It's late, and lost thoughts, still running,
Litter their station, these big derailed-trains,
That follow no track, but form a blank stave
To the score of night's wake, and the steady refrains
Of a maestros conduction, 'Allegro! Dawn!'

Minutes and hours pass by like still moments
my eyes still awake in their half/conscious torment
On this medium on which I scribble and write,
These words, quick to mind and quicker to leave
Before making it onto a sheet, still white.

As one becomes two and time swiftly moves,
I sit--still in waiting, attempting to soothe,
Aches of the heart and a throbbing like violence,
the remnants of day, they crash and percuss
and remind me of nights spent lost to the silence.

--

At last there is peace, a perfect refrain,
Thoughts come to a standstill, in tireless brain,
as words flow like water, a oneness with pen,
the fray has receded, and harmony found
within the last hour, I have found you -
My zen.

There are bruises on my body
Which is
Exactly
How I like it
I find solace
And comfort
In the purple
Green
And blue
There is triumph
In the knowing
That I can put up
A fight
It’s nice to have
A visual
For why
My insides throb
Even though
The throbbing places
Are nowhere near
The bruises
Even though
The visual
Looks more like
A civil war
Because while
My heart is
Bleeding
And as
My lungs
Collapse
While my brain
Implodes
My skin remains
Untouched
The picture of
Perfection
Except
Of course
Those places
Where you
Can see
A bruise

Should wedding bells chime in a dream you have, I pray the man,   miming affection     near the altar is not me. I am ragamuffin; a butcher with no cleaver     in his shadow,
instead a bouquet: Clenched in my silhouetted hand flowers turn into torch. I burn     as a filament in a bulb half-expired. I have smoked through my pocket money    in order
to scatter cremated angels from my throat.    I am cloaked by anguish      my grief    poorly sheathed   a tattered nerve. I have only learned        how to praise darkness.

Light is painful as it shimmers against frost: grass gleams in steady growth    discolored
scars healing. Here I am letting out a blood-letter addressed to you, wondering    if I send   a snip     of my own vein will it remind you how     one missing piece    from a whole            can forfeit the future. All any future is:      a motion into the next moment,  its pending indecision none can envision.      We can’t help but revise malleable pasts. Memories flux     rippling water and enough light changes it’s refraction with each new  ripple.        I cannot be a lover if love is not static    humming at least from its hymnal.  

I   write this letter in calligraphy mourning,    like most poets do – rending heart  rendering  this broken universe – with bone and feathered quill. This feather is from my wing, the pair fallible love clipped         the first chance you took to kiss my darkness.

I’m charting learning a path to winter in an opposite sky:
one only I can fly.

Have you ever wrote with a wrecked pen and shed all the smudge

Have you ever played a guitar with broken strings and bled your fingers

Have you ever tried to burn the moist leaves and got eyes insanely blind

Have you ever screamed so hard and got your throat smitten

Have you ever seen something so vicious and scarred your memory

Have you ever pondered of something so bad and lost wiring in your head

Have you ever hated someone so badly and ended up loving immensely

Have you ever been favoured by ethanol and temporarily erased her for a night

Have you ever left a flock in order to find the lost one

Have you ever let her go finally realising the sweet truth



Well!!! I have done it all to the brim and then a voice spoke deep within

The darkest nights have some stars too

There are the left,scorned and abandoned flock too

If not, the darkest night will have a shiny morning too

My maps are built
in the palms of my calloused hands
but I wouldn't know
to read them
because my eyes
have only learned to built
constellations of contorted stars.
As though blinking with a diminutive heartbeat.
The sky has a thousand hearts.
And he's almost alive,
he has known no edge to fall over,
no chasm to drown into.
And he wouldn't know when he shatters
because he's too old
to hold up on his brittle limbs.
He is beautiful,
born out of the blue every morning,
dying every night all over and
over and over.
When he's tired,
he cries and he screams
and he falls apart,
but we were taught
to call the rain nothing else than beautiful.
We were taught to draw away
from the thunderstorms and lightning,
because the sky is angry, they told us,
the sky will hurt you,
they said.
But who would know?
Who would know his agony?
Who would they ever know
how I survived this fall?

Sad eyed men, inebriated by pain, unshaven
eyes swollen, red faced, sleepless at night
loneliness perpetual  haunting them like
the ghosts of days dead, in single minded pursuit
perturbed by pains of every imaginable kind
in a devine trance one with dark frightening silence
pouring out their heart in blood dripping details,
tears mingle with words' firepower,molten lava gushes

A fiery woman, though,weak,meek and looks frail,
writes in a fierce frenzy,as if it's her life or death game
there are nail marks all over her emaciated body
as if a famished tiger has badly mauled her.
No trainer of beasts she ever was....
All the living witnesses, her suffering,festering wounds,
a derailed mind,her companion,once in insane anger gifted!

See weeping woman,men in anguish
in the fear of losing long cherished love,  
poring out the lava of fear,anguish and pain,
Wounded men and women with an orchestral precision
write seeking happiness,but in words couched in pain.
And then there is this one;eyes fixed at the  moon,
getting his fix for the day and the fuel for poetic pen!

All of them poets were in a world each of their own.
"Not sane or insane,wildly ecstatic, still in inescapable pain"
the caresses of poetry's fingers result in that,
And look those children running after butterflies!
poems, they would be thinking are colorful wings and feathers.
song,dance,mirth and celebration, alas! it isn't!

My memories deceive me, and my heart bleeds to thoughts of
      you, poisoned from the curse that runs deep within my veins.
      Do I halter and use the words that I can, to try with you,
      another chance?
    

      My memories deceive me, and my mind is headed to a paradox of
      life that doesn't bring happiness but only a subtle feeling
      of contentment. For in my memories you are with me in a
      final, never ending dance.
    

      My memories deceive me, as the bewildering cries from within
      awaken the soul that has been bound by chains created from
      the sins of my past life, and are made stronger by the sins
      of which are my own.
    

      My memories deceive me, as the rumors of your betrail fade
      into the shadows but the calling from our hearts reach into
      the light, violently, yet no sound have they shown.
    

      My memories deceive me, trying to hold them back, all that
      accomplishes is bringing you into my senses once again, but I
      go forth to a different land with what could have and should
      have been.
    

      My memories deceive me, chased by an altered state of mind
      where nothing has gone wrong, no death, no pain, just the
      feeling of contentment once again.
    

      My memories, they deceive me and everyone around me, for I do
      not see faces, only souls that fade into surroundings. A
      paralytic view is what they show, of what should have, could
      have been you and me.
    

      My memories deceive me, but could they instead be the truth
      that I have been seeking as I try hard to sink them in
      deeply...

      My memories. My memories, immortal as they come, they open my
      eyes, though they burn like facing the sun, in this time I
      have begun, to realize my memories. They do not deceive, but
      only conceive the past that I have forgotten and shields me
      from...you.