You think *** is *****.
That's why the types of women you ****,
are the ones that you hate,
and why you can't make love,
or lick to taste.
That's why you want to spit at me,
with your scrunched up face.
That's why you don't say a thing,
after blowing your load.
No matter how hard I made you explode,
you pull apart and go straight for your phone.
The paper towels,
sports zones,
like sweaty men bumping helmets
are any cleaner.

I don't have a perfect family
that'll welcome you with open arms.
But I have someone like a sister,
and while she's like me in that we're flawed,
she will love you like a brother,
because she knows I love you as a lover.

I don't have a perfect body
that is sculpted and chiseled with athleticism.
But I have curves that will give you comfort
in the coldest nights and sorrow,
I can fit into you like a jigsaw puzzle,
you'll take apart and put together again.

I don't have a perfect salary,
free of loans and debts, and money promises.
But I have the ethic to work hard
to pay it off, and be able to go see
these incredible experiences you give to me.
They are so worth it.

I don't have the cleanest past,
free of toxic people and bad decisions.
But I have my present so pristine,
and I do everything to make sure
I'm on the right track for us,
for me.

I don't have complete understanding,
of how to handle our problems together.
But I have the passion to learn, grow and try.
I wont let our optimism die,
even though the instructions
might be complicated.

I don't have a complete grip on who I really am-
*but I do have the confirmation
that I am something really special.

To it, I've never been.
but I've dreamed of a place where everything
is coated in corn and comfort.
Wished the past had taken me,
can't help but feel it was about my skin.
Cactus candy and cowboy boots.
Zydeco and haunted hotels.
The voodoo Frank sang about in the end.
The horns sound the streets.
Close curtains, be discreet.
Encircle the barest neck,
with colorful beads.
His family reunions
made me realize I'm on my own.
Until I met a prettier soul.
I don't kiss frogs for love.
I forget the ease in slime.
and let the grease define
an unhealthy outlook.
Sip another lime or a sour.
A ginger begs the hour.
Lonely never leaves,
but warmth is a soco shower.

spent.
you groan.
you deplore the feeling of trying
only the smallest amount more than you deplore
staying still.
spills.
the clutter.
the mess, it gets the best of you each and every time,
it rhymes with destruction
that suction of the blackhole
that has become your home.
spread.
across beds.
you're only a little sliver and you stretch your arms wide
to cover everything your pride
will allow you to, and you dry-heave
and **, in your emaciated pose,
you're thin but...
spry.
limber, even.
you've got some years ahead of you.
your bones only ache as much as you brought them to.
your vision is clear and reading hasn't taken much from you.
those two portals to a weary soul
help you carry a stance with promise.
they'll make you speak.

I want the open mic.
I need to be heard.

Our love
is more bittersweet than
a most overcast sunrise.

There's static in the way my breath falls when you look away.
Your fingers leave mine like an unclear whisper,
but the question remains.
What did you say?
Am I alone? Or will you stay?
Hearing noise and distant chatter-
foreign and unimportant.
All I long for is your story telling.
An uninterrupted electricity.
The sound of your voice,
Pulls on the hairs of my skin.
Don't stop talking to me
But please use some dryer sheets.

I worry that if I had disappeared that night,
I would never get to hear the cotton sounds
of your voice
in my ear
whispering
"stay."

When you live inside the hole,
your fingernails are short and your feet are flat.
The climb is only as high as you let your gaze rise.
The meager buckets of rations fill you until you wait for them.
No longer do you wait for Clarise.
You see his face that once brought you fear of captivity,
But now it only brings you utmost desire.
Your world is the hole and **** because you're limbs are sore and ripped.
When is the next time you see him again?

No juice or syrup here.
Nor do I sit atop rocks.
Ignore the chasers.
But take a shot
I'll leave an ever present
taste.

