand but it was air, sulphur glass
breaking into shattering bits of the fine dusty

air.

There is not even a you I can talk to, all that is
remaining are my useless soundless pictures of “once you”, all
I am pleading to now. I am pleading to my empty self

if there was only a “you” once.

The gathering storm crashes on me without potency,
rushing its thick waves thundering through unhindered heavens.
My taste is that of the skeleton drinking a void carafe

of the most wondrous of wines. If all that I am
is my imagining, let my name fall mirrored into that place where
I can chase my reflection away. Let my pretty bows hang

in my hair, I will ask anyone if they look nice.


© December 3, 2012

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

A strange thought in a night which
breaks with the loneliness come forth
from togetherness, one ness. A cosmos of a

fragmentary manifestation, split into countless
mirror shards, of which one shoots through my
heart. In nocturnal days and illuminating darknesses

finally a depth was found again which
seemed so unacquired; that love could not be far
away, but here, waiting to dawn.

Hearts that steal and souls who rob, people
of their glee. In between that all sat still, an island,
by choice untouched with eager hands. For he

had not sought them out himself. But one day, with a silence
which could be so roaring and deceiving, a frail
soul, that made overtures to a burning devil was set

aflame herself. Yet, she is afraid now to be
extinguished before she could have raged. When her
eyes tell what her mouth cannot; his and that

dreadful gentle look, not knowing, and lips seeking out
a heart that bleeds. But a small tear, but one which
will pull open and gush, tears of both sadness and

joy, that a not discussed secret could stir
her, and at the same time surely could affirm, that her heart
hadn’t died down, but felt just as much as a

flower which only just bloomed.


© 2005

There is more of me that simply
cannot be touched, lips of those who have cursed
mine cannot tear away pieces to keep for
trophies.

This hand with its fingers is
not hard. She wants darkness through the
bones around which bright lights are shining.

I am home and hope, these little
words curl from the ink in her fingers.

When my eyes are closed, I am
nothing. Who can dare blaze these thoughts out
from the hollow sides, encased by barefleshed
skin, but wind?

All the little noises and the sounds, they are
like water rushing through a river of me. She stands on
edges too frightful for the fearful to bear being on.

How she longs for tilt, and jumping cords that
have a hold on the bases of her. God does not know
to let her die. Simple molecules, we all
know, nothing of material is ever lost. Only mourned, that

is the recomposition of us.


© May 21st 2013

I loved you so much, you
never knew. Some things that are
hearts inside lonely nights. So I know

you had to be alone, so I
could leave me no hope. Destroying all
my old capacities, they’d be

still guiding me. But I know that
I have to turn and fall off the cliff,
behind these clouds, cold snow in darkness.

You know I am lost, to depressed
storms below me. So when I float off
to a sun over that frozen moon, her brightness

displays all my pain.

I am lonely so I need to
be alone. I knew it more than you did.
I loved you ever more so you don’t.

You couldn’t love me.

I know.


© February 3, 2014

Sometimes it is not easy to give
up. You want to know what or
who to belong to. Darkness envelops

hidden parts to this patholigica.

If I cannot see myself, then who is
it that I am residing with? She calls to me
from behind the glass, love is my own

to behold from inside clear eyes.

What do I (want to) know? Who does she
long to be, when only half of the darkened side
decides to rush out these noises. She

watches me as she sleeps.

How can I know what this obscure
creature needs (to be)? Long hair drapes
from the edge of the violet pillow, washed black

from auburn, curls ever pointing down.

The empty is like the clear bluegreen inside
my darkness. She has her own voices, is lonely
from the silence I gave her. It is time she knew again

what their shapes sounded like.


© March 30th 2014

You know I can’t
love when you bring me to
my knees. A drop of
blood from your
hit teeth. Sorrow dipped

and sipped blue in ice.

When the past
becomes a flurry and it’s
hard to taste your sweet
thoughts merely turned
into sweat, only

to spit it out.

You took my soul and
clenched it to prove I was
wrong. Trusting and loving you
brought my knees
to the ground, and I laid

my hands on the cool soil.

How can I become one
with myself again? With tears I
let flow but myself
forgotten in the ground. Wings
above me in the air, curved through

my spine into a horned tail.
Tortured soul, I’ve known it all
along.

© 25 August 2013

Are you there to please me? In our unchangeable
goodbyes, or outside them you can’t wash away my
ache, of when I am with you or I am

without.

The smile through your shades, in the
sun, flickering to the pain of moments coming to be;
an absence of you and a guess, but only

scratching the surface of what I am
seeing is filling in my heart till its edges, yet unfulfilled; what a
certain other couldn’t do for me. Make me

stop thinking and talking, merely looking
at the bursts in your eyes, the home with you, I feel estranged and
arriving at times when you look at me, capture

my heart. Through glass of the mind and
glasses for your eyes you keep me as your arms reach
to hold onto me, cling to me. Inhaling my scent and

kissing my hair, in the intense of intently. In the

sun today, saying our repeated goodbye, the truth felt as if it
was nothing I could say, nothing you couldn’t know, yet
only the surface was scratched, but still I hope you

know I ache more before watching you leave.


