We are each...
just learning each other
my core is shaken by
how quickly
the world stopped
and my empty soul
playfully slid around you
and settled in your eyes.

I have always believed
in the thought of you...
the reality of you however
is very articulated and exacting
you are my karma
I am your bridge.

I am slowly learning
what real love is.
I'm scared... paralyzed...
comfortable... ecstatic...
and very impatient.

We are just now
learning...Us
creating....
believing...
My inner sense of self
changed
when you became mine.

the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
thought

you dreamt of him last night.
you can't remember what he said
but his mouth whispered poetry
and his hands made a screenplay.

he wrote a note on a napkin
with a blue ballpoint pen,
you can't recall what it read
but such a phrase could start a novel.

you crumpled the paper towel in your hand with rage,
he ran back into your mind and lit a fire in your heart
causing your pulse to waltz and hum
to the song that played.

you dreamt of him once more
for words he said the last time you met his eyes.
you were drunk, of course
and a sentence can become a masterpiece in the blink of an eye.

draining half a bottle of cheap *****
merged with sour lemonade and stale diet coke
won't stop you from making similes between running your fingers through his hair
and the bubbling sensation of a fizzy drink.

i know you tried coffee and it made your hands tremble
with a wariness that obliged them to write,
and you compared caffeine to his touch
and the colour of coffee to the specks in his eyes.

i also know cigarettes didn't work,
their bitter taste reminds you of the arrogance in his expression
when he utters your name,
the despise contained in those two words until articulated by his face.
you don't need another drug that inspires metaphors longing to be made.  

his scent can't be replaced by twelve glasses of perfumed champagne
and even if caffeine makes your heart beat faster than he ever did
all you see in coffee grounds are his big brown eyes and his chocolate mane.
reeking of cigarettes won't do more than cloud your windpipe and put in mind the burn of your hands intertwined.

no substance will ever overshadow the drug a human being can come to be and no abstinence syndrome will be as dreadful as waking up from a dream.

i walked down my street today
although it doesn't belong to me
i still like to pretend it does
like i grew up here
like i belong here.

oh well.

so anyway i was walking
and i saw this old woman
hobbling toward the flower shop.
this struck me as a rather romantic idea
and pretty cliche, too
but what the ****.
it wasn't really the fact that she was walking to the flower shop
that interested me
although the teenaged girl side of me
was sobbing the same tears that hadn't been shed
over The Notebook
(i wish Nicholas Sparks would die in a hole)

...i think i'm getting off track...

but in that minute or two
that i watched her walk
her hair cut to her chin,
her glasses thick
i didn't see
an old woman.
i could see quite plainly
who she had been in the 1920's.
short, unflattering dress
necklace
tight around her neck
the strut
that only a woman
in the roaring twenties
could pull off.
she quite clearly articulated
hidden love affairs
with mustached men
amber drinks
in crystal glasses
stenographers
and married bosses.
and even though she's now
wrinkly
old
stooped
her former glory
still remained
i could still see it
even now.
and really
i guess i wouldn't mind getting old
if  i could be as ******* cool
as the old lady
i saw on the street today
that doesn't belong to me.

Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

Move over incompetence-
That’s my seat.  

We’ll have tea.  The herbal variety.
And talk about my listless absence
over rosehips and peppermint.

It has been a long road trip
on awkward interstates,
since I have eaten poetry.
It tastes tangy on my tongue-
tahini and tap water,
like salad dressing gone south.  

I went south, since last we spoke.  
I cry still for the colors,
the blues and greens that burned my eyes
and transfigured my palette.
The mountains spoke foreign languages
but blessed me with new ears to hear,
but I did not record their tales.

I sit now trying to catch a shimmer of their dialect
but I am full of empty English.

I repent now,
of my caustic neglect,
to the nymphs of creative order—
and humbly bow myself to the sword of
articulated
chaos.

