hark! I am greeted by angels
each with devil horns and
spikes in their backs
blackmailing my feet to lead me
where?
away from from the shining seas
twinkling eyes and fluttered eyelashes
fare thee well in these trying times
they screech at me from
their balconies
all I can do is cry
deep in my hands
cracking my nose with my knuckles

there is a story here.
i don't know if i can call it Love,
the two of us discovered Her a long time ago.
now, capsized boats
washed up on the shore
unsure what to do with all the baggage we still carry
from the heart we previously sought refuge in.
we walk close to the ocean
leaving footprints in the sand
and watching them disappear with every wave.
you reach out your hand for me
and i hold it,
desperate for something to anchor me to the Earth.
i can feel it moving beneath me,
and i’m not ready.
you press a kiss into the back of my palm.
a tear falls down your cheek.
we help one another patch the holes in our boats
with shared laughter and endless dreaming.
you let me sleep on your chest at night,
as we watch the sun fall behind the horizon.
i don’t know if i can call it Love,
but i’m starting to remember why we floated so far from the shore
in the first place.
i’m starting to remember what it means to feel comfortable in silence,
to listen to someone’s heartbeat
and be reminded that there is a life outside your own
that just wants to be held for a little while longer.
i press a kiss into your forehead
and let a laugh escape
as my eyes fill with tears.
you’re looking at me
with eyes so deep
a soul so loud.
there is a story here,
on this shipwreck island
of a boy and a girl
who aren't sure what to call this,
who have been hurt by Love before
and are afraid to drown again.
but still,
they float messages in old glass bottles across the sea
speak through tin can telephones
send paper airplanes over the distance between them
hoping that one day they will meet again
with something more to offer
than an unfinished story.

A box of shadows lies dormant in a cluttered altar
Seething in circuitous rage it ravages for a state of tranquility
Clinging to clichés it finds a familiar maze of cognition to pace
Crunch
Time
Crunch
Less of it...
A prosaic necrosis leeching at the lungs of the pure until the labyrinth halts and coughs for another chance to die
But there
A smile permeates
the glass of the half empty and
the being forges on in the wish
of a kiss beyond birth
But no one could want such a putrescent jinn
A miscegenation of indolence and desperation half-cocked to quake at the cackle of a shred of hope...
Her illiterate alliterations go as far as a pebble into the deep where once
She found her depths

i smear oil paint across your lips.

your face, outlined in pale brown and
robin's egg blue and
yellow-green,
rests gently in negative space.

part of me hurts
when i look at this part of you,
this part i am
so familiar with,
in an unfamiliar way.

the lines of your eyes
(eyes i've gazed into a thousand times)
betray my secrets and my soul;

the whisper of your hair
is the same as the quiet brush of mine
on the tops of my bare shoulders;

i reach out to touch you,
and my fingers touch dried oils
in shades of raw umber and cadmium lemon;
my paintbrush still dangles, wet,
from my other hand.

the creased wax paper on the table
carries swatches of color,
the potential energy of
my pigment-smudged hands;
you are still unfinished.

i am still unfinished.

I'm in a multiple relationship
I'm in relationship with Fear
Just like how a teenager is constantly checking her phone,
I check every night for the monster under my bed
As he touched my exposed naked soul,
His power crawls and play with my sanity
As he forcefully penetrates my mind,
I can feel the coldness and darkness exploding inside me

Sometimes I feel that when I was born,
someone else has ended their life unfinished,
cut too short.

I tried to turn it back, but it's really hard,
impossible in fact, to round it up and let it end,
it's too late now.

Sometimes it bothers me, it calls from within,
the unfinished life of someone
before me.

the weight of ink is heavier than blood
for it carries the passion and intensity
of a heart set free through the mountains,
the seas,
the valleys
scribbling its way on to pages of our minds
leaving us wanting more,
begging our pens to flow endlessly,
for the pleasure of some and the decay of others.