I am a poetic heart that wants to speak in prose – about the pros
and cons about being in love, or being alone. But don't you go
tripping on your words; you might just fall in love tonight. And
I know her girlfriend is going to preach to me tonight, and I might
just listen to avoid another fight.

She knows I've got a contraband of controversial thoughts, and I
wonder if I ever manage to cross the border, will I find my mouth?
While closing my eyes to the sun— the horizon never felt so dark!
But if we cross swords to spar, could we eventually make a spark?

But when your tears are burning in my hands; which blisters do I
call my scars, while losing the bite for time; like all the missing teeth
you find on the floor of popular bars.

I look in the mirror, and it still asks me who I am; whether or not
I'll choose to follow old plans — should the white in my eyes look
at all the things I like, and conquer those lands? But my black dots
are still slaved to themselves; when we seem to be strangers to
ourselves. I still shut my eyes when I look at myself!

Yeah... I’ll be the reflection of one’s depression – to hotspot their
emotions, for the ones that lack real expression. I am a weapon by
the impression of my pen; I demand love and attention – so ****
possessive; these words are my greatest possession.

My mind… my mind is just a book, and I feel so overbooked.
And the dreams in my eyes are overlooked, while I dream about
my death knowing it’s never too good. But we feel so misunderstood –
hoping not to leave pieces of ourselves. Life dares to cut me down
like a tree, and sometimes I wish it would.

I’m two doors swinging in the milestones of a lonely road. I threw
my rocks at my reflections – their irregular metre, is such an ugly
ode. Still if I reflect other's depression; I’ll transport it around the
globe, and carry their load.

I am their depression to be showed. Yeah, we're depressed, but I
doubt a lot of you would really know!

I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

Looking at the mirror, I don't see myself
Lately been wanting to be someone else
Lately been feeling like I'm not enough
Hoping that someone can see through my bluff
Hoping someone sees that my life has been rough
Hoping that people see I'm not that tough!

I've been fake so long, I don't know what's real
Trying to say a word but I can't break that seal
People keep depending on me, they see me as a light
Little do they know, I lose sanity every night
Little do they know, I'm starting to lose this fight
I'll keep smiling on, and pretend I'm not hurt by the pressure
I'll keep holding on, take a break man I need a refresher

I'll keep high, making sure that my poise never falters
I'll speak from my mind, making sure that my words never flutter

...who am I?

In a mirror, we always look older
and we believe that it lies.
We blame it for every wrinkle:
Okay then, you lie, but why?!

How rude of mirror to do so,
like literally in the face!?
We give it so much attention
and what in return? Disgrace!

Or perhaps we do look older
indeed, and it doesn't lie.
Perhaps we lie to ourselves
and maybe we know well why.

I am at a crescendo of this mercurially
fervent woe, maimed by the visage of
smoke and mirrors;
"a death in chrysalis is to live once again."

Draping into the worn out disheveled
silk, beautifully withered
lulled by the sound of riverbanks
as if it's pacifying the feral.

A star-lit eyes deluged with bliss
rose with thorn-teared flesh
overwhelmed by a mawkish melancholia. Although we were haunted by our old love, it will never be the same.