Swallow's yearning soars
Articulated in flight
Of sweeping French curves

Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated

I sat alone at night
Wondering and thinking in the dark
Now and then there were times
Where it'd be impossible to find
A series of meaningful rhymes

All the stuff I wrote in the past
Were simple words
Without a meaning behind them
Complicated words
To make a poem seem more articulated

But what for?
I am still here
Sitting alone at night
Wondering and thinking
Of meaningless junk

in this world of the limped nuptial
i’ve appeared as a power-missile of the lac-dye
that is used by the hindu women
to paint the border of their feet

the tooth-ache of some-one pumpkin
that grows on the thatched roof of a hut
has wringed spirally  
my mythological birth with corporate death

managing and arranging  my thoughts
on what I was in the past
what I would be in the future
or what is my dos at present  
the wonder-paintings of the altamira cave
unfolds its wings beside my painful in-growing nail

and in her own sky of miss marry  
my hands become so much condensed in every drops
as if within that moping smog
without any speech
speaks the twinkle twinkle little star…

beside  that labour pain what awakes then
is the patronage of a one-horned idea
along which while walking  without much preparation
i can enter into any e-mail

though our love pulls a very long-face about itself
and in the opinion of the married women
the sigh of the sin θ of our love wants to cultivate
mustered-seeds on the soil of the inhabitants
of this human-life
with a stick by which the monkeys are driven out
what more can i say in lieu of
a piece of red-salute written in green ink

if i say in the dawn of the 52-cards
i touch your face
by the hands of a school-boy
your calmness and earthly perfume
make me stunned

then in this field of sweat and war
the explosion of logic and intellect
of your top-floor
seems more famous anchor than the milk
that spilt over on the fire

and more to say
when daubing all over the body
all taste of the path of joy
enter into then fort of gold you can notice there
when in some unknown moment
my pajama dies socially
by the bite of the snails and oysters

to keep the heart of the break-kiln always move
this form-less interactions are so well
in the harvest-arrangement of the late-autumn
we are all uttering the name of cherry-flower
and begging shelter from the mango leaves

the cause of spreading over of the fragrance
from our secret myrobalan to every side of the pillows
is not only such that in the morning
an empty ink-*** says to the rain-water
you are beautiful

it is also remarkable that
coming to our half-articulated  travelling
the writings carved on the granite stone
become very much ashamed also

and  taking the busy market-price of the sun-glass
in the fold of the **** cloth tied at the waist
my both hands are also marked very much
in the omnibus of the dancing-bar

such is just because it is the art and science of navigation
that pastes some earth-wave
having no number-plate
with the public
rolling down  on the mat of the summer

it is impossible
to memorise the history of  those
so much contended-hunger
so much contended-sleep

it is all right that the staff-members
of our vibgyr university are all alive  
but they are the existence of some
bio-data only

arrangement of so much smiles and tears
in the nomenclature of banana-bed of mrs sofia
is not to tell the directionlessness of her fishery products
but if the culture of the wild trees assuming figure
then there remains no separate entity of the rbcs
inside or inside-up of the veins and arteries

all are the world of cosmetic-surgery
all are the arena of displaced national integrity
that is the only way to get admitted
into the still water of the horse-race

so the making of this self-portrait of the tip-cat game
by own-hand
so is the fancy of the engagement ring of the bursar

as a result of the headache in the au fait knee-joint
all the rats on the rice-*** of margaret  
become very angry
and when they make their performance  
you can’t catch them by extending your hands

so there is this sky-blue printed sari of desdemona
now take refuge under her perfumed disaster
and it is feared that there may be the drops of sweat
on the lobes of her nose extremely devoted
that the trees become to reside in

how much confusing is that cascade
in each of whose earings the dark fortnight
and whose eden garden is so large
that all those  people with crevasses dwell there

they stay in a group of nine
neither eight nor ten
just n for 9
n is also meant for the nancy
and the narcissus
and the sensational appearance of the
nereid  

once again we rub green-chilly after pouring water
in the parched-rice on the ancient plate made of brass
it is right that the peak is separated down from the temple
but it does not hurt the priest

by the right of our walks strewed outside
we too when hiding ourselves in the regime of fire
with our intention and activities
with our standpoint
with our conduct and  behaviour
or any instant rule or direction
or our deeds
that compel the rotation of the deodorant

thus after the eye-operation
the love between you and me is now
seeing more week-ends than before
to her knee has been submitted many caws
painted in water-colour

