Figments of my imagination seem to be the only things I live for at this point. What I once thought, what I once felt and held onto with warm hands, was never what I presumed. Life is simply sand grasped in my hands. No matter how tightly I squeeze my fingers together, no matter how firmly I wrap my palm around, the particles slowly fall and escape me.

I need the light of day to fill me to the brim
To emerge the life out of me again
Before the imagination teases me to death

Peculiar faces-
Skeptical goodbyes
And the melting of a night-
calmly waiting in the back drop of your mind
The teeter totter was always an amusing ride
Sincerity and insincerity alike
It slowly becomes an equal battle between endearment and fright-
Forgiving and holding
With what steel skin you’ve painted on their bare stares
Abstract means of clothing removal
Count it-
One, two, three, four, thirty eight times
Awkwardly imperfect as perfect is
In a sense-
Each body became an atlas
But where is your compass?
Misplaced it just as you have the rest

Went north when you meant to go west
And now you’re stuck somewhere in the south
Indulging in subsequential nonsense


(c) Tiffanie Doro

My heart won’t bow
Won't lower
No, it won’t fret over your fickle heart
Standing ground for the sake of what rhythms still remain
What pulse moves through
The time line in my mind screams of such immense wonder that
my heart has trouble keeping it all retained
Reaching out
I’m reaching out but my voice just won’t resonate through you,
No sound
No tone left to speak with
The conversations have trailed off our dusted path
Left behind somewhere along the way-
stuck in the cracks of the world we traced with our hands
and the breathes which oscillated between us
The wonder that continues to roam-
will slowly burn out with the midnight breeze
As the days turn over each other
I’ll ride this time line and hope for what resolution comes my way,
Drifting through with the hope to obtain that familiar form
The familiar embrace

If I had to compare you
You would be a Sunday morning hangover
I'm afraid I can't put it lightly
the headaches you create could
with no doubt
**** a great white
You can take offense
Yet I must inform you that you are more offensive than ****** and Genghis Khan combined
Contrary to your exterior,
your mind is only that of a million others which I avoid
If only books always matched their covers this struggle wouldn't take me to such heights-
Or perhaps lows, I should say
So pardon me, my dear
The memories of my youth would be much fonder spent sitting next another individual-
One with the ability of truth and compassion
Or atleast the courtesy of decency
But your moral is blatantly,
Unsurpassably,
Incomprehensibly
too skewed


(C) Tiffanie Doro

A barrel of a gun is symmetrically aligned to the flesh of a temple
And it's the beauty of the world
The hate you cannot feel
The love you won't reveal  
The herbal excuses scenting your hair
The walls of your brain-
Lined in color pallets-
Lushes thoughts

Splattered over their prestigious walls
Our apologies to the maid
For the unfortunate mess we have made

(C) Tiffanie Doro