Sitting here, on the floor of my room
Alone, as the night closes in all around
Thoughts often stray to the darkest places
As if one with the shadows all around

I fear, though what I fear, I also fear to say
To name that dread thing which lingers just
Beyond the borders of my sight in odd hours
When perhaps I ought to let sleep guard me

The hours keep on creeping along, like drops
Of a cosmic singing burst out across time
No hour meant for life, or death to be alone in
No better rhyme than this to put to poem then

As my breath is the one, prana,
And the life's pulse, pala,
Reaching angelic source, Sura,
So is this mind, manas,
A flowering unfoldment,
Unendingly reaching
The Eye that would it see,
Unbeckoning unto Thee.

As well, this Bodhi, a temple,
Of the four and fifth, nur,
So entered by Atma,
A Ray of Thy Sun, thus being
Winged and as such with wind,
Flying only in Dharma's dance,
Is returning to, Brahma, You.
There yet, by Thy Grace, go i.

bought a second book to write between the pages.

Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That no one else can see.

Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
I rewrite those words over again
Late at night untill I tire.

Sometimes my dust cover slips away,
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away,
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.

I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.

I bought a second book to write between the pages.

Sometimes I make corrections
On words that are only wrong to me
Sometimes I try to write the wrongs
That nobody else can see.

Sometimes I tear the pages out
And scatter them in the fire
Sometimes I try to rewrite those words
Late at night untill I tire.

Sometimes my dust cover slips away
And my hardback seen beneath.
With brused wet edges torn away
Like a wolf that shows its teeth.

I do not want the world to see
scribbles, drawn in many stages
So I bought myself a second book.
To write between the pages.

There's a spider
On the window
Above my bed
He doesn't move
And all the angels in the world
Would think this
As an excuse
To not sleep tonight
I roll over
He's not what bothers me tonight
Anxiety keeps me awake
And I wonder if
the spider's sleeping well
Or if
He's as sleepless as I?

What would it be
To live on a wall
To lurk in the corner
Of a tiled room
When I go to have a shower
Why does he run towards the water?
Do I think
his life is
As hard as the people I know?
If he's so desperate
He'll run towards flowing water
Does he want to end it too?

Breathing heavy
Bad dreams
Anxiety keeping me awake
Just to procrastinate
Waking up in the morning

Do spiders have nightmares too?

When I cannot think of what to write,

I read what you already have.

And it makes me angry,

in a helpless sort of way.

We all seem so depressing, gathered here together,

like we're kept here away from everything else.


And I listen to the old songs,

just to see if they still set my chest on fire.

Are we all stuck in a limbo between seconds, trying to move on,

or is that rude,

because it's just me?

We are forever authors till we're not.
We write every constant and every vowel, every verb and every noun, every tick and every tock.
Every moment of every day to the second.
A self published autobiographical series entitled anticipation.
Some chapters are longer than others.
Some filled with triumph and perseverance while others may be drowning in disappointment but no matter what happens we write.
Footnotes at the bottom of every page pushing into the next; formulating the action on the next page even the next chapter.
The only problem is, we don't know what we're writing. It'd be easy if our actions alone fueled every moment and decision in our lives but that's not the case. Rarely do we forge history.
For the most part, we react to it.
We can only reflect on what was written after the ink dries on the page; hoping that we live long enough to author our own endings.
Hoping that someone would read our books and see them as inspiration instead of a cautionary tale. Praying we at least get to finish.
You don't want to be the one whose....

Street lights shift in tandem,
Flickering rhythmically
Sputtering small halos of safety

Bleached, cracking pavement
devoid of fellow travelers,
and subsequent passengers

I devour dotted lines,
The speed of light
no longer constant.

I allow heavy lids to fall
without much hesitation.
Feel the road sway beneath

I above, disconnected,
yet grounded still. Oil atop water;
Disharmonious cohabitants

Consistency is lost. I pretend
time moves as I please
With or without me

I begin to count


One
Testing preservation,
Instinctual construction of survival.

Two
How long can I trust
touch to keep the course

Three
Can distance be anticipated
without visual stimuli?

Four
I feel the whir of the engine,
obediently churning

Five
hear the wind whipping
defying my wish for silence
slipping through the back window

Six
This is bliss.
I swim envisioned oblivion

Seven
I should open my eyes

Eight
Reality in motion -
time makes me queasy.

Nine
Sight returns.

I stop counting.
Safe, trundling on
I slide silently down 48.

December 12, 2016

My soul is awashed
Not by the light of the moon
*But by the darkness

A quiet night, such as this,
reminds me how to believe.

The rain taps at my window,
and I feel the Earth  b r e a t h e.