When an issue does not get solved it takes the form an obstacle
An obstacle if not tackled, over a period of time it’s becomes a hurdle
A hurdle if not crossed at the right time, then most probably you will miss your aim.

Time is taken to understand, realize and accept an issue as an issue in it’s present form.

An issue can be in the form an obstacle,
it can also be a hurdle,
it can be anything.

Most importantly one must know how things started,
where did an issue crop up,
initially where did things go wrong.

Once understood, accept the same,
accept the fact that you made a mistake.
No point in going for reconciliation, since time is important.

See that habits change, attitude differs
Make a note, issues like this will not crop up again
Once decided, be determined in your mind and follow the same

It’s important to keep going along the right track,
since once the track changes,
it’s not the destination that comes to mind,
what one feels is what is written in fate.

So no more of an imagination play and also what else is there in the mind that the mind desires.

It’s important to follow your aim and keep in mind to maintain your focus on the same.

Definitely a moment in time will come when you will get what you aim.

No, I don't want to write a sonnet;
to self-lock in an octave
only clasping a rusty key
-volta-
leading to another office cubicle
efficiently labelled sestet
for its six undone quotas
waiting coolly for my
calculating.

I want to untuck my shirt, Whitman;
to unleash words to gather at seams
then tear them open
like bursting blood cells crowding
out of a wound.
I do not want to fit
flesh into a 'perfect' Barbie membrane,
let me stretch the skin taut as sheets
so I can feel the redness
and gouge underneath.

Clarity glazed the Classical sonata
opaque; staves of controlled fantasy
so imaginable, like an illogically
round orange, sliced
in concaves fat
with pulp, each ripeness methodically
connected by thin breath threads.

This is why we have madness, need it;
bless the ****** of brilliance in Beethoven
symphonies, the metallic muscling
of Ginsberg verses, electronic with strange beauty, holy
and unholy, every ****** mess
in between

The heart can't suffice
by merely inhaling
glitter; I can't dare remember the sane
pretty sighing of a Petrarchan
uttering; canned love,
a predictable malaise packaged
neatly in a bland tome, most likely
beige, with the fashionable odor
of bookish age

And so, serif-writing sweetheart
please don't ask
me to write a sonnet.

too comfortable to tuck my shirt in,
I won't touch I won't touch I won't touch

Our form is free
Think imagination
You are abstract
Art, subject in color
Bold
My life like no masterpiece
Painted through experiment by me
From here we paint passion
Demanding a mess

August wind
           comes
in waves.

It’s goal
           to rip leaves
                      off trees
           standing tall
                      against it.

It bellows out gusts,
           tearing away at flower petals.

The once calm church field,
                                                       a battle ground.
                      A harsh whisper war.
           But soon
           it will
whip away,
                                                             defeated.

In this is a poem,
flowing thru and over the stones of language,
a bed for a restless body.

Somewhere here is a poem,
behind and beneath the walls,
impounded as so much sound unspoken.

The glass before you
holds a poem,
both transparent,
one delicate when presented
the floor.

The poem is rushing,
brimming, tidal in its own surface tension,
held smooth and blue until the tipping point of pressure,
when it slips over the stones,
the walls,
the glass broken
and spills downhill
over the homes,
the fields
and farms,
white spray
finding shape in the valley
where you stand on the shore,
where you bend down to drink.

The river,
the dam,
the cup
is not
the water.

Older men drinking
They surround me want to be inside me I shrink away
I shrink AWAY
He tells me I’m beautiful says
You should be a movie star
He wants to ******* to a still of me on the screen
His wife sleeping in the other room
Men disgust me I wish I were dead
I wish I hadn’t drank so much
I smell like cigarettes my eyes burn
Don’t ******* cry don’t
Think of the way his hand on me makes my flesh curl
The one I love is gone he has always been gone
I’m in love with HIM
An older man he is off limits he can never be mine
I love him I know I am enough
He wants more than what she can be
That is me
Other men touch me and I want to flee
To flee into the arms of someone who has never held me
Outside of my dreams and confessions
I wish I could see more straight
I want to run away with him

time, love, and art--what illusory concepts
undefinable and immutable
we meld, over and over again, the borders of our bodies becoming unclear in defiance of the defined space we transiently occupy. teenage rebellion.
A most primal ritual, mother to a sentiment most sophisticated--
the bites you left on my neck lasted longer than your interest, which faded with the early sun like a dark cliche embedded in my skin.
How curious it is to feel time, evade love, and be art--
how bitter to know the hollowness of each one, a lesson imparted by the weight of their meaninglessness.

Among'st a non-judging expanse,
Creative clouds dance.

Through fields one might prance,
Find a tree and sit
Or take a different stance.

See it fully or just give a glance~

The clouds, they form in multiplicities,
Reflecting simplicity;
Expanding creative form explicitly.

What'll it be?
How'll it grow?

Beautiful sky of freedom's form,
Modify your figure and break the norm.
Show me what never dies and is forever born~!

And reveal to us in time what is on the inside,
Usually hidden when worn.

I saw this in the clouds today, when I was bored..

Imminent existence was the poetry that pierced
her eyes. The thirst for evolving into a life form
that was perfectly aware of
its own beauty.

Unaware at first,
passionately later on;
she supplied me with
pieces of ink for the
enigmatic puzzle of our
momentary lives.

~ z.s