It’s such an odd irony
For me to be legally responsible
For lives of strangers
When I can barely keep my own heart beating

The irony that I fill hospitals
With heart broken patients
Whose self-hate has come to life
Leaving trails of loathing etched into their skin

When I fight daily
To keep those thoughts at bay
And my smile so perfectly practiced
Few could even fathom I would ever want to…. Stop

-ARI

it's been used
quite meaninglessly
twice
    maybe
       three times
and
in between that
it is simply
a dust trap
in hindsight
it was
a waste

i must
have known
that it would
barely
     if ever
get used
lured
beyond sense
     and reason;
the novelty
behind the idea
silenced
any concept
of logic
     or prudence

being able
to say
i own
the same typewriter
as such
a great mind
must mean
something

even so
         if not
it shall remain
on display
esoteric
ironic
impotent
amidst the pages
of my bookshelf

Winter will soon slip into
spring, all dressed in 
green; bouquet nights and
the rebirth of love.
Snakes gliding through
the grass.
But for now, we deal
with ice and snow,
slick roads and cold
hearts.

I was on the bus the
other day.
The driver had a
slippery scowl pasted
on her chubby face.
My mask had inched
down on my nose, and she
yelled, "put your mask
on or you will be off the bus."


I was having a terrible day already.
My asthma was acting up,
I could hardly breathe, and I had
just had to put my beloved
dog to sleep.
I miss her, but she slipped
away peacefully.


I rang the bell to get off at
my stop, as I chewed my
gum in passive anger.
I stood up and walked toward
the front of the bus.
The aisle was slick from
the snow and ice.
As I neared the exit door,
I took the gum out of my
mouth, so that I could throw
it away, but things went
horribly awry. 


I slipped on a wet
spot, and to catch
myself, I firmly planted 
my gum hand on the back
of the driver's head.
She had short hair, but still,
the *** of gum was now 
embedded in her golden 
locks.
I'm sure a haircut is
her near future.


Since then, I intend
to tread softly and cautiously,
and just maybe,
she does too.

I’m a lone gunslinger
with a broken trigger finger.
I’m an old firefighter
with a gas can and a lighter.
I’m a spy undercover
with a double agent lover.
I’m the blind preacher
who has Satan for a teacher.
I’m the hangman
with a noose around my neck.
I’m the ship’s cat,
sunbathing on the deck.
The apocalypse is here
and we’re all going to heck.

I see everything.
And yet,
I still feel blind.

She keeps writing many poems
and does not care when her writings
does not get many readers.
She keeps herself from the pain she gets and she loves it.
The way she looks
and the way she smiles
we can see by reading all her writings.
She has many friends with the words she writes
and she gets many loves with the world she lives.
The only way to find her home
is by reading it at all.
She is the princess of the words.