2005

The roundness of my fears, the despair
caught clinging under chains, how I could seem so
singular and solitary. My watery eyes gaze
up at milky grey skies. I can't

feel the weight of my
arms anymore. The pen I hold
hangs still with no intent but to

be in place, where I can see her. The
thoughts are cradled beyond that which
I can see in this space. In exposed symmetry,
they are staring, down

at the abyss. How I could fall, with arms
open wide to death and delivery. Then I’d
not have to think of this desolation that
comes over me, so deeply. I could be at one with

my peace and my pain. Never ending ties to
the earth as the air tries to lift me. Some bizarre
moment that I could detach, and fly through these
grim skies. They are my salvation and

my jail.

© 2006

My blood creeps through my head, in reverie.
I was left unspoken to and there are things I couldn’t say,
how this was I could not talk with whom

it mattered, at least to whom I thought
it did. And purging through the sand in the hourglass, the
grains start to feel like though they roughen up

my skin, it remains untouched by you. And it bleeds
on the inside, as I have my head and heart waiting for
reply. But it won’t come. How silence can unpierce

through me like an ethereal needle cushion. Am I not worth
it, have I left your mind now more than I have before? For the
screen I look and sit, patience I am burning, like

long incense sticks, but alas, my room’s ceiling has not
the height to hold the scent imprisoned above me, and it
escapes, with light smoke spiraling down the stairwell, it

is devoid of all serenity bringing quality. Still I keep myself
clean, from the foul smell of darkness, and maintain my artificial
scent, longing to break the concentration that I need to

stay calm over this. Though in almost more time I feel it become
more useless. I am not built for the speechless weight of others; I
wish you’d just come talk to me.


© 2004

Over forgotten dreams... In which
a verdict could seem so
simple and beautiful, as the death that'd
ensue. Per guillotine, or

electricity, - merely the substance
that'd make my heart stop. A sig-
nature at the bottom of a sheet by which I
showed my keenness, for her.

On this day, that I could wish
for her wisdom, with the choice to go
or not. Therein I’d simply nothing to
lose; she couldn’t entice me. But a

hand holds onto me, so that I’ll not
become lost in the depths. And there’s the
face of the one who’s strung a cord into
my heart. In moments unprecious

to me I wished I could cut her, and so
be freed from this imprisoning pact
with this earth. To sink, and then after
the near drowning be lifted

out once more. With open eyes and mouth
the same. Rebirth through the water that kept
me confined at first. God, that there’ll be a
day that I don’t need it.

© 2006

It will not help at all, I know what I am looking for. This hand, this piece of paper to begin with. What it is, if all it is. But the core of my existence. Faltering in light and the unfocused lenses of my eyes. The wisdom to capture not the moment as the moment lost itself when beginning.

So where, where are we now if all that is lost to us comes to pass? Does it perpetuate in endless frailty, when this piece of paper is burned to shreds? Nothing exists of nothing save to fail ideas, illusions of eternity. If all that we are is an ending then that which will remain is part energy, part form. Jumping from one atom to the other. As in a dance but is not really of us only all of what makes us. Into a here, into a now.  And the illusion of time perpetually never ending is laughed away by nothing other than the true meaning of Being.

If only I would not resist.

© February 7, 2011

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

What is freedom? When we cross our
hairs with the final stages of love, do we
know what it was which made us feel at
all, as human beings.

When we take our own time and
tame these projections, that we fill into
the shines of animals, and our hearts grow
with the untainted of ties.

What is it, that makes us love at all?

When I look into her eyes, and all is known
to last days crying, shimmer joy and crafted
openings. Some time the flows come arisen on
their own, who are we to know?

Sometimes I know that only being alone is
the way of assuring I know the certain
way to love. And now this is time to see
that when I am with another, my love nor freedom

has withered with a shore line of misery.


© September 18 2013

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

© 20 December 2014

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

On my way down, crashing into the earth, the soil
feels so hard. There’s no more grace in my

form unfolding, the sun has made
me a passive fool to burn. My words
are empty, my beauty’s

fading with the light which brings out the flaws. Once, I
was at my height, I could see the way down and I

tumbled over.

I’ve no hopes
for him, for I know he
doesn’t want me. One solitary

wave doesn’t erase words unsaid. I don’t
want to care, I don’t want to feel shoved aside and

forgotten. I see how love works
and she doesn’t
bend to me. I’ve no

salvation once the expectation and perfection has
been declared. All the ride up meant is I’ll

come down again.


© September 2004

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