in every corner and every hole of the body
that pulls the rickshaw the wind enters
and in every root-cause of the sufferings
the ripple of annihilation of love

from the shop of dip-swimming now
you can also purchase soundlessness  
to feel  the spirit of  chrysoberyl

now you need the work for 100 days
to gain the power you need to keep pace
with the graph of the terracotta
that may also be a long day of fasting  

then on the back of that hungry conch-shell
a globe shouts
the other’s world puts its office-water
in the fountain of cactus the roaring of which
pours so many telephone-calls into the ears

then in our market the ear-bursting sound of the generator
then in our forest-land
the bullet-fight between maoist and the joint-force

then with the enlarging and waning of our moon
are the bright fortnight the dark fortnight and the leaves of wood-apple

you may say now
those demerits relate to the seeds of the gm oranges
but just think the scanning of hibernation of the philtre
or of the kite the thread of which is cut off
they can’t escape their responsibility too

then tell me to whom i could give
my sad melting point  

but then to do any work means
this trigonometry
outside the territory of copyright

then the connection of the biscuits
with the thoughts of the fire-works
is clearly dismantled

the border-zone of all relations thus keep themselves apart
and due to a sharp difference in the chromosomes of sand-stone
our dwelling-house becomes a museum

to build a hospital with a big moustache
at last within the hypnotized company
the shadow of our bed-room appears

then the light of the social moon  is like the materials
with which the inner parts of the sorrows of the pomelo
is made up

it may be well for making great
the art-work of the horse-rider
that is wrapped with the handkerchief of ocean  

it must be waiting for my shampoo-power too

some cure may be offered by the paraffin
and her open hair

but one deed of the rose-petals
and the convex sweet drops of molasses  
is the flame of thumb-impression
that is born and brought up by the pan-cake
in-between sauce-pan and peter pan

in this all-pervasive panorama of slang-opera

I am not a writer. I am millions of atoms carrying energy from my heart to my
fingertips. And I thank this pen for its generosity, and I beg forgiveness from
this paper. I am not a writer; I simply bleed ink that shifts its shape to help
others comprehend. I and my words are separate beings; they wanting to be
understood, and I wanting to simply be heard. I will speak in a monotone whisper
to see who comes closer. Who will still be around when my voice is gone? The
voices in my mind are far more articulated and wise than the language I mumble
and wail. I am a book without a book mark and a chapter without a title. My
pages stay unnumbered to mirror my days. And so, maybe I am not a novel they
will teach you about in grammar school. I am no fairy tale or wise man.  I am a
book with far too many typos and not enough white-out. I am a diary full of
secrets, a journal filled with information. I am a bible, I am my only savior.
But it will never be an autobiography, because I am not a writer.

Forever racing down the highways
of madness in the mind
I scuttle and scare at the engines roar
tossing the needle into overdrive
red bursting at the seams of gravity.

Fully entrenched in  the fast lane
I swerve to avoid articulated trucks
filled with layers of reason on why
I should humble myself in this societies
black hole of boundless depravity.

Given the delicious curve of the racetrack
and the one hundred reasons for delectable
togetherness, I shift to a slow rhythmic pulsating finish
savouring every moment I spent in your clockwork
seduction.

Fuelled and fantasy driven  I polish
and promote my car with all its grunts and bruises
and speeding tickets, near misses
and conquests as a dangerous drivers
logbook of mysteries and miseries.

This model is old and antique
but oils well and grunts its way to stardom.
Price tag-negotiable!

Author Notes
Is this a anything like a fancy car?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Chapter VI
Strigoi frigate

In the spring of 331 b. C., Alexander left Egypt returning to the port of Tire, where his fleet was. From there he went to Antioch, crossing the valley of the Orontes River, and reached the Euphrates River at the height of Tapsaco, where he founded the city of Nicephorus to be a stronghold and deposit for army supplies. Here he learned that Darío was in Arbelas, so he crossed the Tigris and headed north along the eastern bank of the river. Vernarth's troops would depart from Tire where his fleet was located, which came from Sudpichi, from the Horcondising Empire. Legend has it that in the heights of the Gulf, when his army had been sailing, a mysterious tempest of hot winds from Hormuz broke out on his squads, at the heights of 665 miles from Um kasar, they had encountered a ship from present-day Romania . When spotting them and intervening inside this frigid ship, there was nothing but the creaking of their masts and their main **** spurring, they presented palisade curtains that came from Sighisoara / Transilvania; where the very like Vlad Tepes was sitting behind the captain's camera writing at his desk. Every so often he would take out a handkerchief to dry his ****** nose like drops of slimy, slimy jelly ink. He was writing a letter in the text of which said:

