Books of novel are tetra-packs.
Fruits of society are manually picked up
crushed, mixed in neat proportions
and sealed to make fresh fruit juice.
Goodwill achieved by the presenters
put wings to the packages.

It's a different world in the dark interior
There are dreams of sun, rain, summer,
and the colors and tunes of spring
present a mirror world
full of butterflies and pests.
Each pack waits to tell its inside story
to an expectant connoisseur
and waits eagerly for a sigh of relief.

As the wind rolls on
cloned and genetically modified fruits appear
new entrepreneurs present newer packs
modern people enjoy never-before taste.
Every now and then new vistas open up,
the two worlds spin side by side.

As the water birds lifted from the morning tide,
I found myself being lifted from an unconscious
state to the dictionary by four unfamiliar syllables

like the many poets before me, searching for
the meaning of nomenclature. Interestingly enough,
it could have been me on the other side of a poem

that I would come back to after sundown: an old,
scientific word who first appeared in 1610,
whose roots grew, naturally, like the hidden

interests of a loved one, from the Latin
nomenclatura (the assigning of names).

But instead, I ended up on this side of the poem,
sitting before an empty screen and a dictionary
in a Yankees ball cap and denim t-shirt, slowly

piecing together a poem about a 17th century novel
while trying to include the sudden interest of my
loved one: French parenting literature on healthy

eating, all while slowly tying the loose ends
of a poem without meaning together.

Lie down and eventually bury yourself
Twenty pages, your mind is someplace else
Marry your mind to the old bookman font
Escape to a reality that will never haunt

Caricatures of your imagination
Yes, probably a big white hoax
But cults&planets; couldn't have been unearthed
If man stayed under his 'real' invisibility cloak.

6 | 31 Poems for August 2016

Here I stand, gradually disintegrating just so I can remain whole.
It’s interestingly sad to see how many people that are alive feel dead to me.
Your kind words are smooth like a fresh cup of latté but I need something stronger to battle this heartache.
Got nothing to read except the words I effortlessly wrote last night and a few James Patterson novels.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
The sincerity of my words is embedded in the movement of my metaphors, similes, adjectives and verbs.
I love waking up whole to the bonfire of a warm and loving soul.
But you will eventually grow tired of me, somehow they all do.
Everything is slowly falling apart, I just wish I had full control.
All I can do is sit and helplessly watch while the debris flies over me.
Here I stand, gradually disintegrating just so I can remain whole.
I love waking up whole to the bonfire of a warm and loving soul.
But I hope that you never grow tired of me unlike how everyone did.

So we write,
about this world,
about this place.
I write about somewhere we haven't gone.
my mind,
going into hysteria,
yet i feel euphoric.
Someday,
i won't have to wait for you,
so i write novels
to tell you,
i'm not the same person you knew.
Because i write novels in my head,
to tell you;
regardless of everything that has happened,
I've dedicated this part of my novel to you,
to say,
ILY you too.

//KZ.M

Come with  me
and I'll show you a world of possibilities
I'll just take off your glasses
and the let the sun kiss your eyes
refreshing your sight

Come with
and I'll mend your heart
with honey to sweeten each crack
changing your hatred to sweet nostalgia

Come with me
and I'll paint a pure reflection
that'll amplify your imperfections
that'll highlight the flaws
and portray a new vision of beauty

Come with me
and I'll hold your hand
through the world that you already abhor

Come with me
and we will pin the clouds to our
feet and float weightlessly
carelessly

Come with me
and we'll discover a planet
where society has not yet tarnished
all forms of cliche

Come with me
and we'll write novels
on city walls
narrating stories that will bring people together
or tear them apart

Come with me
and we'll show them
how beautiful it is to dance
with no wrongs or rights
just mere human elation

Come with me and
we will hop from one star
to the other, exploring each
bright possibility

Come with me
and I'll show you
what you don't see

come
with
me

Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back?
But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being.

But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways.

And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made.
What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me?
Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'"
Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store.
Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels.
It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words.
Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about.
They believe in it, they worship it.
As if it actually exists in an alternate universe.
The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more.
It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it.
And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept.

It's so fake, it's almost real.