The polemic exists
when the full circle persist;

The space in between?

A mess that you don't have to clean?

A question of what could have been?

The questions are valid
for the idea is not obsolete.

Under the garment of winter,
I see sunshine,
New dawn,
Crocus flowers,
Melodious birds,
And a hint of spring breezes.

Waiting to be awakened by
An act of kindness,
A murmur of prayer,
An innovative idea,
The song of life,
And the whisper of love.

Hussein Dekmak

Oh, love.
I revisit the idea of you
over and over.
How you have made my life so much better
and so much worse.

I keep thinking you are the key.
You are the thing keeping me from being happy and
if I finally catch you.
I will be happy.

But I am starting to think that
you have caused more sadness instead.
But maybe that is your purpose?

Maybe the lack of happiness in my life
is something else.

I have lived my life drowning
in fantasies so that I could hide from
the world.

Now that I’ve come back to this world and
tried to enjoy what it has to offer me.
I can’t help but roll my eyes of boredom.

Speaking of recurring themes,
these days all of my dreams
display in pallor,
static
salt and pepper gray,
where once they held a spectrum
vivid in decadence.

I won't die screaming, though,
I
will laugh until I
drive someone to violence
and come to grasp the consequences, full,
defined in foreign definitions
I will surely come to understand.
Then, in all likelihood,
wind up screaming, anyway.

girlworm, you grab a wrist like you've known modesty in the shyness of a bare feeling gripped tight on the one offering it
tightrope fingers falling into the spaces of unspoken territory, slipping into familiar qualms like the worn lipsticks that fits the grooves of my lips like an object of my affection
knowing the contour of what i'm never aware of
anxieties creep like an overgrown lawn
these fears personifying into antsy women invading my kitchen telling me that there's not enough ventilation and the stove is on leaking gas into the baby lungs of a young smoker
and when i begin to argue they give both a look of sympathy and disgust as they say "oh child you drown so easily"
so i sit chewing my nails as i count the birds outside flying back and forth from their post as if they can't remember where they're going towards or if there's something that could possibly pull them elsewhere
my mind swirls in the smoothie of a plastic cup that sticks to the coffee table, the rings of different bottles painting circles for me to memorize again
my paradise sits with the roughness of his knuckles and the ambiguity of eyes that could know everything and i would set fire to the stars inside because of the jealousy that grows from pretty things being smoldered under skin
when i begin to lose my person, pale and shivering i go towards it
empty stomached and ready to be buried in the clothes of her
that i can imagine becoming the consistency of yogurt in my lap
kissing back my tremors as i lift up her hair from curious shoulders
dry-heaving the importance of the cheeks that feel warmer as they settle on hands that are brought together as if in deep prayer and i know i will collect myself again one day
girlworm, you're a swarm in my chest and i am me

Marvelous mysterious moments,
When your Mad Max brain,
Can’t open the intake valves of your nostrils,
Far enough to **** up enough oxygen,
To fuel your head fast enough
To process your thoughts,
Well enough to reach
Your, “Eek’ah!”

She held her other hand and intertwined her fingers.
she had him in mind. stuck in her own bubble of thoughts and imaginations.
She imagined it as his hands.
she doesn't know who, though. But she loved the thought of someone's hands intertwined with hers.
At night, she would talk endlessly into her phone.
It's not open, though. But she still talks and talk and talk until her story is finished.
She likes to think that she's talking to him on her phone.
She's not. She knows that.
The act just makes her feel less lonely.
It makes her feel as if someone would just love to listen to her rants and never ending stories or even about
how her day went.
She types her thoughts in the notes of her phone.
Thoughts that never made it out of her mouth.
Thoughts that she'd like to share with him.

And every time she does these things, reality slaps her hard in the face.
"Wake yourself up. It's never gonna happen."
And a tear always makes itself known as she opens her eyes.
And her happy fantasy crashes down as her heart did.

-F.T. 06.04.18

To write
And express
And share
an idea
or a thought
or a memory
or a romanticized past

...Is it all that?