I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.    
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.

I remember standing at the end of the bed
Feeling safe and sound
Not a noise in the house
You pulled me in to your arms
We stood there still but strong
How did everything go so wrong

everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.

don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.

this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.

Do you like Jazz? Me neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.

You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...

A rose blooming in a summer rose bed
stops to envy you as you smell the roses.
For two beauties sit in the picture,
but neither is the rose.
The sight of you is a wonder to my eyes,
one that keeps me warm through winter days.
The grace inside you is as beauty
and beyond my words to explain.
So when I fumble my syllables,
embrace me as the rose embraces the rain.

When night falls,
The demons sing their calls,
But beware
You may be led to a ball,
Dancing, singing, and a glamorous dress,
May all lead to your distress,
As singing and dancing
Leads to wailing and screaming
The ones who called you to this ball,
Will gather around you,
Looking at you,
Appalled.
So you slunk away in your dress
Worn, and tattered by slides and steps,
Back to your room,
Move along.
Back to your room
As you cry and sob.
When you cry in bed,
Comfort starts to fill your head,
The warm sensation of blankets and pillows
Makes you sleep happily.
finally

Come and lay your body
upon my empty bed,
and pour your
scent on its sheets

Whisper of your pain
and glee to my pillow,
and leave a lock of your
red-brown hair under it

Only then will I
be able to sleep,
and my eyes will
no longer weep

I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers  
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas

My jimjams are old
And all busted up
There’s a hole in the sleeve
Where my elbow snuck

But they still fit well
Real snug as can be
Though threads from my cuffs
Do dip in my tea

But the buttons still hold
And the pocket still carries
They keeps me warm at night
When the winter tarries

So I pop on my jimjams
‘For I hop into bed
And I curl up real tight
Once my prayers are said

I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas

tedious tardy sleeps are the latest commodity
my advisor‘s eulogized,
though I have dealt with it
for as long as ever.

since I do that exceedingly well.
just once I’d wish to sink into bed,
shut my eyes for a shielded moment,
and find myself revived afterwards.

perhaps my life is
too cluttered with uncertainties,
so my bedlam body unlearned to be happy.

instead, a high demand of despondency
is expected to be appeased by
the insomniac stakeholders of my remains.