for Sally, Bex and Tonya, Denel and my beloved

<>

gods do not seek forgiveness,
or comprehension,
desertion, desecration, ascension
or condemning condescension

but how how they crave
just a good conversation,
to get a word in edgewise,
a nice chat,
entrée à, la tête-à-tête,
entre deux, deluxe-amis

a casually talking,
absent of
words of need and beseech,
reason and causality,
and no I or We pronouns,
sans enunciations and annunciations,
false hopes for incarnations, incantations,
set asides for life's grievous aches
all human requests, and some of God's commandments
for now, set aside,
annulled

just a talk,
some repartee,
but mostly an open ear lent,
an early morn quiet listen
over tea (he/she) and coffee (me),
paying attention to
both sides of an interactive story

as recompense for my willingness to be,
his engaged counter party,
my mourning gloomier cloudiness,
quick exchanged for instant,
rising sunshine warming glorious

my vista
of a bay dancing
to Tchaikovsky Swan Lake ballet music,
deftly inserted between
an Agnus Dei and an Ave Maria

mood music he said,
and we chuckled,
he/she was god and orchestrated
my tastes,
Adele et Dudamel,
comprehending my undesirable apprehension,
by granting my needy wish for
poetic inspirational composition contentment

all exchanged,
for just a good listen,
no judgements, in either direction

I am the god of love,
the one who makes you weep,
when you study your beloved's rising chest,
each uplifted breast heaving,
a confirmation blessing,
that her life is present
for at least the next second,
ready for your magi adoration

be not fearful,
this day we talk only,
as I pass by,
I have no business to conduct,
on your island of sheltering redoubt,
but to engage and unburden
for even gods
are required to confess,
and aging godheads do adore
a human shoulder
upon to rest,
a great invention,
(If I may say so myself)
and to whom better to address
than my only love poetry
poète personnelle

here he off-guards me
with a favorite injection,
Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings,
music so sweet that it never fails
to weaken my knees,
sweeping my eyes unto weeping
priming me with this first coat of
sounds so elementary soothing

he half-bows before me and says,

forgive me human, for I have sinned

in Dallas and Nice,
just this past week,
with forays here and there,
doing god's work

read your bitterness and struggle,
anger and forgiveness all in one crust,
furious curses and wails so plaintive,
my heavenly musicians weep from jealousy,
at the cries emanating from the fired fury song
of human hearts torn and love plundered

I am the god of love

and

the god of pain and all that is the

anti-love

(and to make me better understand,  
Schindler's List score, so sweetly,
he plays for me,
to clarify the atmosphere,
that death and love -
and the courage of understanding,
so oft go hand in hand)

write me a love poem for me,
no hymn or sonnet do I require,
for love is essence of forgive,
there is no perfect union,
that cannot stand,
with out this emotion of
conciliatory intermediation

tell me you understand
that the scales
of bereft befallen,
disparate chance interrupting randomized,
must periodic perforce
sometimes weigh more,
than the good of simple

balance tip that creative god spark within,
of which you write,
away from my bloodied, unsightly hand

write me one more love poem
a frisson semi-sweet and cleanly neat,
of good things sad,
but worthy of remembrance

you are not the first for this bequest to receive,
other poet's before and after,
will Jacob-wrestle with my angels,
battling to find the...

no matter

"my love to thee is sound sans crack or flaw"^

let your love poem
to me
be of whole healing,
for these disarrayed feelings
cannot forever persist,
the perfect balance you desire
is not on your Earth existent,
unobtainable

these cracks and flaws must and will come


and yet

love poems
will be our common language

and then he/she left,
leaving this poem behind,
born from my mind, yet,
carved on my skin,
written with the nib of my rib,
sealed and signed,
future undefined,
but dated upon my
cleansed hand's lifeline,
hand held outstretched
as if to say

“and yet"

Three piles of stones…

Three I held most dear to my heart,
Three are those that perished,
Now three piles of stones fill the gaps,
That their ashen bodies have left.

Black reflective stones for my mother,
Who taught me all I know,
Who named me Green for my love of the garden,
My mother, who preferred blue-jay feathers to her pearls,
My mother, whose gap,
Occupied now by black stones.

Silver clear stones for my father,
Who was strong and honest,
My father, who once whistled a tune,
A tune returned by the surrounding sparrows,
My father, whose gap,
Occupied now by silver stones.

Pure white stones for my sister,
Who was beautiful and wild,
Who ran through the woods laughing
Who chased frogs through the mud,
My sister, who shone more bright than the moon,
Her gap,
Occupied now by pure white stones.

