Oh my darling,
your beauty comes in many shapes.

You are the Sunset;
you are the beauty before the darkness.

You are the Moon;
you are the beauty in the darkness.

You are the Sunrise;
you are the beauty before the mourning.

You are the Rainbow;
you are the beauty after the rain.

What shapes do you think of
when you sit under trees?
Blunt corners, forgiving curves-
a fluctuation that never seems to ease.

Do we circle in repetition?
Or is self defeat
a mirage of an inhibition?

The lines sometimes will never touch.
But this lack of closure
does not discount your right
to an ameliorative crutch.

I
                                          listen when i-
                                        n many moods
                                      bec-                 ­ a-
                                     use-                  it
                                     he-                  lps
                                      to­               clear
                                       m-       y mind.
                                        music alway-
                                   s makes thin-
                               gs better. I-
                        t lets me e-   s-
                 cape my t-           o-
             rtured r-                   e-
          ality. T-                       he calm it br-
        ings                    makes me feel safe, and t-
        he st-              rength          i-             t gives
         me h-            elps                m-              e to st-
           and               tall.               It               helps
              me                   ke-             e-            p my
                    hea-                               d         held
                             high, even when my h-
                                    eart is breaking.
                                                       ­      It
                                  it                          ­ai-
                           ds me in e-                   x-
                        pressing my-                 se-
                         lf. It                          ke-
                              eps­ me sane. Music
                                      is my safe
                                          place.

A triangle
starts at a point
goes toward
two other points.
But who's to say
it doesn't begin
at two points
which meet
at one point?

Wooden hands
Bruising random shapes
On my bare thighs.
Wooden hands
Leaving me covered
In rainbow lies.

And when wooden hands
Cross my mind,
They come in the form
Of sunshine.


F.Z.N

An empty train,
A clouded mind.

Vacant spaces transpire
Havoc caused by thee
Running in circles
Back to square one.

Water vapors reminisce
Your presence
As dotted lines
Started to fade

Parallel;
Our lives now
Strangers we once were
Strangers we are now.

c.c