Love was the lone window lit,
in that long wintry night,
beacon light of his winding path,
the lips that softly whispered and
evoked dreams, that'd become real,
for his wonderment, later, much later.

When he slipped and fell in to
the deep pit of long, endless silence,
love was his ladder to climb
to the rainbow bridge of hope
she used to frequent in evenings
though won't recognize him
not  once, even  for the old times' sake.

Love compelled him to compose,
soulful songs that'd stop the flow of tears,
his eyes never went dry until then
even while sleeping, his head was
on pillows of fire.

Love was the stone wall, that shielded
him from the raging fire of misery,
the rain that came down in torrents
when his long torn, desolate heart
was parched dry in cruel drought
too was love itself.

He was washed ashore alone,
when he heard the whispers,
love was speaking to his psyche
from near in a comforting tone,
then love held his hand,led him
across the marshes and swamp
sharp thorns and stones wounded him
gathering nightmares chased
and haunted him.

And then, love came along, in a disguise,
but his eyes waiting for long recognized,
love, comforted, chanted potent mantras
that helped him endure pain, gave him hope.
Love was his brave charioteer, the messenger
who told that all that was thought lost
is still in his possession as light within.

She tells me,
"You're very self aware,
You know what, why and how you do things,
Yet you continue to do them."

I explain to her that I never learned how to ask for help
So I only ever knew how to look to myself for the answer
Which has led me to become pretty creative with metaphors
As well as entertaining internal monologues,
Like when I explained to her that my parents look at me
And see a knot of misfortune
Without looking at all the threads that I'm comprised of
Which led them to this conclusion of me.

She asked me if I ever thought of harming other people
To which I noted that I tend to play fruit-ninja
With peoples faces
In my head.
Though I'd never actually do anything,
Just as I'm able to keep a professional demeanor
Giving no hints to
The constant stream of expletives in my head.

She asks me why I don't feel like I have friends,
Which leads me to disclose
That I can't tell if I work too much
To spend time with friends
Or if I do it to distract from the lack of.

I laugh when I regale her
With how I recently bought a yoyo
Because it is relaxing
And makes me feel like a cool kid
That would be part of the gang in Hey Arnold,
Stating that it's been helping me with my panic attacks
By focusing on making my yoyo
Go around the world,
Pretending it was me,
Circumventing my lack of coping mechanisms.

Iliana looks at me, with her mouth slightly turned down
Attempting to keep a straight face
Though her brows still knit together in slight confusion
As she asks me how I'm able to say all of this with a smile on my face,
"Well," I state, "I don't have time to be depressed."

So I haven't had time
To read many prose and rhymes
Sneaking pretty words like drugs
From all the **** poem writing thugs
Hide up under the bar
I've only read two so far
Work is cutting in to my addiction
Reading and writing, my affliction
Maybe I can hide in the storage closet
That gives me time to write one comment
Jotting rhymes on my arm
Who said poetry didn't cause harm
Its my obsession
This is my confession
I cannot hide it anymore
I recognise I'm a poem *****
I go from one poem to another
"Feeling" them up like a lover
Then on to the next
For more word ***
Yep, I'm a ******-poemac
Addicted to poetry crack
Your pretty words are my drugs
And you **** poets are the poem writing thugs

Poetry is life in motion , a Niagara Falls of words , a super nova of emotions , cradled on the infinitesimal lines of creation .

I’m giving birth to a kaleidoscope of baby blue hopes
she’s green gelatin under me
breathing cerulean clean like a newborn baby and
she’s free


to feed from fire and ice
her fingers find distant dips deeper than webbed ligaments
dripping pearlescent beads to be placed over her beating brain
too many aged grapes
the violet light tying her tongue from spilling
secrets held together by straw ribbon


Stuffed cheeks of fluffy pink confetti cake
the shuffling of young hips
lift the veil of cream to brand my face with
your bubbling lips


O, belittling eye
Beat me blind until I shy divine
let’s live within the interior of the tattling tulips
who shush each other sweetly
Poor petals
silk with their speckled sickness it’s
sickening to beckon forgiveness


Bronze with wooden eyes and apple cheekbones set high
she slips into the figments of my imagination’s creations of her and I
I and her humming low
damp breath decorating the faces with indigo
Her opal fingertip prints mock fossils on the window
whose fingertips once tossed rusted coins as a child
pennies from nineteen forty eight stained with wishes that
may or may not have been cast at all