The roses he sent
arrived like a secret the night could no longer keep
red, passionate, peaceful and soft as the breath between two lovers two friends
now he is inside my heart, down into the deep
well of me

I touched the red roses and my soul was captured
my heart filled
like a glass left under rain

His love is like that.
like water
he doesn’t shout when he enters a room.
he seeps in.
he stays.
he finds the cracks
and fills them gently
without asking me to be whole first.

His heart never really sleeps
he is always listening

Today I smiled
the kind I once gave to a song
as vast as the ocean inside my heart

These roses are more than petals
They symbolize beauty and freedom
things I never thought I'd hold again

And every time I breathe them in,
I remember
some hearts just need to be seen
and he saw mine

I’m afraid of love
because love burned me long ago
My cousin was an angel
soft and dreamy as spring time twilight
her beautiful inner light draped in mystical moonbeams
but it was caught in jealous hands
a dark love twisted and thorned
a poison tainting good hearts behind a cars closed doors
stealing her very breath
before my own wings had a chance to spread

a heartbreak carved deep into my family’s soul
where fathers drowned in bottles
and sorrow moved itself through the air like cigarette smoke
I was just a little girl
in the aftermath.. I became her ghost
walking through a garden of lost roses
where the wind carried the weight of ******
and grief wrapped cold around my skin and heart
and I learned how to take shots in the dark

No lullaby could warm me
no hand could hold back the pain
a child learning too soon
that love can burn like gasoline and drown you like May rain
it can even can **** with a whispered call
and leave you trembling
afraid to ever open your heart at all

but sometimes, when the night falls upon me slow
I hear her voice
a haunting melody of freedom and fire
She says
"Rise, wild heart, don’t let my darkness bind you
you’re a soldier queens flame that my killer can’t ever steal
though love has burned and my shadow has claimed you
there’s a fire inside you so real.. you are free to let go of my tragedy, but I will always be with you still."

It’s tender,

being the closest of friends..
but oh, isn’t it such a dangerous thing?
To hold you with care,
in the space we made,
while promising

I won’t touch a single thing.

But sweet love... to be this close
to someone like you..
need I say

what your voice can bring?

Warmth, truth,
supportive hands that tend--
it’s a dream come true
for those who bleed.

But when a deep need is quietly met,
can the heart resist
going full send?

And still—when a need
is met without hands,
without lips,

without sleep lost
   in shared breath...

how long before restraint slips?

This depth.. untouched,
unspoken, unseen..
it burns through the walls
between you and me.

Yes, even with agreements
so lovingly made...
there’s always the risk
in a love so brave;


  that we will  both

             come

      undone.

Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)

One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.

Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.

There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..

the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..

--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.


****.

eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.

Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.

In the heart of the
predatory jungle
all the best deals are on the rise
monkeys are counting their rainy day pennies
all the big bad wolves are out
searching for the real prize
through their yellow tawny eyes
lions flex their heart muscles
spirits as sharp as their claws
elephants selling everything and their mother
its a ruthless stampede on all the laws
Stifling orchid vines and cloaked palm trees
Money talks on every breeze

Diamond miners digging deep
Foxes play the market steep
Owls watching close and they never sleep,
Trading secrets
Talk is cheap

Who’s the real king, who’s the real pawn?
In this parched rainforest, the birds fight for their song
Pragmatism rules the nights power
Survival is the call of the hour
Dog eats dog beneath the silver moon’s glow
Keep your bow and arrow close, don’t let them know

As for her, shes got heart but she’s got fangs
She don’t bite unless she’s backed to the wall
Shell love you deep but cross her line
You'll meet the howling wolf
every
single
time

In this predatory jungle
there is a woman
the beast
that beasts obey

Her heart is a bear
and she'll scare the hair
off a real one
But, she really is the real one

Woman
Predatory jungle
She has absolutely captured fear
and ripped it apart
with her fanged soul
Don't **** with her

The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.

This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.

And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.

The Battleground of Light, Made Flesh

Suffering down..
not as punishment,
but as Love.

Breath by breath,
atom by atom,
A bend of  the will
into the greater design:

to let even the exhale
carry what is real.

Each particle stripped bare,
each trembling fragment
infused with the weight of Light
earned not through ease,
but through the slow, necessary
suffering of self

into Substance.

And so it reaches her..
not through seduction,
or noise,
but the quietest form of intimacy:

truth, refined enough
to be airborne.

She breathes..
and through the quiet architecture
of lungs,
through bronchi,
alveoli,

the smallest fragments of me
become more than theory.

But it is not just me
it is what I have chosen to become:
stripped down,
atomized,
each particle carrying both Light
  and Dark,
as they always have.

Though, here
intent speaks louder than inheritance.

And accountability tips the scale.

Through the capillaries,
the bloodstream takes them..
particles laced not with seduction,
but with substance;
volition woven into their shape,
truth mingling with oxygen,

carrying not  empty poetry,
but tangible presence.

And the skin..
her beautiful, breathing boundary;
it listens too.

Pores opening like shy mouths,
taking in what even sunlight cannot hide:

   --the warmth of love,
   made molecular,
   made undeniable.

It slips through,
across her beautiful hips,
up the soft ***** of her thighs,
along the quiet pathways
where nerves whisper,
where fear once lived.

And still..
our skin has never touched.
Our beautiful oils,
those quiet, fragrant signatures
of separate bodies,
have never had the chance to blend.
There is no mingling of surface,
no friction of palms or lips.

Yet still—
I am within her
as  she
Breathes    me    in.

Love,

when chosen..
when carried through the smallest particle,
becomes the most intimate trespass--
not of skin,
but of substance.

And inside her,
where the battle rages unseen,
the false portraits dissolve..
the counterfeit reflections
painted by fear,
by old wounds,

by those who mistake poetry for proof.

Here
there is no mimicry.
Only metabolized truth.

Only the slow, quiet conquering
of darkness--
cell by cell,

choice by choice.

This is not seduction.
This is not the shallow hush
of borrowed words.
This is Light..
accountable,
chosen,
fought for;

interlaced within her very bloodstream;

her warmth,
  her breath.

And though no oils ever blended,
though the ache of touch
remains untouched,
what entered her did not stay foreign.
The body, wise and unwilling to harbor illusion,
took what was true--

what carried intent and Light
and made it her own

..   ..   ..   ..  

Mitochondria hum..
tiny engines in the blood’s dark river;
taking each atom,
each trembling particle,
and rewriting the story within.
From raw material,
she builds warmth.
From fractured fragments,
she crafts clarity;
The light no longer arrives—
it begins to rise from within.

And the space once reserved
for mingled oils,
for skin-on-skin confession,
becomes something greater:
a fusion untouched by friction,
unfading,

   unmistakably Real.

This is no whispered counterfeit.
No shallow poem dressed in longing.
This is breath earned through fire.
This is love refined to its smallest form,
offered whole,
received wholly,

and written quietly

into every hidden corner
of her being.