I used to water my speculation,mixing it with liquid imagery..
then I'd blend it around with subtle stirrings of my thought.
Watching it change from a blank emotion, to something more.
Collecting I used my fingers clasping a way to collect a thin
film of musing swirls and then I'd gently blow..

Little shimmers would collect, floating delicately around
my head. Rainbows of perception, gently encompassing
a moment of a clear rendition. but a reflection only stains
the image held for so long till it dulls in moments before
evaporating in to tears of mist decaying into oblivion.

But then that place where my perceiving waters gently
flowed now seemed more arid than what was previously
perceived. No longer did rainbows form spherically..
No I was just a salt lake of tears, collecting white flakes
of bleached nothingness. My moment was weak, last week
I was serenading imagery now I'm just a dry lake bed.

"My words floated, but now there just dry renditions of
a drought going on in my thoughts"  

*"Were sometimes to thirsty, not realizing that we drank
to fast and the basin of our thoughts have run dry"

Push my shoulder blades together,
Force my chest open
To breathe cold, frigid air.

Remove the collar from my shirt,
Suffocating me,

Keep me on the porch tonight,
To air out uncertainties,

Have the cold air dry my stinging tears.

My body shaking from the cold,
Or maybe my lack of breath.

"Come inside now! You will freeze!"
My aunt yells to me,

But out here,
I can breathe.

Today the sun came back. No more storms. I miss the lightning we now lack.
  The desert is going to be in bloom again as the showers you shed feed the withering blooms.
The tortoise comes out, saw you early this day. Drinking the drops you laid.
The sand looks dry but only to the blind eye. As the water you shed is now hidden deep under the rock bed.
  We welcome your return. New storms that force us to learn, that life is a full circle in this harsh desert world.
For today I say farewell to the storms we had. But waiting for new ones to brighten this land.
Nashoba copyrighted 2017

The sunflower plant hung low
As if on the verge of its death
The soil was moist and raw
Yet the plants seemed, out of breath

The glow of the flowers vanished
And the green leaves wilted
Other flowers followed the same
And with this change, all silted

The sun baked the soil like a mud cake
As watered plants lose their motion
Today they seem to be sick to smile,
A greenhouse, maybe an opt solution?


©sim

I feel two lines etched on my face.

One longer than the other.

Feeling a little more colder

each time I step out.

They will lie there,

and dry there,

but never erased.

I am often told that I am lovely.
Yet, whenever I take a look at myself in the mirror,
I only see the blemishes and dark spots on my face,
the deep dark circles under my eyes,
the thick and unruly hair
and pale lips.

I would touch my skin while I watch
myself in the mirror.
I would let my fingers linger on my arms down to
my hands and feel that my rough palms are not meant to
hold anyone’s hands.
Because in the first place,
who would?
Then, I would stare at the green veins crawling like
roots at the back of my hand, feeling a little displeased.

I would dare not to show my teeth while I laugh
and would always keep it hidden behind a silver wire.
Who would even dare kiss those
lips and its cracks where tears sink through,
because isn’t it a little salty for someone to taste
such lips?
And who even want salty when the sweetness of
sugar is yearned?

Staring at the mirror I would
watch myself sip through a glass of
sweet red wine.
And who would want to taste an intoxicated being,
when sweetness only masks the bitterness of wine?

Honestly,
I think we can all agree that beauty goes way
more than skin deep.
Yet,
I only want myself naked
when it’s dark.
Without the lights.
When it’s dark.