On days that
I have a
difficult time
writing, I let
my mind wander
to another
place and scene.

Today
I imagine a
musty attic.
It smells like
mothballs and
old perfume.

I stumble upon
an old trunk.
And when I look
inside
I find hundreds
of my poems that
I wrote and
forgot about.
I thumb through
the brittle pages,
and read.

"Hey, not bad.
This one is pretty
good.
Hey, here's one with
multiple layers.
Writing as a
metaphor for
******."

This silly exercise of
mine just netted me
this poem.
Wanderlust of the
mind promotes
creativity.
Now I can nap,
after I ***
of course.

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

Scents of satsuma and cinnamon
bottled up into reminders of the little things
this blurred motion has created a mirage
of incomprehensible reasons
to forget our love for patience
from strings of silver threads
and sentimental alliances
woven into patterns of picture frames
completely blurred, alive in motion
together, a collage of all the times
stillness couldn't find its breath
and laughter took us by the shoulders
shaking and shaking
till we fell into a rhythm of remembrance
with all the little things
bottled up in an illusion of permanence

Again, you tear at the same movie scene, shining your soul

Again, you hark to the same song to listen to your soul

Again, you read the same poem, to quote yourself

Again, you resonate with the same idea, to ascertain yourself

Again, you grow within to come back to your core

Do you see a pattern, do you see the motif,

We are pieces of art and not just an inept mind.

Nothing comes to mind, each stroke and word aches inside me.

A fleeting thought coming up dry in my throat.

My temple, empty and abandoned.

Only traces of wine left, They have forsaken me.

They have cursed me, ripping out what made me alive.

I no longer hear the future only sinister laughter

Under the altar is a reminder of what could’ve been.

They think I am underserving.

They know I would rather die than be nothing.

Why make me believe it?
-Persephone

As a song without words-
Shall I sing, forevermore?
These shapeless chords
That give way to convey
Statement, free from form.
Much the same as one who
Must scream, yet is unable?

The moon hums in a new style
Ah, pretty little beauty spot, opens a slice of sky
On the door of tomorrow in the serene shadow of night
Keeping the ears down, alleyways of stars lie down.
The sea too rolls out high waves of rhymes
Only then will the veiled mystic night  
Opens once a kohl-dark, enigmatic eye
On the door of tomorrow deep down the night.

Art is a creature—built

from bones of failure, tied

with tendons of tireless days, wrapped

by fiber upon fiber of hopeful nights, filled

with blood of laughter and despair, pumped

by a heart in a beloved cage, neglected

at the behest of a brain—crawling

through a maze, trying

to stumble and walk

and run and jump

and fly and

land

I’m made out of colors
Colored outside of the lines.
You say I’m a masterpiece
But I’m so unfinished.
So full of empty spaces.
But maybe
One day I won’t be.