Vlad Tepes says to the Vernarth captain:
Mardiath,  his noble and loyal hussar of the sea. Head of his Gulf fleets, he came across the deck, as he turned around by the bowsprit, picked up and struck by some parasitic ropes that shone like lost thighs of gods in prayers they felt for the whistles of the wind. He approaches and descends the dark ladder stairs towards the water pump whose heresies this ship Vladiana was hanging.
“When I train myself to write saying who I am who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as me condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World”

Now I know that no one will answer my thoughts. There is no ink that dares spread a comparable feather that resists my words of ammonia Strigoi, usurped from a Balinger ship to some Flemish pirates, seconded by a Panescalm barge, which was throwing 64 thousand massacred bodies of the Bubonic Plague.

Mardiath, graduated from the balinger and left her sword to Vlad next to a geographical table to find her destiny in some maiden who attends to her disorders more than her ganglia suppurate discouragement. He heads back to Tire to meet Vernarth. And her minions,  to finally head to the wild fields of Gaugamela.
On the gallon of the Macedonian Wine cruet Vlad left him a notice...:

“In order for Strigoi to leave their victims alone, seeds must be scattered with nails hidden inside them. These obsessive creatures cannot go their way without first counting the seeds by throwing the brides' lace to the altar. When they ***** with the hidden nails, they start counting again… ”

In the frenzy of his prophecies, Darius had recruited a new army after his defeat at Issos. From Babylon he advanced north, passed the left bank of the Tigris, and continued toward Arbelas as if guessing that he would never escape the Alexandrian shadow, where he established his supply and his harem. Then he directed the army to Gaugamela, a place that had a wide plain that would favor the movement of its numerous mounted troops but not on Hellenic horses with Homeric gales within reach. He even proceeded to level the terrain and remove obstacles as if emphasizing fearing that the moon would resemble holes in his strategies where his dreams would fall, turning Gaugamela into an immense field of maneuvers suitable and great and indigestible for his chariots equipped with scythes to move on the oppressor wheels.

Thirty-sixth Oases in Siwa:
Alexander Magnus after founding Alexandria he marches to the Siwa oasis, where he is proclaimed by the priests as "son of Ammon", god already identified with Zeus by the Greeks. With this, he consolidated his own divine ancestry, as a descendant of the Argéada dynasty, which went back to Heracles and, therefore, to Zeus himself.

The entire dynasty moved from its acropolis under the limits of each empire to what would be the final battle. This time Darío does not want surprises, so he arrives at the battle stage in advance. As always, he has his cavalry on the flanks, with the heavy infantry in the center and the rear. It also has more than 50 war chariots with sickles on the wheels and about 15 elephants.

Alexander launches the attack diagonally and the Persian left wing defends himself as best he can. Vernarth, Simultaneously harasses Strigoi's allegories by subordinating the Persian chariots that speedily launch upon the Macedonians. Many of the drivers are headless by the arrows of the draconian archers. The rest pass by as the Macedonian infantry opens. This strategy is complemented by a second line of heavy infantry called the Force of the Dead from in the Siwa Mountains, which receives the stray tanks, while the first line turns around and attacks them from the rear guard surrounding them. Opening a gap between the Persian lines, Alexander's cavalry managed to wedge themselves in search of Darius. As in Issos, the Persian king is stuck and unable to maneuverIn this onslaught, see how the prognosis moves more fluidly, after the textual support with Strigoi in his Balinger he was able to allow himself to advance the ellipsis of the ****** battle and more importantly of the defenders of the embolism of the tyrant and secular Gods, in his caves of lost and soul pains. Since this last festival of the Siwa soils, the events of Alexander Magnus and Vernarth can be seen.

