Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But spiralled, like convolvulus vine
crawling past pinstriped stems that harrow
the spitting aches in tandem.
Behold bent
Blossoms whose petals, like
Whose dead men's lids,
Have yet to be teased awake--
Justicia! Blind you are!
Lower the sword-swung abraders, buckle
their knees, on-pounding earth surrender.
Grand gems mark and drip along their lips
Rightly red, though creeps on
Soft pink Vertigo, and dizzying stints
Above my sinking mossy senses--
Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But sunken, lady Hyacinth shall never
bloom near your toe-thin tread.
Long may her purple bleed into
your blindess.
Long may your sword lay low.

my mother sees purple
because purple lives on her flesh.

she has stains
from shoulders down.
they scatter across her back
like pressed grapes.
the juice squeezed out of them
to create a rich man’s wine.
they wrap around her legs
like grape vines.
pulling her closer to the ground
with each step.

she hides them.
when men approach her
she says
“quiero que me ames.
my body has rejected me
and even in the womb
i was mutating.”

the men love her face.
she is a woman who does not age.
they say to her
“tu eres morada.
to love yourself you must
accept the color.”
so they have all added
new shades of purple
to her body.

i think that is why
my favorite eyeshadow color
is purple.

I liked you because you wore purple
Even your underwear was purple
And as you take it off, I found the colors of your flesh equally pleasing

There are certain parts of misery
That never made sense to me.
I never caught on to the self harm thing,
I figured I already felt bad enough.
I never drank it away,
Because a hangover was just a reminder
That putting a coat on
Doesn't stop the snow.
DABDA doesn't make sense either.
How can you be angry
About something you haven't accepted yet?

I do now understand masochism.
I certainly don't practice it,
But I get it.

The thing with masochism
Is that you really have to love it.
You really have to let go.
My nerves are just nerves.
My skin is just skin.
My eyes just make drawings out of ****.
******* purple from the fourth wall
Letting the people eat a different truth.

My brain on a steady loop
Of Whose Line Is It Anyway reruns
Just waiting to invent the next thing
We all take for scripture.

"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend VII "


Sundry afternoons of quiet words that
I willingly inhaled deeply have changed
My egocentric view,     somewhat. A maimed
Creature, i called it the universe, went
Splat, from a thousand miles up. Funny, but
The falling hurt the most. What dreams i lived
Before were potable, in a mind dead
Infinite way. I see beyond the ****
Now. We all may invision a sublime peace
Yet the earth is mostly anular        I
Did not want to know this. It did not please
Me to feel this rough thought, so i played my
Favorite magic game, and lost it in a crease
Of brain, while floating in a purple sky.

When it comes to you,
even wine are no longer depressing,
I just hope that
no matter how far we get,
our hearts will never forget.

Even If one day
we become a stranger,
your smile,
will forever I remember.

For now,
I know step by step we're going on our own way,
but I'm neither worried nor sad,
because those that belong together will always find their way back.

How far can we get moving closer to our dreams without living in regret?
Have another sip of that glass of red wine then slowly take a deep breath.
When people ask, tell them that you found love in the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
When people ask, let them know that you found love in a place that was previously deemed as hopeless.
Let them know that you found love in the hands and heart of a poet who pledged to spend the rest of his days as your muse.
It’s hard enough finding love in your twenties yet you managed to find the balance and stick to your decision.
Haven’t had the pleasure to kiss you yet, but somehow, I have the taste of your smile lingering on the tip of my tongue.
You’ve made me fall for the poetry of purple blooms and now I can no longer spend spring without you.
Like a painter admiring his exquisite muse, I can’t stop looking at every colour of you.
How many of these poems will I manage to keep writing without driving my loving heart crazy?
The answer to that question is something that I do not know yet, but I do know that my heart beats for you.
Let me tell you more about my version of events while we listen to Emeli Sandé on any given Sunday.
Haven’t had the pleasure to kiss you yet, but somehow, I have the taste of your smile lingering on the tip of my tongue.
I’ll be patiently waiting for you on Jacaranda Avenue so that we can both make our dreams come true.

purple leaves abound,
mango tree blushes,bride like;
dancing with the breeze