wom·an
/ˈwo͝omən/

1. a woman’s issues of god-tier poetry cannot be treated by carving her into more aesthetic form of stanza as defined by an unconscious poet, nor can she be bent into a more intellectually acceptable shape by those who claim to be the sole bearers of poetry.  

(w) heartsick saints and sinners.
(o) a ballbuster and untarnished empress.
(m) black bouquets and red roses.
(a) bleeding screams and convivial memories.
(n) fixed and broken sanities.

2. angel's darling won't make a woman less than poetry, add and reduce nothing, hades will mixed heaven and hell for persephone and the latter will just smile while mixing your body and your coffin together.

3. warning!!!
"a woman is a dangerous poetry that can destroy your existence in any angle."

(w) 90 degrees to an inclined surface and that will make her ******* poison you.
(o) 160 degrees to a ***** surface and that will make her use your genital ***** as her pen.
(m) **** a+b raised to the power of 2 when a woman is powerful than any numbers written in math textbooks.
(a) let's set aside fuckery and solve the mystery of how queen elizabeth built an empire without a king.
(m) _____(let's leave this blank, for a woman is a mysterious poetry.)

4. a woman is a poetry, add or reduce her stanzas and she will still remain as poetry.

Somewhere
in the green meadows,
A young twig asked
What happens to those
who do not bend?
They break apart
- A Willow tree replied.

We both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break, and I would've let you. I would've scattered petunias over the wounds you have re-opened. I would've carved you poems on flickering streetlights. I would've set sunrises on fire — kissed you as it died down. I would've skinned your neck open to know what turns my kiss into heartbreak, and what turns that heartbreak into poetry. And we both know you would've broken my heart until there was nothing left to break. It had been years, my love. It had been years on end.

And still, I would let you.

// "December has a softly cruel way of reminding me this."

2020 nears end, still grasping a warmth that does not belong to her. i feel alive with her reluctance to let go. these hands have known no loosening, their pals hollowed from tirelessly gripping onto things as we do words. i don't even remember what are in these hands, i wonder if 2020 does either. we all, i suppose, are at fault here; helplessly bestowing too many promises of life and experience on her shoulders, ignorant to her plans of making a spectacle of us. do not mock me 2020, i walked into you as blind as i was bold. we are all so removed from the envy of earlier years — of age, of divinity, of promises, of all the smiles we knew were enough for the time being. now, there is nothing but the feeling of a wind biting against our cheeks and the bitter after taste of hope. what are our days, our years, our time, truly worth in the end?

Take me back to a different hotel every night and living out of a suitcase. Getting comfortable in our naked bodies around each other; comparing breast size and stretch marks—examining ourselves like the men who’ve carelessly fondled us before for our likes and dislikes. Sharing a bottle of lukewarm tequila in the world’s smallest bathtub and then I sing you to sleep. Highway cars buzzing past and there’s only one road to get lost on, but we manage it every single time. Your car becomes a dressing room at gas stations where people stare with disapproving glares and worry for the safety of their wallets; because we don’t belong here but we laugh—still drunk from the early morning hours and just trying to find the next check-in spot for the night. There never is a real destination but home always seems too close and we both hate that part. It doesn’t feel right when it ends or when I have to crawl back into my own bed without a time frame to be out by in the morning—before the housekeeping maid comes banging on our door,
yet again.

The moment
you walk away
from the people
who imperils
your self-esteem,
is the moment
you gain the power
to Change
Everything...

It is fascinating to listen to the world wake up in the morning. It’s as though everything is still and frozen in time that even the birds are hesitant to start their morning songs. But then suddenly, as the first stretch of daylight crawls across the lines and rows of rooftop houses, you can hear the whole Earth start up in stages. First the signaling of the distant trains, their own morning song in a way I suppose. Then the rest of the neighborhood follows suit in a chorus. Car engines rattle on to melt the ice off their windshields and they too, groan and moan not yet ready for the daily grind. I picture people sipping their coffee while their kids quickly and hastily brush their teeth to make it to school on time. The buses stagger in lines to greet them at their doorsteps. One by one the birds unruffle their feathers in the treetops and begin to rise in song. The streets that just lay undisturbed moments ago, pristine with a thin layer of 4AM dew, are now bustling with car exhaust and scurrying street cats who are simply trying to get out of the way. And you in the midst of your tossing and turning murmur something in your sleep and I wish I could lie here forever.

The world
is nothing
but
a web of deception
Do not get your soul
tangled too well,
In the end
there will be left nothing
but regrets
in the ember and ashes
of time.

Today I sit and think about words. They are hesitant.
I am at a deficit of emotions to harness and understand.
Other poets ring true and sound curious.
Is it so difficult? A plane sounds overhead. Maybe
passing my thoughts in those clouds, full of rain and
judgement. A bolt of lighting could strike at any moment
and threaten the serenity of which my mind hallucinates.

Opaque skies of grey
Wounded thoughts mix with raindrops.
A storm approaches