Today, I accidentally spoke to a stranger.
Seated at the round table with my laptop,
I stared at a couple speaking my language.
He caught me looking, and seemed confused.
I was embarrassed for staring
so I explained, "I understood them-
there aren't many other speakers that I know,"
and quickly looked back down.
And the feeling of regret welled up inside me.
It was far too late.
I can see him staring at me, now.
Burning holes into the back of my screen.
For a second I thought he might have been mute.
Why stare at me so hard without uttering a word?
I'm not wearing anything particularly interesting.
He must know that I see him in my peripherals.
What if he really is mute?
Maybe he needs some help?
Should I look up? I can't.
Why not? Because that would mean
I'd have to speak more.
You shouldn't have spoken at all.
I was embarrassed for staring.
He should be embarrassed for staring, too.
I hope I didn't "speak his language."
He probably isn't even looking at you.
We're the only ones at this table.
He keeps looking up from his book.
Maybe if I look at him quickly I'll know if he's looking
at the empty billboard behind me instead.
I just looked up.
He's looking at me.
And not a word was exchanged.
Now this is that much more awkward,
I'll never look up again.
I'll just pack my things.
And never speak to strangers again.
But wait...
what if he knows me?
What if he's waiting for me to recognize him?
I don't know him, I'm sure.
He won't stop staring.
I close my laptop
and see my motley stickers.
Some with writing, some with pictures.
Sigh of relief.
Just my stickers.
I'd look, too.
Packed it away
and went to class.
How silly was I, just then?
But I still won't speak to strangers, again.

When the sweet not-so-serious,
is all that you have left
as the glue
holding you together.
It's doesn't take much pushing off
to fall completely apart.
It doesn't take much new,
to begin to be forgotten.
If not drool from a better treat,
wet tears from long retreat.

Ah, now I remember.
It was in those rare moments when you say something different.
Words weave in and out of your lips
but your eyes have the freshly stitched smile
like that of a child
listening to their favorite bed-time story.
Satin slips from your mouth,
wrapping around the beating murmurs
below my necklace
triangle yantra of Kali,
under a lacy leopard bra,
beneath the tattooed deviant octopus,
and soothes the palpitations
to a comfortable pause.
We don't always need air to **breathe.

I feel the colors on my wall
those silent memories of mine.
In touch with the organized mess
I've surrounded myself with.
My finger tips glide and create
presents for me to look at.
Perhaps I'll share them
when I wish to see smiles
and connect with someone
while looking to listen
to the needs of beautiful people.
The taste of pizza
lingers on my lips
like my favorite lyrics.
Tomato kiss myself to satiation.
I'll moan in gluttonous relief.
I've got a library scattered
amongst my sheets,
smells of distant worlds.
Pages that take me
to perfumed forests and
putrid blood baths.
There's no need
for the sensory deprivation
that I've once endured.
Though lonely at times,
my room is true comfort
in solitude.

I've eaten my sickness
and I've no room for seconds.

Make my eyes shed again,
so that I can write.

Can't teach a forgiven sinner,
how to repent for their mistakes.
Grace them with my presence
and they'll return to their snakes.
They'll say they're sorry,
and then stay the same.
I'll let them in,
and they'll slander my name.
I am not a god, I hold a standard.
Match it and be equal,
fall short and be abandoned.

They warned me about you.
I read the nutrition facts
and saw the ingredients.
The FDA didn't fail to inform me,
you were no good for me.
Toxic, even.
I knew this all but you...
always smelt better than you looked
or tasted,
Like a lemon poppyseed,
with salt for sugar-
strange and savory,
but I should stop eating.

Ocean muffin
maybe made for a bird flying low,
or some big fish
swimming in shallow waters.
I was the bird flying low,
with no luck in the wild,
searching for scraps,
and saw one in tact.
It held promise.
Swallowed you whole
and lost all of my feathers
expelling you out.
You were for the big fish.
The ones who only bite off
what they can chew.
I cannot consume
you who poisons me.

I couldn't tell you at the time.
You were trying hard to drive.
The rain made our vision mauve,
but somehow you got me home, safe.
You are always, the sweetest thing.
Even when its bright and early,
and you're at your crankiest, you try
to remind me how much I'm
the one you hate the least.
But eventually, you might.

I couldn't tell you at the time,
we were listening to Frank.
The rain invaded every line,
but I sang to it the same.
And when it became severe,
you held my fingers and you steered.
We looked closer than eyelids,
Center console, kept us divided,
You told me it'd be alright.
while we listened to "Nights."

I don't know what happened,
but ever since I got really mad,
the people on here seem to like me more.
Raw emotion might have been what they were waiting for.
It seems I've been feeling pretty hard lately.
But fear overtakes my expression.
I fear sounding trite and cheesy.
Writing light and easy.
Rhyming or running away-
I'm always doing something to hide.
Until I just wrote an explosion one night.
Now, I sometimes string artful lines-
but I don't mind letting go of my pride.
I owe this freedom to all those that read,
not just mine but anything on this feed.
The more words we exchange,
the more we extend appreciation,
we grow together.
So I am thankful for those readers
who not only excused my temper tantrums,
but paid homage.
I ended up gaining rather than losing.
And all I can ask now,
is for you all to keep reading.