He only separated the lashed rows of threads from the majestic Bumodos, before entering the back room of the great fight. It is now thirty-six times that he needs the therapeutic methods of Walekiria, to supply him through his veins with ****** essences to immortalize his stout columns that support the beams of the Hellenic world.  Caryatid that flows through the delta of the cries of all the heroes,  devoid of helmets under the limits to resign.

Ellipsis Tomb of the Patriarchs:
Vernarth says: You are not a vision ... nor an illusion, nor a lonely image, because if so, include my image to accompany you in this tragedy! He tells Walekiria, his seductive valhalica.
My little Walekiria, not the slightest disdain, will make me leave you halfway, we are in the same position to remove the terror that creeps through the spaces of the plain of the Gaugamela cemetery. Here we will scare away all the demons that betray our plans. Only you here in the Charioteer's particle crypt. Mardiath tied to the acacia and Alikanto spitting out more fiery fires that will reduce the unproductive paperwork. To improve that others optimize the sharp means to use to overcome the medium that has darkened all hopes. Now we are going to plot the plans that we have improvised in this barracks.

Walekiria says to him:
My mind together with my feeling make me closer to you Verbarth. It seems that now more than ever I will hold on to you more. Since our gross bodies lack any possibility of holding together.

Vernarth when leaving says to him:
Of the cosmic forms, yours Being has been hit in my box in Andromeda. Vitalizing and healthy part will strengthen what remains of your exploded mind and my elevated feeling to the ethereal worlds, will make rainbow emblems for your resentment.

To be continued… / under edition

We're all subjects of love
Subjects of fear and longing
living day by day
because -
Smiling at the right people,
vibing the wrong.
Everyone sings their own song
of their own love.

Fear and longing hide
in the inner parts.
I never wanted an ignorant melody
thickly articulated through a cloud of smoke,
tickling a beer glass
confused and stenching
because-
We all learned some manners as children
and knew they were true,
waving our banners of politeness,
mine red, yours blue.
Purple would be a royal colour
if we combined the two.

You're wrong.
I might be right
because-
all heads are "me" when they hit the pillow at night.

fading out with each rhetorical question
on the cutting board
keeled over before a threat was articulated
senses failed and I got high off of your body pressed
against mine
with flames on our lips
we could have given up so easily
and why didn't we
we were both so young
too naive to chase a single whim
rambling on about our own anxieties
comparing scars
the night the clouds came in
and I couldn't think anymore
and the downpour
I couldn't hear you
it sounded and felt like gunfire
pointed downward
the downpour
the violence of letting go

where to begin?
                                                     not this **** again
            the constant deliberation
                                                    ­                 your harsh beration

is that even a word?


I wouldn't know, you're not here to correct me


But I'll still prostrate myself before you
Never imply, never implore you
to swallow the pride I so eminently taste
on the tip on your tongue in the flames of your space

for I articulated immensely and pure,
I've no pride left -- I've already tried to say

                                   that I Miss You

In the olive branch of thought, or concern, or encouragement


The snicker on your lips at the edge of the cord
Has snapped in my face, in a favored exchange
You say I don't owe you
But maybe I do?
I couldn't tell you why

                                                       I'll still say I Miss You

Chuckle in my face
                                            say I'm looking too hard
when half passed a year, and I saw that you star-        -ted
to write in the place I hold dear to my heart
You played where you meant and you knew these parts

I would puzzle together would puzzle my head
to ensure that your seed had been planted and fed

And I hate the feeling you put in this trough
                             I'll lap at the puddle, still claim that is

All Love.

                        You forget that I know you
From that you can't hide
                         You forget that I know the shake in your voice
When you lie

                                                         Despite your uncanny ability still,
This hostility doesn't suit you
                                         Not that I think that I will
change that as of late.


I just wish you could swallow that burdened mind
The one with the Pride?
The one you never tried

                                                     to combat or control
because control is a need


I see that , I know that ,              so control what you please


But no more, not me
It's me.
It is me.

Can you not at all, remember it's me?

Not a burden
A binding
An obligation "back home"

No pressure
No lectures
Just a box of our notes.

