Building up my anger,
      brick by brick.
Laying a wicked heart upon
the cement of hurt I feel;
And if I were a street— everyone would
now be correct to walk all over me,
      brick by brick.

A bridge, to gap two parties as the
middle ground to all their arguments
—an abandoned apartment, filled with
all the tenants, of memories well lived,
      brick by brick.

A madhouse, for all of the creativity;
to out there for the world to even understand
So brick by brick, they lay
Day by day, I try not to build a
wall around my constructed smile,
      brick by brick.

I am tired of feeling lost
Being left behind;
I am sick of mourning
While presenting my silence...

I wait for my iron blood
To thicken and freeze;
My veins, my heart
Too stiff to feel again--

I wait for cold numbness
To dull my aching eyes;
To release my soul
From merciless compassion.

I wait to draw a breath
In freedom, in selfishness;
Untainted by their expectations
If only one, if only once...

Till my madness consumes me.

*** life gone conceptual
My loved one now asexual
Online erotica and poetry
Supports for monogamy
Relieving some tension
Building up the frustration
Mind set on one finality
Bring back her sexuality

Our relationship just words
            I said I love you

You never replied

         Was our relationship a lie?

We always argued
We always fought
                              but I had faith

I would love to see the day
Where our love would not be carried away
By the words, we built it upon

              Was I twisted for lying to myself
I wanted to believe you loved me
I wanted to say we were happy

We would have been proud
     Why?
  
Did you know?

Truth
Expose
All
                                               because it's true that
Reality
*****

I believe I've written of the sun, sand and sea countless of times;
even when it's pouring down and even when the cold december wind is tugging at the strings of my heart.
The last time I wrote of my summer,
I told myself that the next time I would, it would be from experience and not of make-believe.
Why should I write of the seagulls' noises when all I ever heard this year were the familiar chirps of the Maya birds?
I just trick myself into thinking that the chirps of a Maya is much more relaxing anyway.
Why should I write of the heat that burns past through my skin then onto my heart when I get to feel the same heat while walking the streets to and from our old house?
I could achieve my dream tan by doing that twenty times a day.
Why should I make poems out of the waves and shells when life here in the city is enough to drown me lifeless but could also leave me so dry at the same time?
Even more ironically, I never went out of my room—my safe shell that I never actually felt safe in.
April and May, farewell and apologies.
I took you for granted and now I must wait another weary, barren year and daydream for my summer.