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Another lovely morning.... I wake up drenched in sweat.
What is it that grips me? Squeezing me in my sleep?
Returned to the mercy; of some external force.
Each night takes me places, my body proves remorse.
rage smells like smoldering embers,
rage looks like bloodstained fists,
rage sounds like elevated heartbeats,
rage feels like a tidal wave,
yet rage tastes like charred ashes,
because its twin causes upset,
her name, after all… is regret.
oh dear, oh woe is me,
my sight is blurred,
so I can't see,
yet this opaque nature,
deems to be free,
my ensconced vision,
is turning on me,
sheltering and comforting,
the me I could be,
yet with these lenses,
I still can't see.
they say of course,
perspective is key.
Light,
The light from above has bestowed upon me the urge to dance, despite it all, all, all. A spark has spread a little fire—the music never stopped, despite it all.  

Affection,
Facing slowly—affection all over the floor. Summer has not started yet, but there is heat, devotion, warmth in absence. I nod to the sun. I turn towards the dappled, bronzed skin of mine.

Jazz,
There is something ferocious living inside this four-cornered apartment, where the absence of childhood has taken half my life—but there are flowers, flowers in my head. Slowly dancing in the whiskers of the afternoon—velvety, yes, velvety notes striking the rhythm of my body. Swaying, swaying, almost lost in the murmur of the piano—the saxophone aggravates the thrill in my bones. I look up at the ceiling; colors start to swirl even more. Strings spill like liquid—smooth and endless, more and more. Conversing here and there, I am alive again.  

“Turn your face towards the sun,” they say. I dreamed of my childhood, and the heat of the sun felt like slow jazz in the afternoon.
I wrote this for 10 minutes because jazz made me feel alive today.

jazz is for ordinary people - berlioz
What a strange request
To beg the dawn to sleep once more,
To bid the tide retreat, forget
The footsteps swallowed on the shore.

Alright now then, what’s next?
The turning page, the ink that bleeds,
The tethered soul who dares reflect
A child’s dream lost in grown men’s deeds.

Mourn me the wonder in my eyes,
For in its place, a hollow gloom,
No star remains,
Only the shadow of a bloom.

Never thought I’d hold those days
Like yellowed scrolls in trembling hands,
Illiterate to youth’s own phrase,
Yet reading now what time demands.

How can it be? This ticking crime,
this slow betrayal dressed in time?
This slow betrayal robed in grace?
Let me vanish in their wake.
 Feb 15 thyreez-thy
Soulless
you
Can you still see me

Standing in this dark room

Talking to the memory of you

Your hand is back in my hair

The love is still there

Just like you never left

But that is not my life

I couldn't sit pretty

To let you create a pretty lie

And now I'm here and for all I know..

You may have died.
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