I am
dry, high
slowly blinking
my mouth can't fathom
this whiplash of an after taste
experienced through experience
the taste of hatred wrapped in anguish
so masterfully disguised with sly
sarcasm rippling off that side
smirk creeping on angles
in darkness ebbing
into the noth-
ing-ness
I am


*s.q.

I lay the bodies of my dreams
In the echoes of my grave
I grace their loving memories
In the hollow of my cave

I close their opaque eyes
And kiss their cold and sullen lips
And listen one more time
For a heartbeat that I might have missed

Dreams that died in the heat and fell
Like gallant warriors often do
I grieve as I cover them
My heart a sadden shade of blue

Dreams go nowhere , no heaven , nor a hell
They just die and disappear
Leaving not a trace to tell , only
Just the stain of teardrops , dried up yesteryears .

I was born a bitter man squalling from the womb
with happiness discovered spryly I assumed
from wonders
beholding innate anguish
the urge aims to **** us with
what we cannot evade
from under
neath despair's sweet, sweet blanket
I ovulate

Amidst their struggle still to gain
Their tears have sunk for the suddenly slain
Sprinkled drops of warm red rain
The edge that stirs up a vast deep pain
Though our fragile hearts break again
They lie in our thoughts like a mild wild flame
Even as they return the way they came
Our minds were the graves they've always lain

It is said that those
who have emotionally touched you
leave an everlasting imprint
on your beating heart
and shining soul
An impression of sorts
like one of a fingerprint,
the swirling patterns of their delicate fingertips
pressed against our skin
leaving a permanent mark
for everyone to see
a tattoo of beauty
or sometimes,
a scar of spiteful hatred
and sham
The imprints left on our skin
eventually travel to our hearts
recreating our character
and traveling to our souls,
shaping us anew
taking and reshaping our very beings
to become a kind angel
or a vengeful demon
refining our once innocent minds
to become something else
Fingerprints pressed to our eyes,
lips,
hands
and feet
either leaving us with good impressions
or wicked intentions
It is not for us to decide
whether those who touch us
leave fingerprints of swirling beauties
or a labyrinth of anguish
but we can decide
what we do with these unique tattoos
and what we create using
their magnificent power.

words that bleed from my pen
feel like a curse to me
the thoughts that haunt me
every second

of every minute

of every hour

of every day...

Mourn the Moon in the morning
for he had lost his night shift.
Let it be a warning
for the Sun shall rise at night.
Bright blinding darkness descend
on us, threatening to swallowing us
And every single star there is.

They'll be no wars,
just a simple surrender as
sunshine soldiers surround our souls
telling us our new roles.

What we thought we were,
we are not.
What we thought we weren't,
we are.
And if they say it,
it must be true

We act the polar opposite of ourselves
because of some solar energy,
some hot headed, gassed filled entity
has made us question our identities.

Is it our thoughts,
or actions,
that define us?
Our we confine to one,
or is the two combine?

I'm inclined to say:
I don't know.
I'm only learning how operate
in this world.

So many questions with no answers.
Just an obsession to understands
the oppression against us.

Doing so will hep us understand ourselves, right?

So send in the Sun,
mourn the Moon ,
and figure out the chaos born.
For soon it will be done with us.