Three are those that perished,
The same number that I held most dear to my heart,
Ashes are their body remains,
Three piles of stones,
Now fill their gaps.

Ashes and stones…

Ashes and stones are all that is left,
Of the garden I loved to tend.
Zucchini and purple onions,
Peppers and blueberry bushes,
Row after row of prolific treasures,
Burned,
Banished,
Out of existence.

Onion and Ghost…

Onion,
My sister’s little terrier,
Who knew exactly what happened,
Who barked at the ash filled sky,
Onion,
The little terrier,
Who missed Aurora,
His watcher,
My sister…
My beautiful and wild sister.

Ghost,
The white grey hound,
A ghost dog,
White as a cloud,
Moving through the woods like mist,
The ghost dog,
Who resembled sorrow.

Onion and Ghost,
My two constant companions,
Who like me,
Have had their lives split into two halves,
The first, one of happiness and abundance,
The second, one of ashes and stones.

My neighbor…

The old woman,
Whose house stood in the woods,
Surrounded by an apple orchard,
The old woman,
Who had thrown stones to drive away,
The looters in my garden.

The old woman,
Who I repaid,
With a bucket and mop,
And made her house shine.

This old woman,
Wise and friendly,
Who traded birdseeds
For my bread loafs.

The Forgetting Shack…

The Forgetting Shack,
Where boys and girls drink gin to forget,
Where Heather Jones, with her white dress,
Dances around the fire,
Alone and lost.

Heather Jones,
Whose parents had perished,
Just as mine had.
Heather Jones,
Whom I gave my mother’s blue dress.

Heather Jones,
Who danced around the fire at the Forgetting Shack,
Whose feet were ****** from dancing all night,
Whose eyes were empty and sad.

Heather Jones,
Who soon disappeared,
Too busy with trying to forget.

Heather Jones,
Whose blue dress,
I found in torn pieces,
In the ashes of the fire.

Diamond…

The boy who ran from the fire,
Ran across the river,
In search of his mother,
Her portrait close to his heart.

The boy who didn’t speak,
The boy who was tired of running,
Who stood still as a shadow in my doorway,
Who wore his black hood to hide his eyes.

This boy,
Who I named Diamond…

Diamond,
With his hidden voice,
Me,
With my clouded eyes.

Leafs that were once black, now an apple green…

There was Onion and Ghost,
The sparrows and the wind,
And now there was Diamond.

I soon found myself singing,
Dancing,
Smiling.

The black ink leaves,
The black ink roses…
Slowly transforming into
Apple green.

Where did this change come from?
I was Ash,
With black ink in my skin,
With gray clouded eyes…

Green…*

Diamond is gone,
Diamond, who brought about change,
Diamond…
Who kissed me goodbye.

I missed Diamond,
Who painted watercolors,
Who believed the garden would grow again.

I missed Heather Jones,
Who wore my mother’s blue dress,
Who danced too close to the fire.

I missed Ghost,
A white mist through the trees,
A ghost dog,
Who resembled sorrow.

Most of all,
I missed my sister,
Aurora,
My beautiful, wild sister,
Who chased frogs through the mud.

I dreamed of those I missed,
I woke crying,
I cried away the cloudiness in my eyes,
Sun shown out the window,
Seedlings grew in the garden.

From then on, there was no Ash,
Ash blew away with the wind.

I was Green again,
Green who tended the garden,
Green who sang with the sparrows,
Green who danced in the sun,
Green who smiled.











*For my english class, we were assigned an independent reading project, and I chose to write a poem from the main character's perspective. The book is called "Green Angel" and the author is Alice Hoffman. Hoffman is one of the most beautiful writers of all time, and her books are extroadinary! I strongly suggest all you hello poetry friends to read it!

liberated:
the weight of you lingered until i was strong enough to push you away.

the fog has lifted:
the cloudiness of my mind replaced by the clarity of knowing i no longer want you here.

so walk away,
throw out your fingers to count those who let you down.
whilst you were mourning those who didn't care
the ones who did struggled
under the burden of a love
they could no longer bear

you pitied yourself,
now i pity you too
a cold, unfeeling pity reserved for those who cannot feel warmth

i told you to walk away.

