Please puzzle me this,
Words wither whenever
My mouth moves... maybe malpractice?
Message pieced together,
Hoping whomsoever hears - helpless,
In my attempts to untether
Sickly syllables sticking; Speechless
I become, my tongue bitten back like treasure,
Festering feelings funneled, forlornly facetious;
Drowning in all the words I've spoken into forever,
Pleas purporting prosperity, perchance preaches
That if I try just once more, try over an over,
Could comprehension come closer
Between me and anyone leftover
Near me in my attempts to keep myself sane
When no words seem to work, and meaning wanes into this bottomless abyss.

I packed up my life
Uprooting all I had known
Loss like a knife
On a plane all alone

Only luggage I had
Harsh words in my mind
Not lovely, but sad
Unlike most words I find

They say time will heal
I’m not sure it will
I left, but I feel
I carry it still

I ordered a blazing Bordellino and mescal
what's that you say, why it's an alcoholic drink made with the
fruit of a wild tree, typically flavored with orange peel

I was sat next to a Pilator
that's a person who guides someone or something
this guy was the father figure of political science
it's not the same as a mentor, no
his name was Mitchell, and Mitchell was his name

His wife was an Amarrat
in case you are not aware, that's a
woman who is an Honorary Dame, ranked above a
Privy Council or Baroness
Martha was her name, and her name was Martha

I must admit they both had
something of the Snarper about them
Pilators and Amarrats tend toward the snobbish

While sipping our Bordellinos we were offered
some Compugns which, I'm sure you know, are
small edible drums with antennae
found in tropical and subtropical regions

This alarming snack was followed by a
hearty slab of Terraea, the Argentine cheese
which derives from dried sambalaya

Mitchell and Martha, their mouths masticating the Terraea,
confided in me that they were Paulpaul quartees.
That was their Snarperish way of confessing
they had a keen interest in wine

They longed to impart all they knew
as part of their Praecological - 'it's more
than merely educational' - mission. Indeed they
insisted on being known as world class
Praecologicalists, even when they
were cross-eyed on Bordellinos and frothing with Terraea

I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

I miss you sadly and so much!
And even if I just don’t know you,
Or maybe I won’t nay find you
And in no case and never lose you.

I miss the words. I miss so much
The words, that never will be spoken,
The dreams, that knotted not on me.
They’ll be fulfilled not us, but someone.

I miss the hands. I miss so much!
They would be able to hug sweetly.
I miss the hair, careless a bit,
And lips… Yes, lips! I miss them really!

I miss their touching, hot and sultry,
Which can just never been delivered.
But even as I never know you,
I’ll love you truly with a quiver.

Sometimes it feels,
As if you choke me.
Telling me to do as I should,
But limiting the thoughts I get out of my head.

I wanted this,
Bliss.