Lady made out
of magic and mayhem
bottled along with stars
and flowers
and hurricanes
and volcanoes

A brutally lovely poetry

A work of art--
not post-modern but
pre-apocalyptic

and
if he lays his eyes on you
even Narcissus
will launch
his ship

A lengthy poem has smaller hits
but the author can push through the gist
of inerrant musings of the soul
until he bleeds pus in the sole.

Never meant to cause any disturbance
unless my words bother you like flatulence.
to gain a thought is to make a mind queasy
albeit structuring words to poems is not that easy.

A curtain of black hair
drapes across her
utopian face,
her lips pursed
in concentration.

I ask,

what are you
writing about?

and her mouth curves
into a deadly smile.

She says,

"A compilation of 21st century
horror stories and other
*catastrophes."

I think I need to find
More reasons to stay
I'm dangerously close
To running away

I constantly worry about
My reason to live
Because I never know
Which is the last breath I'll give

I keep comming back
To my existentalism
I wonder if I can be happy
With any belif system

Sometimes I wonder
If I'm obsessive
If my frequent musings
Cross the line into excessive

Sometimes I wonder
Going day to day
If I'll ever even
Get to have a say

Sometimes when I'm awake
In the middle of the night
I wonder if I'm normal
And, failing that, all right

the aftertaste of loss and failure coats my mouth
as i slur my apologies to the wind and
stumble my way to my front door

i try not to blame myself for how things
turned out to be but when people say there's
a whole universe inside of you it's hard to sleep
soundly at night

because how could i contain multitudes
but not be able to do anything when people come
and make me feel like a house
being emptied out of its furnitures and picture frames

even ghosts seem to shun my presence but
wouldn't it be perplexing to say that it's because
i am doing a better job of being a phantom than them?

or maybe it's because of this camouflage suit that
i'm always wearing that is making me invisible
and i want to know if stripping it off means
i am finally surrendering

when you see what the inside of my head looks like
you will see a ghost town inside a snow globe
and there are fault lines everywhere

You did not even have to ****
that pretty daisy
and watch as its petals rain
on the ground to know that
she loves you
not.

Tomorrows are for dreamers;
I suspect today I will sleep.

My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won't just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it's also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.

Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn't ******* the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don't be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
'Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you're better than this.'

So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.

Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.

If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.

girls with buzz cuts singing along
to beach house
the air thick with eccentricity
and anarchy
their painted nails beginning to chip slowly
like the minds of the older folks that are
too engrossed with their holy books

smart mouths and their pretentious words

they make you want to kneel and pray
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your hands
like
reaching for your dreams
or punching some guy's face for telling you to
smile, pretty lady

and

boys with long locks crying to
armageddon
the blue sea spilling out from their red eyes
their shirts splattered with distress and
confusion

mostly from people who are built like big boulders
and war tanks

too upset to see one of them crying
but you know other things that you would rather
be doing with your anatomy
like
building homes with pretty gardens
or sewing a dainty dress for your niece