Those hipster blogs never held your attention,
always more interested in what your idols had to say.
It was still nice when they received some recognition.
Every musician who played the lady well, deserved some shine.
But you are just a casual, and no way could you pick up an instrument.
You say you don't know her too well.
Did you ever scour the web for what is considered the newest indie hit just to learn her better,
were you The American Listener?
You couldn't be.
Critics rarely suited your taste.
You knew what you liked in her,
you didn't need affirmation.
Applying what little you've retained from the musicians you knew,
and the thousands of intricate melodies you've managed to scratch the surface with.
But still, you don't know her.
You don't know her but you love her don't you?
You put a note on your fourth finger without knowing who she was, didn't you?
She made you wanna ***** dance when no one was looking
And sometimes when someone was.
She made you feel like you could sleep again.
She made you feel like whatever you were doing wasn't too bad after all.
You skipped seeing her when you were feeling down,
you are emotional
And didn't need her sad voice to wallow,
you sang it to yourself and forgot
she was living inside you anyway.

Casting judgement with your chuckles and snarls,
Is first nature.

The sea of fans churn to your voice sounds.
I am the part in the song where it strains,
to hit the note that makes the ladies swoon.
Over the moon, I float,
swishing your lyrical lies in my mouth.
I don't see a thing but the blackness,
and you, the star.
And I can't reach you,
but I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.
The music is only a street we run on,
our feet pounding against pavement
like a war drum.
And I feel your sprints in my chest,
you're heaving.
But I can't reach you,
and I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.

I thought the train was going backwards,
but it was only us.

Don't obsess over the romantics-
shadows of eyelashes
what longing is and means
the way a chest falls
when bad news is heard.
Do anticipate disappointment-
and revel in pleasant surprise
only for the moment it exists.
Understand nothing lasts forever.
Don't give it away all the time.
and form a forcefield- a wall if it wills.
Always focus on the next task at hand.
Stop being so gracious-
and have more ambition,
demands that are either met or excelled,
higher standards.
You are stone until you want to be water.
Trees until you want to be storms.
The mouse until you want to be the owl.

My body won't allow me to feel for you anymore.
Though the warmth of your blanket is comforting-
it's not enough when the cavity in my chest
is empty.
When we're not together it's filled with promise,
and while it's easy to see that I miss you,
I don't miss the absence of my heart
and its presence in your palm.
I loved you too much and it's a problem- I know.
Because it isn't a love you can reciprocate.
So with each day apart, I feel the blood in my veins,
and I try to keep breathing for myself.
And to those grieving with a similar fate,
I know you've heard it before- it's not easy but in time
I'm trying to grow out as far as you did and then some,
for good measure.
I used to feel safe in your arms,
but I feel the cold weather- more when we're together
than when we're apart.
And all of my mittens are worn and my fingers
can only clutch my heart for warmth-
so no I can't leave it at your house anymore
it's no longer the furnace you leave in the corner
while you sit in your blizzard, stoic, unapproachable.
It's not to keep someone new alive.
But I've got this numb skin that needs protection
from the storms you survive.

I could stop writing about *******,
But I just won't.

I love you so much,
I hate myself for it.

Wrapped up with the sky,
He said it speaks to us with words,
in the form of empty storms.
But the clouds don't shower thoughts
they only crowd the morning dew,
and the broken jukebox birds.
The chatter reminds me of my noisy efforts.
There was a time I said little-
"Don't trust the quiet ones."
They are the fools who believe in the blues and the sunsets,
sleep little and dream of promise.
Comfort brought me to speech
to explain the thunderstorms outside my windows
to shake off the dew his clouds
crowded in my chest
and the broken jukebox birds in my throat.
Yesterday he said I smelt like home.
The familiar scent of pillows and cover-
warm things in winter.
Campfire cinders.
Smoldered once in quietude-
burning with desire.
If my lips don't sound-
maybe I can hear the rumble of his clouds.
Maybe I can listen to his blues.
Watch his sunset in smoldering quietude.
Maybe he'll speak to me with words.
Or maybe he'll just rain on me
thoughtlessly.

Who ever thought brooks should babble,
should really sit down in a public space for bit.
Because the sounds of cool water
slipping past patchy grass, pebbles and soil,
is not remotely comparable
to the grating voices of middle-aged women
discussing fitness gear, dinner parties and wedding plans.
I've become taken with silence.
I finally understand why it is coveted and cherished.
Silence is when life tries to speak to you.
This is something I didn't entirely grasp when I was younger
and noise was the only validation of living I had.
But the thing about silence that is much like noise,
is that you can only tolerate so much.
And then it's no longer a validation- but an uncomfortable pause
that won't stop
until you respond
to life.