The snipping aversion proceeding the kind
Doesn't look good on you,

I've reached and I've tried.

So I'll favor this favor, because my heart's cured --

Unbandaged,
         I'll tell you I Miss You
                                                          once more.





                                 this time try to
Be honest with me.

Seldom have I seen such strength, such purposefulness shown
And I have witnessed many who have made their message known,
Immovable this woman stands in seas of raging tide
Where friend and foe, as challengers, she’s deftly swept aside.
Resolute she stands atop white cliffs of blazing chalk
To glare across the Channel where her predecessors stalked

In league with Winston Churchill with pugnacious jawline set
When he thrashed the fiend in Jackboots and field grey appuletes.
In league with Margaret Thatcher with that glint of grey in eyes
To the accolades of Gorbachev who recognised the prize.
In league with Boadecia the ghost of power past
Who rallied this great nation to fight on to the last.

Snapping at her ankles the dogs of turmoil writhe
And comrades of another time amass to criticise,
Labourites howl murderously to all who would take heed
While the rabble rousing Europeans joust to intercede.
Swirling round her skirts they mass now screaming their abuse
At her articulated message of a pathway less obtuse.

If Tony Blair had the ***** it’s to her side he’d dance
As would Jeremy Corbett but of that there’s little chance,
Her Majesty stands forthright, as do all her heirs
Including Will and Harry who are cheering from the stairs.
Dianna’s there in spirit plus the Kiwis from the pub
And the rough crowd from the chippie all dolled up with a scrub.
She needs ALL of you behind her in her struggle for the best,
Independence for Great Britain is ascendancy’s great quest.

The very heart of what It means to dwell within these shores
The very heart of what it means to be Brittish to the core.
England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales combining for the task
Of a guarantee of future from the quagmire of the past.
We SHALL stand behind Teresa May and make our voices heard
As we scream aloud the anthem to impart our final word….

RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITTANIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER…
SHALL BE SLAVES!
Boom, boom, boom
RULE BRITANNIA,
BRITANNIA RULE THE WAVES
BRITAIN NEVER, NEVER EVER….
SHALL BE SLAVES!

M.
18 December 2018

I want to form cities on my tongue, built up with all the beautiful things I've never said to you. The people would be clothed in white, and the skyscrapers would kiss my palette. I would take you to sit on the park benches, where fingernails have indented the wood and first kiss dates were carved into the backrest. I would walk you down the sidewalk, made up of all the unspoken "I miss you's" and let you pick flowers that have bloomed in the cracks between the pavement. I would show you the beauty in the darkness of empty alleyways, I would hold your hand on the edge of the tallest bridge. I would kiss you in front of the world, and shout my love for you into the void.
There are so many words you have never heard. So many times my lips have articulated "I love you" but never followed with a sound to resonate it. Maybe that's why we're not in the city. Maybe that's why you're at the other end of the room starring at walls, waiting for them to cave in and fill the silence. We always wanted more than this, but I have this fear of leaving and you have a fear of losing what was never yours. I hope I can show you the city someday, maybe you'll see my love for you clearly under bright lights. But until then, I'm trying to find it in me to get my tongue untied.

Such a delicate specimen should not be as humble
As to refer to her own talents with such nonchalance.
As though they are none more passionate than that which
I had allowed to spiral out of control
And lead my mind to an early grave.

Such beautiful words must be just only reflected
By any mirror which she glances away from guiltily;
Or perhaps by the glass, having been shattered,
And having been spread along the path
From which she simply refuses to stray.

I have heard her stanzas; her lines; her words,
And yet isolated they lose their bite.
The truth she speaks is far more prominent than that of my own,
As though the words have been ripped from he mind and laid raw,
But far more artful and complex.

Her beauty I can not even begin to fathom
Although she speaks of it as though it is simplistic.
She calls herself a realist, but she's anything but real.
Not in my mind, at least - nothing so ideal could exist;
Nothing so worth living for could waste its time on me.

Every fault she has, every word she's spoken out of context;
Every word she has neglected to speak for lack of time;
Every sound she's suppressed for lack of understanding -
It's enchanting to me - much more enticing than it would be
Had she articulated it to perfection and engraved it on her skin.

