have to find the center of a long alley
ice cream cones of last year, the craving
our way to the center, people buzzing over
so hard to guess the right thing of the wrong

lights are floating through the room, ghosty
at the center of the alley, we will find salvation
smoothen a path inside the snow of the past
frozen water, ice chunks, shannon, help me

have to find the center of a long alley
get me some ***** and a cake, let's go
eat it on-the-go, the best thing now is to go
your mental breakdown was the finest

for a long time, a long time, long time

Familiar sights,
I'm covered in bites
and the ants crawl
and the night falls.
Spring comes,
lights aspire
King's set fire
October, the time of falling
Time has no meaning, it is tainted
and our lives are painted.

I was desolate.
The sky was never purple or pink
I was inside, and my heart ached.
I ran out of things to do
I lay in my bed staring at the fan taking rounds.
There were tons of manuscripts, waited to be complete,
On the brown wood table on which paint has dried upon.
The canvases have fallen down; the nails are still deep into the walls.
I still tie curtains into a knot so that the sun will shed some tears on my bed too.
The lights I don't need anymore hang on the walls.
Mails are all left on read, I remember there used to be 506 unread.
I'm exhausted of doing everything in my head, the bedsheet is falling off my bed.
Thoughts that make no sense are crowding in my head.
I have no place to keep all the clothes I never wear.    
My hands feel manly sometimes, but feminine at others.
Like when I hold a knife or want to color.
I pull the hair-tie off and my hair fall onto my shoulders, bounce; they feel soft on unpleasant days. Cliché
I live not far from the ground, though if I fall I could possibly die.
There's a light I intend to use for reading at night, but i never do.
I never read.
I write, I bleed
I write, I bleed
I write.
I bleed.
And to reading,
I don't pay heed.

The blossoms are calm, and yet still, she sings for
the heavens within, the white heron bows to the sea water,
It sees the clouds of night touched by lunar wind, the
lucid paintings of seagrass contemplate the presence of the
poet floating upon the waters, and say to her, “you too, have wings”,  
the lights beneath her as dewdrops, bright as cricket melody, the lone lantern glows in the silent hour of all, where the artist’s senses awaken as ripples of butterflies opening, the petals in far  flight ask her, “are you I?” , her starry form is light upon the mirror of the moon, a ghost of time and being, the beauty of imperfection decorated her as the
stars, the heron asked her, “your nature is delicate as my feathers, why did you wish to hide?” she sung back “I hid because I was afraid, I loved in a world of no love, I realize now, to reveal the amygdala that lives in color is to be brave in a world of grey, to be delicate is a strength, to have tears is to have power, to paint your emotions through eyes and lips is grace, being is the greatest gift” she perceived her revelation, “I am human, in solace with both light and dark”, her hands floated upon the water, the sounds of the ocean echo the endless journey, she becomes the milky amber dream, night has turned to day, the flower of the sea has found her abode in the one whom has loved her before existence, she spoke not, for all the songs have already been sung,
the eons have spoken, softly, she folds her eyelids in the heavenly warmth, there is only her whisper, “I have returned to you when I was never lost”

oversharing
undercaring
people staring
lights glaring

cheers to all those blasted nights
when in reflected neon lights
your eyes so sadly glow
with lust
                for a future you will never know

Evergreen stands
still at the hearth.
Roaring red fire,
life, love and mirth.

Laughter and joy.
Cider's sweet mash.
Dull fire's embers;
glowing orange ash.

We retreat to our beds,
nestled and warm,
and dream of the morning
when the Christ child was born.

Lights festooned,
on the bushes outside;
filter in through the window,
glimmer and shine.

We long for the hour
when we flock to the tree.
Peppermint, tinsel,
ribbons, and glee.