It is you I envy.

You,
who holds their hand as you walk
the breakfast isle at the store.

You,
who sees their eyes crinkle up
as they laugh at something they heard
in the next room over.

You,
who walks them to their car
and kisses them goodnight.

You,
who listens to their soft breathing,
as they fall asleep in their arms.

Oh, how I envy you.

m.e.

We without wings,

On our bellies crawl,

But, you paint the sky so beautiful.

So beautiful.
                                                                ­                                  Yet, so distant.

The Holy Ones


I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting *****. I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** ****. This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of *******, and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this ****. And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear

in hell he heaves his final breath,
yet untouched by the hand of death.

flies feed fearlessly on his rotting flesh-
no hand to disturb their festive feast.

undecided, uninvited, unfulfilled… but full of contusions.
body bent, broken, and covered with burning confusion.

dreaming during day, at night he seldom rests.
in races he is last and also the least.

walking wonders welcome woe-
infallible and impeccable- past him they go.

his heart hops, skips, and flips,
but for some reason, still it beats.

when he looks in the mirror, what does he see?
he sees imperfection… he sees inadequacy.

livid, lonely, longing to kiss her lips,
solo, he sails in the salty sea of sheets.

books baffle brains, from him escapes brilliance.
fighting his fate, unarmed, outnumbered, but still resilient.

I want what you have
Which was originally mine
But I also love you
I can’t bring myself to do that

I could easily have it back
At the price of friendship
But I also love you
I can’t bring myself to do that

I let you enjoy it with me
Yet you took more than I wanted
That feeling of betrayal...
I love you but you hurt me

Is this how jealously forms?
I am never jealous.
Why am I jealous now?
Because my best friend stole my love of my life…

Without knowing it.

I envy other writers, with their uncanny ability to weave together their thoughts into beautiful stories. I have only the fleeting snippets of memories lost to time, the forgotten tales of characters who never got to be. I wonder if these authors are plagued by their fabrications, not given respite until their very creations’ voices are heard. Do they dream of others lives as if it were their own and become disoriented when their memories become poisoned by these dreams? I feel more than envy, I feel bitter, for their lives lay untainted by their own literary sons and daughters.

Who are we?
Among those tiny stars.
Constantly raging wars.
Are we the knaves,
Diging up other's grave.
****** minds gain
Solace in others pain.

Who are we?
Who talk of ending one
When their own existence is uncertain.
Hunger struck,
Gazing at neighbour's neck.
To strike him to death,
Would quench his thirst.

Who are we?
Those who walk in pride,
But ignores the people's cries.
Or are we the one who speaks of big,
But his deeds are too wicked.

Who are we?
A clod of clay,
Made by Him who stays away,
From filthy minds,
But resides in hearts of those who are kind.

We are the sinful beings,
Who find peace in nothing.
Others sorrow makes us gay,
But others laugh makes us fury.
For what good are we?
Always crying until we attain our intentions.

'Who are we?'
The question remains unanswered.