Nothing I pile on paper could fully describe her -
Not my harsh words; not the dulled mutterings in my veins.
Credit could only be granted successfully by her own hand,
And yet she does not see it - she is blind to her own brilliance.
So perhaps my only purpose is to show it to her and make her understand.

Never fall in love with a poet.

Her familiarity with words
How she can gather and pick the best of consonants and syllables from the white picket fenced field that has a sign near the entrance labeled  "alphabet"
and with this she may offer you a bouquet of sentences carefully articulated and placed in a specific manner to look effortlessly marvelous

How she will always fall asleep with a thought
And turn them into thought infused dreams
And then churn this mixture in the mechanisms within her
Bring forth a lovely array of vocabulary that sounds like rhythmic melodies to your ears

Never fall in love with a poet.

She will know your words all too well
Because she knows words all too well
She knows that they aren't always what they seem
And no matter how many words you offer back to her in return
A lesson is engraved within her heart which solely believes
that words can not be given alone

The beauty of words must be matched with the strength of actions
Less your beautiful words will be nothing but a distraction
Without the fibers of action to hold your words together, to wrap her up in a cloth of security and warmth
Everything you will say and have said before is just
sweet poetry

And she, my dear, is a poet
Who has too many a poem tucked away in the deepest corners of her heart
What good will just your poem do?

I cannot hear.
Sound has lost its crispness.
Articulated consonants
have merged into blurred murmurings.

The loss was not sudden.
No cataclysmic happening
but rather a gentle deterioration
of a faculty, once taken for granted.

Normal conversation, once a joy,
has become a struggle.
Repartee, chit chat, a little banter
is no more.

The quality of sound
once reverberated and filled spaces;
now I have no spaces – just tinnitus,
constantly grinding away.

To be sightless is to be aware,
with other senses sharpened;
but deafness leads to
introspection, loneliness and deep despair.

The half blind wear their glasses
and look so very wise.
The deaf man, with his hearing aid,
dithers.
                                          

I should know.


                    ~

at the age of 6 my heart thumped and my pulse ran, trying to save itself from you.
i might’ve been young and you were too, but still my heart thumped.
i started to get the idea of your presence.
even though the memory faded and your face did too, i will never forget you.

when i reached the age of 8, i distinctly remember you asking my name. & my mind froze.
my tongue turned the other way, i had forgotten my manners but still in my mind i was responding.
even though we exchanged thoughts, and i had forgotten to tell you my name – i still remember you.
i always replayed memories we never made, sounds strange but i was only a kid, i was only subloving. my heart kept thumping.

and then when i was 10, i started to recognize the way you form your thoughts and paint them for the world to see.
i stared for hours at your masterpieces, i didn’t understand but still i wanted more.
i became addicted to your voice.
you were once hurt by words, words that cut through your skin like a thin blade. you were broken, yet you still lived.
my heart kept thumping for you. i respected that.

at 12 – beautiful age 12, i watched you as you sat on a bench sketching a tree in colors of black and white. i admired you. i liked the way you formed a smile, and i loved the passion in your eyes, and the ambition you had for life.
you gave your heart to art, and loved conversation.
even though right now we’re miles away, the memories will always stay.
we never spoke, but our eyes did, i remember us exchanging metaphors with our eye lids.
my heart has your name engraved.

then came 14, and i learned about real love. keep your cool love, don’t be scared to say **** love, express yourself even if nobody cares love, this is not forever love, you’re just a kid love.
you taught me that love.
although that love choked me, i still had that ‘i don’t care, **** it im young’ love.
you taught me to respect me, and love the ripples i feel when my heart hurts.
you deserve the thank you kinda love.
i was reluctant to embrace those feelings, but i guess right now i can hold myself down.

but my biggest mistake was forgetting 16, i started to fall in love with the way you articulated your words. your speech pattern was beyond my words.
your footsteps was all i wanted to follow.
my only wish is for you to see yourself through my eyes, through my world and you would finally understand why my heart was thumping.

im desperately waiting for 18.

i learned only one thing: nothing gold can stay. nothing lasts forever.