Last night, dreaming of you,
To me, my heart informed.
That your lips are so good,
For a french kiss to be performed.

In the very enigmatic dream,
You appeared as a doll of wax.
There was nothing but a scene,
We were clinging to the wall of ***.

I woke up early in the morrow
Due to clamor in my head.
I was distressed, gooey and restless,
It was the illation of what she said.

She said that she couldn't be with me,
The reasons were painful and dolorous to me
Burning in the flame of the anguish and parting.
Obligate enough was me, as she departing.

O lord ! How should I tell her, my sufferings?
She has been my passion, soul and other things.
You form match, It is saith,
So make her in my faith.

Else show me the way, how to forget her?
But think about me also, doest it better?
If this err you did, I won't spare myself,
If I manage some how, but what will happen to my elf?

I don’t know who I am anymore.
I look in the mirror and don’t recognize whoever is staring back.
I don’t remember the last time I saw myself there.
It must’ve been a long time ago.
I keep asking “what have you done with me?”
Or “what have you done with him?”
But I only get a question for an answer.
Somewhere in my travels, somewhere along the way.
Me and myself stopped, and I guess I decided to stay.
So please help me find him if you could,
I only know the name, I just can’t remember the face.

IT'D BE THE ONE LOVE POEM I EVER WROTE ABOUT SOMETHING BESIDES GETTING HIGH ALONE

my sister would commend me on my ability to write something beautiful for once
that stole someone's breath in a way that sounds like "stay with me"
instead of slamming the door in your face

it would probably be a very detailed description of the way your lips move when you're talking ****
and the way your tongue brushes along your back teeth when you're trying not to smile when I do it back
which honestly might be the easiest part to write

it'd be something really gay about your terrible choice in flowers or the color lilac or the TINIEST of confessions that are really too small to hear

it would be stamped in gold stars
and sold as quotes by people that aren't me

and probably aren't you
but I think you'd be okay with that
because then everyone would know how I feel about you

and if I could write a poem like the way you talk to me
everyone would already know anyway

~for Henessy J. Beltre and all the new Observers of the Universe~*



“my goal is to develop a more personalized meaning of beauty, love, and self actualization through my writing.” Henessy J. Beltre


each word, chewed upon,
individually and collectively
as I drive from Roma to Firenze,
long drives in unfamiliar scapes, olive shaded greens,
umbrella trees, and thin thickets of the vineyards planted
in the years notated as B.C.

are life pauses, asking, admission to the clarifying blankness
that commands rifle shots of riflessione (reflection)

your words, goading foaling, are all our goals,
succinctly refined,  for doesn’t every and each poem
asks through our eyes what are the visions of
love and beauty that is the actuality we ceaseless seek

avanti signorina!

unleash the wild words that will make your mission
burst from the ancient to the revitalizing, knowing this,
that the universals you seek to dress yourself within,
to share here, to create, to *actualize,
are products of your truths

be unaffected by stale mores, conventions dictates,
spill truths, soiled and used, cherished and recycled in
new ways, so that each of one of us
blesses you with one word:

exactly!



31/10/18

on the autoroute to Firenze

read https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2793919/universe/

dominant
inner rage. that
is my being -- she does
not wait idly on your
doorstep, she busts
the ******* lock
open, she swallows
you whole, red insides
churning 'round

    slithering shadow
    in the crescent of
    the light from
    under your bedroom
    door. i will haunt
you,
forever,
it is something
i am good at

mechanically speaking.

you are not the first to wear
the same beckoning, calling skin
your fine edges annulling my roots,
       and i don’t think you were the first to
****.

    **** what once was
    a ticking pocket watch, an echo
    heard only by one
    now ticking for fallen ears.

It does hurt to see things die,
but there is a certain satisfaction
In having washed hands

it all feels like disease and i want to strip my bones raw; manic
(sugar rush deity)

what am i to you… what are you to me, aside from endearing silhouettes; pixie
(mumbling shy songs)

in an ocean of violents in bloom we speak artificial prayer; dream
(cloaked in starry-eyed acapella—thats what they think, no?)

i surrender to your clarity and intensity and charm and beauty that my hands are too numb and dull to touch; girl

and then comes wrath: a dewy vileness teetering on the brink of your 9th life
now hell has harnessed my chest, for it is with deep regret and shaky sobs that every opening and crack in my body emits rotten remains of our silent war…

but there are still heartfelts i never mustered up the courage to let go of:

thank you for tip-toeing around broken strings to reach out once more, twice more
thank you for enduring my futile voyages through resentment
thank you for soaking all my insanity in like sunlight and excreting back out a gentle rainfall