All of those identities that end in "t" and "r" and "n,"
make us feel god awful and self-conscious.
Singer, artist, writer, musician, mortician, poet.
Who entitles us to use them?

And it's true, your voice touches in between my shoulders,
and melts to the bottom of my stomach when you croon,
but you don't find yourself an apt enough player of the voice box.

And sure, painting the reasons why I woke from your dream,
might seem like I'm an artist, but I rather just say...
I enjoy painting.

And right, we like to etch words into books and alchemize
the desire to question into stories,
but we're just fans of reading.

And you know, when the air cradles the harmonies of your guitar
like newborn unicorns, I want to point and claim,
though you think you know too little to call yourself musician.

And yes, the way we lay our bodies to sleep every night sometimes hopeful we don't rise again,
is much like how we treat our desire to declare ourselves,
but that makes us only those who give the dead away.

And of course, my blood courses in order to stitch and weave worded thoughts like these together,
because they lighten our concerns and brighten our better qualities,
so of course,
yes,
I know,
Right,
Sure,
It's true,
I am a...
I might dabble in poetry, here and there. No big deal.

You cocked your head to the side,
smiling at the sight before you.
This meant you were happy.
Or amused.
Or in love.
Or all of the above.
You hold the world with a laugh.
What could he not grasp?
What he lacked was tact.
The commitment component.
He let you go for a moment
of what he believed was relief.
He was running from himself.
You were running from your grief.
A dead doll replaced you.
Shake your head in disbelief.
A dead doll couldn't face you.
She could not speak.
She should not speak.
If she wishes to keep her voice.
You'll strip her of her dreams.
You'll strip her of her choice.
Just like she did you.
The decision was made.
He'll fall away.
He'll fall away.
You'll run too far.
The moment was too long.
What he did was too wrong.
There's no flying back.
The cloud has now gone.
You're to smile to the masses,
and pretend you are strong.
Kiss your new grasses,
sing a new song.

I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.

If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.

If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.

If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.

Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******* clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?

"Don't try too hard."
Beloved mantra for today's people
who are so scared to be disrobed.
What ugliness are they hiding?
When there is a chance of failure,
to try is to be naked.
I forget this memo occasionally.
I'm the one who makes passionate love
to my attempts, embracing ******,
and this, sometimes, I come to regret.
But there are times when
my results are beautiful,
and worth every inch of shame ridden.

To my left
there is my lover.
To my right
I see my sister.
In front of me
there's uncertain mist.
Trailing me,
feelings persist.
I'm encircled by
so many souls,
but still I feel all alone.
Am I selfish?
To want more?
To fill the space
I've become?
Look to the light
and I see nothing.
Search for pictures
and get only words.
Lonely words.

I lock my eyes to their counterparts-
the alter-ego of my ego.
I stare into the mirror
not to remark on my beauty,
or the flaws that can seem etched
into the glass,
but because I can't trust any other window,
to look into my soul as deeply.
And when I look at this mere reflection,
there is a love so superficially profound,
that can only be understood
when pupils match up perfectly.

I lift my head ever so slightly,
snuggle back in.
When do we ever really owe ourselves?
And what?
Respect? A second chance?
Slumber is what we deprive ourselves,
or make bed-ridden with guilt,
when we should rejoice.
I am at peace when the phone is unimportant,
and I forget the day of the week.
Hell, this poem was perhaps my biggest feat.
But I'll tell you more, once I get some more sleep.

I looked at their hands,
and how effortlessly they laced.
She wore a pastel purple and he was all black.
And they were impossibly beautiful.
Everyone was enjoying pineapple cake,
while the band played orchestrated indie music.
The place was large, and I was passed the mic,
Say some things for the happy couple!
"I...
I am really jealous, and I could only dream
of something remotely close to this
in my future.
Real love
I'm talking about a real love.
I...hope they go on like that...
-motioning at them making out-
forever."
In the back of my throat there was almost
a satisfying fear forming
that they'd become a statistic.
It never left my mouth,
it just stayed in my stomach until I met him.

I bit down on my back teeth,
and let the air release from my nose.
I want to scream,
I want to break things,
but I can write fury instead.
There is a typhoon in my chest,
that is ejected from my pen.
My paper rips from the pressure.
I imagine it be like skin,
and how this ink bleeds
boiling hatred
is what I thirst for when
the adrenaline kicks in.
Because when all is said and done,
and bloodshot eyes glance downward.
The reality washes over me-
I have made
in madness.

