When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

there is always somebody or something
waiting for you,
something stronger, more intelligent,
more evil, more kind, more durable,
something bigger, something better,
something worse, something with
eyes like the tiger, jaws like the shark,
something crazier than crazy,
saner than sane,
there is always something or somebody
waiting for you
as you put on your shoes
or as you sleep
or as you empty a garbage can
or pet your cat
or brush your teeth
or celebrate a holiday
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you.

keep this fully in mind
so that when it happens
you will be as ready as possible.

meanwhile, a good day to
you
if you are still there.
I think that I am---
I just burnt my fingers on
this
cigarette.

"--you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

People often ask me what love is  

And I seriously don't know what it means

All I can think about is you

Your eyes, those brown eyes

Those eyes which saw me naked  

You saw every scar on my body  

Yet the only thing you said was

“You are beautiful”  

Love, I am not beautiful

Scars, stretch marks, blood, wounds

Doesn't mean beautiful

I am not an art

Yet your lips kissed me

The way the sun kissed my skin every morning

Without a fail, without any doubt

You smiled.  

And the only words that came to my mind was

"****, this is trouble"

My love, your words hold me like a hostage

Trapped inside an empty box, finding a way out.  

A way I can never ever get a glimpse of.

I knew that this love

Our love would last a lifetime  

Or so I thought



We were torn apart by hatreds, insecurities, confusions

Maybe if it wasn't for distance  

We would be still together, we could have worked it out

But maybe, no matter what decisions we'll make

We will still come to an end

Confused about the future

Insecure about other people

Hating each other

You, giving up

And me, craving for more

Craving for something that can fill up the hole inside my chest



I wanted you to stay forever, here beside me

But every time I would ask about it

You always said

"You deserve so much more"

You were once my everything

My other half

My partner in crime  

You were someone so freaking important to me

You were the kind of mistake, I wouldn't mind repeating

I fell so hard for you

And guess what happened?

Love, I am broken



How many days, months, years

For me, to forget

That once upon a time

You were here

I was there

Hands holding tighter

Eyes locked to each other

Hearts that beat in a synchronizing manner  



How much would it cost?

For the pain to stop

For the memories to abandon

For the feelings to fade

My love, I did not expect any of this

I didn't know that love can be deadly

A love that can force someone to commit suicide  

That loving someone means tearing every part of yourself





Now, do you think I'm suicidal?

Love, do not be afraid

I'm not going to die

Being suicidal doesn’t mean killing yourself

Suicidal means I wouldn't mind dying

I kept on dying anyway

I kept on dying at the same place I thought was giving life to me  

Because the day, you decided to give up on me

I already gave up on myself.

I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I'm gay
it kind of
spills off my tongue
when I don’t want it to
an
impulse
a
burning choke in my throat
falling out of me when I wish it would stay inside
when strangers are around
when
they really don’t need to know

it’s painted on my face
it’s written on the backs of my hands
my collarbone is burning white hot with a tell
and my eyes watering every secret of it

can they tell?
can everyone see right through me?
I’m
too scared to ask
somehow
also too scared to keep it inside

It wants out more than anything
but
she wants to be safe more than anything

after noon, awake now
for eight hours with
another twelve awaiting.
a sweating summer for
advancement of 'talented
young author'; reading,
writings, and ennui towards
those not wanting to be
found in sight. Lucien
stabbed his twice in the
chest, then weighted and
drowned the body feigning
dead. insanity claimed,
a brilliant success to freedom
after emaciating and claiming
another's mortal soul. claimed
was blood-stained Lucky Strikes,
and Lucien smoked the last one.

When I knew her
She always did too much
she took the time to touch
Whoever's life needed it much
When she was dating him
He never did enough
Until