Is a flower
folding in
on itself,
petals
swollen
with
the last mist
of morning
dew.

It is a lost doe
walking through
the back yard
nibbling
on tree bark
and disappearing
before I can find
the camera of my mind.

It is the one song
played on
repeat
so, you can feel
the beat
and barely hear
the heart
the music declares
as the lyrics
sing
my soft hearted
soul
to a state of peace.

I felt the ground beneath me,
There was nothing at all,
I had nothing,
To stop the fall.

I could hear the shrieks,
of ghosts in time past,
I wonder how long,
they will last,

I could feel the breath of a slimy creature behind,
a conjure casted cat ran through my mind,
I thought of death and how my clock winds,
but alas, death leaves my contract left unsigned,

I opened my eyes, bright sun up above,
Startled, I jolted up with a buzz, gave my body a shove,
flowers on the ground spelled out love,
heat on my face I had nothing to speak of,

I took a long walk to understand,
what I thought was in the masterplan,
I sunk my toes in the dirt to feel the land,
I realized the plan isn't about my lifespan

Hold my glass
Even if it is my third, sixth time whatever to take the mic
I feel a catharsis coming up
Why people need to take away my one and only guilty pleasure
What is wrong with reading
And writing tales in my phone?
Do you think I do not learn anything from them?
Not all writings are fruitless
I am better than people who uses chapels as an internet cafe
They scroll mindlessly in their news feeds
Pardon your brainless child, God
But I find chapels peaceful
Your presence alone sings with tranquility
And when it does, countless thoughts form in my head
I cannot sleep in day nor night as long as I do something about them
So with my fingers, I type
So with my pen, I dance
Even if I sound like a kid who rants a lot in the internet
Even if I am still immature for the matures
Even if I am still a novice to this billion-year old planet
Even if I am perturbed in whether publishing them or not
But to facticity
When I was a mere seedling
I am always obscured
I did not lend my mouth to those who are in my age and even out of age that I find low-leveled to me
I have no one to talk to but myself
At least that is what my ghost processed
I am not good at anything except for swordfighting
It helped me unleash the monsters I have been not willing to let anyone see
I am already abused for having a distorted mentality
Now I am being abused by distorted reality
Oh, am I haughty yet?
Pardon my noisy, sleepless mind
That will not let me speak out loud
If you disgrace reading, try slowly, little by little first
I am telling you, it is a nice picturesque to be in
Paint your own scenery
Contemplate the unheard
Dance with any melodies of art
Even if it is not by a stylus
So tell me, why do I deserve that preaching
When there are worse than me
Have I done something to wreck your life
Have I done a huge, lawless crime
When I am just sitting through the Holy silence with a book in my mind

My Grandma told me,
About a poem she wrote
About a sunset on the
Key West shore
Painting poems to be
Ethereal and bright,
Full of beauty and
Delight.
Which they are,
But

Here I sit,
Writing poems
About how much I'd love
To die.
Or writing poems
About what's inside my mind
Which seems to be
Terrible,
Dark and
Telling me to be
At the end of bights.
Lonely nights I've spent
Spend days travelling down
My brain to my pencil,
Tracing backwards
Symbols to conform to.
Writing these words
Like child's play to
Nightmares.

So tell me,
What's the real meaning of poet?
Sunsets or an experience
Making poetry
Or poesy your only catharsis?
I think or hope it's both
But either way
Like most folks,
I still don't know what the hell
I'm talking about.

I’ve written words needed but unwanted,
As one who fights a war of last resort,
Disrespecting heartbreaks that I flaunted
While shaping memories I could distort.

Those unwanted poems that I needed,
All written in defiance of my nerve,
Every one of them should be deleted—
I still don’t know what purpose that they serve.

I cursed my hand so it would write no more,
But the words fought battles of attrition,
Oozing out as if from an open sore,
To heal the despair of my condition.

I’ve no desire to ever return to
The places my words so often bring me.
But it seems writing them I learn to
Appreciate the gift of being me.