I still fight;
yet I still cry at night.

I still sing a lullaby;
yet I still want to die.

I still bleed some ink;
'cause I still overthink.

I still feel like an elf;
for I still doubt myself.

I still am pale;
for I still can fail.

I still cause heartaches;
for I still make mistakes.

I still enjoy this tone;
but I still feel alone.

I still fill my bed with squares;
'cause I still have nightmares.

I still swim through rhymes;
yet I still drown sometimes.

I still want to hold you, dear;
because, honey, I still fear.

A simple distraction
A week long attraction
Directed my attention from the one that couldn’t happen
Little infatuation
Oh **** I’m saying his name again
You calling on my cellphone is enough to forget him

I slip between the boundaries
I wonder if I’m bothering
And every time I see his tribe I know that this is foreign tea

You were the perfect plaything
He holds my heart in pieces
And now I know that loving him hasn’t disappeared for a second

A lonesome swordsman
Stands on a hill
Watching the village
Where nothing is still

No quiet moment
No crowdless street
No content beings
Nothing unaccounted for

Except the man
On the hill
For he knows one thing
That will

One pair of eyes unseeing
One pair of legs not moving
One pair of hands, useless
One heart not beating

The devil-reaper
On the hill
Looks to one broken home
And finds his ****

~for the one who will know it was written for her~

muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled

have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?

the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear

this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature

I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif

muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess

even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman

I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever,
absentia, dementia, both self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun,
yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating my muddled mind

I hope she can love you as I did, but this time I hope you will stay.