Voices exclaiming in the distance,
It's 1:44 am.
I wish you didn't feel so righteous.
But maybe you are right,
There could be better things than this.
And though I love you
And I could be drunk,
And feel empty in the morning.
I can't help but feel what I'm believing in is like what the world finds
Wrong.

too much of anything is a bad thing-
when I told her of how my teenage cousin
touched me when I was three,
a Buddhist monk with that mantra
squeezed my hand gently.
she saw the glow
overflowing in my eyes
and nodded, as the minutes rolled by
the overcast skies in her gaze
were relieving.
they reminded me that
the restraints are only
as strong as I resist,
so my hands pried
themselves from promise
and my fingers reached
the wisdom clouds above us.
they drew the rain
and let the glowing flood
be just fine.

Despite all of our desires,
the anger I feel
cannot be quelled by smashing her face in.
There isn't a possible way
she could feel the pain I'm in.
She did not build two years-
loyal and resilient.
She did not fret over the moments,
or condemn herself for the sins.
She does not feel remorse
at least on the surface.
She will be a non factor-
after I finish writing this.
No more checking on her,
ignorance is.
No more cringing at her comments
on those photos of his.
No more letting the desire
to separate the two *****.
The toilet should **** her in,
and keep her down where she should live.
No more watching it spit back up.
Jiggle handles and don't give a ****.
Goodbye hammers.
****** face.
She's now gone out of this place.
My sweetest is revenge,
is to let her go.
Let her reign
and not let her know.

You know when you dont care anymore?
When you don't have emotions to spare anymore?
Yeah, that.
Whatever.

I don't think you have the slightest
about the alarm that goes off
when your arm brushes against mine.
It says WARNING.
Be careful.
Just too close.
Like the lady at the museum,
who wore wild red curls,
that extended and gripped the viewers
who were centimeters away from the paintings.
"TOO CLOSE!"
So when you grabbed me,
and ran miles around my mind,
before I had to moment to find
the courage to say- "I think we're going too fast,"
My heart would have told you with every
song it skipped.
My spotify woud have told you that I was not ready.
Because every second I spend alone
is occupied not with thoughts of you-
I'm sorry.
You're new.
But thoughts of the many daggers that have be thrown
into my bones.
And you're not him, thankfully.
But I'm so very sad about that too.
I know your shoelaces will stay tied.
I know you're in it for the ride.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Thank you.
For keeping him off my mind for few moments.
I'm sitting in my room,
thinking of how many kisses he's consumed.
****. ****. ****.
Why did he fit the bill for me?
You're beyond that entirely.
Why don't you fit the bill for me?
Am I only drawn to beatings?
Have I tasted so much defeat,
that I can't ever allow myself a victory?

I'm lost and I'm scared and I'm sorry you are there.

I cannot wait until the thought of you
only awakens moths in a dusty place
and nothing close to the tremors you leave in your wake,
today.
I cannot wait until I see your trace,
and don't see your face.
and when I hear the echoes of a most familiar place,
I won't shake.
I won't feel the quake.
I'll smile and look onto sacred vows I gave myself,
I won't let myself go.
I'm important for just anyone else to hold.
You could not come two feet within my distance,
not just for wisdom, though the bounty for your fists
are worth two million.
And the rest of you is priceless.
But I've lost interest in the hunt.
I take my bow and shun all that chase a runt,
a half-man,
a troll
like you.
You had the appearance of a king,
with a love that had skewed
and a brain that renewed
thoughts that made you brood,
on every individual man that had came in your place before
you never felt that you evened the score,
until you cheated.
And now here you are,
speaking to me as if you were defeated.
Enjoy her.
Good night.
Stop wishing for me.
You only ask when she's not enough.
I'm just done with this stuff.
It's bland.
It's done.
Out of sight.
Good night.

Was it your final flight?
Entrapped in leather armor
you pierced me hot and dizzy
excruciating and unforgiving.
****** for haram invasion,
when we plowed through
your nesting grounds.

Splattered amongst the visor
your sisters died in vain
but you, you left a mark
had me faint on the bike
falling backwards, alarmed
almost victim to your kamikaze.
Only soothed with more poison.

Swollen sordid pretense,
will it die away?
Though not the predominate,
I feared amputation
from your martyrdom.
But your irreverent venom
only plagued me for a weekend.