How do you know you’re living your best life, when at your best you still feel hollow?
What am I supposed to be doing, when Doing is the antagonist of my Being?
Who am I supposed to BE,
when what I DO is more important than who I AM?
How can I tell you the way I really feel, when words are so clumsy and shallow?
Why do the clouds' imperfections astound you, but my own make me worthless?
If I died and came back as you, could I look myself in the mirror?
If you died and came back as me, would you have the strength to go through what you put me through?
If life is a game, I’m not having much fun at all.
If death is a maze, I hope to always be lost.

It was raining hard and patient
The doorknob clicked
The room was lit up
But it was heavy inside
The heaviness was surly
She heaved a sigh
With her light footsteps
She crossed the room
Her charcoal dark hair
Like waves of the ocean;
Dropped down through her frame
Her tired doe brown eyes
Covered by her curly lashes
Wandered through the windows
Her calloused fragile hands
Cold as ice and snow
Traced the windowsill
Clasped them in her heart
She was lonely
Alone in her midst
Alone in her pain
Alone in her memories.

It strikes -- the scorching sun.
Her hair is messed up in a bun.
The habit. The veil. It was a chain.
She walked passed--
Dashed on the abbey,
Where she belonged.
Down past the silent corners.
Deep inside the high-unending walls.
The deafening silence,
The mute languages.
Secrets. Enigmas. Paradigms.
Hides the very thoughts of her shadows.
Her history,
Her memory,
Her identity.
Alas! Her name will forever be a mystery.
Buried secretly in a discreet grave--
Wasted. Rotting.
Concealed by the glowing epitaph.
Unsheathe--
Destroyed she will be.

Welcome to the worse
ending of our human universe,
cause this is the lamest
apocalypse.

While the world is dealing with
a covid pandemic
and corruption that is so systemic
that our president can’t even begin
to hide it,

I am keeping busy by
trying to write
brilliant rays
of inspiration into
this endless night life;
Tired of the long line
of the long blind
stumbling stupidly
far behind,
unable to find a sound mind
among their cult of greed.

My deep dark cynicism
has been building
brand new chasms
that collapse into
whispering despair voids
which need to be exercised regularly,
but all of the gyms are closed.

I know there are truths and perspectives
that sparkle under the surface,
of this world that makes me feel worthless,
things seldom seen unless the poet deems
to share their deep dark beautiful dreams.

But those were the poems I wrote
to warn of the wolves at our throat,
and now I see my lines of predictive poetry
have becomes our pathetic armageddon reality.

and the dark can be our halfway

let it be the constant place where we meet
let me wrap my arms around your delicate frail being
and mess your hair up with my fingers;

for in the dark there’s no need to hide
behind masks dearly known as our comfort zones
nor tread under cautious words

the dark provides a blanket of safety,
it knows about the blackest parts;
yours and mine and vulnerability,

in the dark you’ll find nothing but candour

the sunset can wait
-let’s hang in the dark for longer