Rain is refreshing in a strange, backward way. It shocks you out of a deep, prolific lapse of participation in reality and reminds you that you’re still here. You’re still corporeal, tangible, you can feel and you can decide. But rain is still rain. It can be cold and unpleasant to be faced with, or it can be warm and welcoming. Beconing you forth to splash and smile in the reality you forgot still applied to you.
    I left behind the idea of full, around the clock consciousness during my last frigid thunderstorm. I realized, during a session already dedicated to realizations, how exhausting it was trying to live my reality to its current extent. How frustrating and soul-crushing it is to have the ambition you truly believed in and planned to embark upon, forgone by the limits of a situation you have no control over. I kept a small jar of ideas and plans in the very back corner of my closet. They were safe, they couldn’t be taken out back and shot nor could they be taunted and destroyed from the inside out. When I was cornered in my intruded closet, when I was taken by the collar and shaken for my truth, they were found. Both above-mentioned circumstances played out shortly but in the opposite order. That’s when it began to rain.
    I decided on an alternative: selective awareness. I keep myself alive only feeling and participating when the rain is tepid and pleasant. When I feel the temperature beginning to drop, I fall back asleep, floating through lull and lash, until the sun comes to change the course of my simulation. For days, all I will see is fog. I’m lost and isolated, but that lack of direction comes with an onset of contentedness. There is no one who can see me wandering through a deluded course I have set for myself. I don’t know where I’m walking, I don’t know what’s in front of me, so the warm rain will give me a pleasant surprise as it melts away the fog and gives me hope for sustainable warmth.
    The cloudiness that lingers in my head, even when I’m experiencing kindness and sensitivity, reminds me that my effort to make my reality more livable is as viable as staying completely shrouded in fog until I wander off the edge of a cliff. Eventually, as I age out of my simulation, I’ll have skin thick enough to withstand the hailstorm I’ll be forced to reckon with. Resilience is necessary, but hope exists. I often forget it does while I’m wondering, but serenity and light remind me that fog isn’t all I’ve devolved into. Rain will come, and so will spring.

A Golden Brown Mexican Royal Eagle proudly soaring and gliding on invisible æther:

Human Eyes from the ground: dark, attentive, following the Raptor's deadly arc as it ascends:

The Mexican Brown Royal Eagle spots
A frightened Doe:

The dark eyes from the leveled plain:
a startled double-take,
follow the rapid Eagle's spiraling descent:
The vaporized cloudiness slashed;
A cinematic flash
of hide torn
and shrieking delight
are jumbled,
and echoed
through the void:
The Raptor is
Voluble butcher
As it devours,
Sinewy flesh,
Peeled from broken bone
leathery skin and
curved horn;

The Dark eyes moisten
While the scene
Fills His Eyes;
What Beauty juxtaposed:
Death And Life Are Just
A House
Inhabited by
Swift
Or
Quick
The Fortunes Named
In The Game
Called
Life Or Death.

J Eduardo Ramos©

My head was pounding
My body ached
I was a stumbling, mumbling wreck
I needed help
And badly
And decided, what the heck

I ventured to St. Peter's
to get warm from the snows
You see, I'm not really religious
and the truth, the church was close

I sat there in ****** silence
My head just throbbing silently
I didn't even notice the woman
Who slid in next to me

She nodded, and knelt down a bit
You could hear her when she rose
Her body racked with aches and pain
Like me, from head to toe

She smiled, started praying
I sat dead still, but listened in
It's not because I am religious
I wanted to hear her sin

She finished, rose and smiled
Lit a candle on her way
I smiled back through cloudiness
I didn't have that much to say

I figured I could try it,
I'm one for anything new
I mean, talking out to no one
What harm could my talk do

"Dear father, forgive me for my sin
Our father"... I tried to start
"Just say what's in your insides son
That's the best way for a start"

Behind me, sat the woman
I didn't hear her come on back
"He's listening for all you ask
He'll get you back on track"

I told her, I just came in
To get dry and get warm
She smiled, said "so, while you're here"
"tell your tale, wait out the storm"

I said it would be worthless
I was past the point of no return
I would not go up to heaven
I was going where you burn

She said "Everyone is worth redemption"
"Even though they do not think"
"They are still a child of Jesus"
"He'll return you from the brink"

I sat and talked for hours
Told her all about my woes
She got up twice, lit more candles
I told her of my highs and lows

She said "regardless of your preference"
"God, won't ask your name"
"You do not need a reference"
"And you'll be really glad you came"

She told me how to start a prayer
To share my story with the Lord
I knelt, followed directions
I was really quite absorbed

I finished, rose and turned to her
There was now a man where she had sat
I asked him if he saw her
In her black scarf and blue hat

He said "The seat was empty"
"I saw no lady there"
I said "a little lady"
"with black and silver hair"

He smiled, said "come this way"
He took me out into the hall
And there I saw her picture
In a frame upon the wall

"She died so many years ago"
"She died of well, a broken heart"
"Her son's died in the Great War"
"It tore her soul apart"

"But I saw her, she was talking"
"She taught me how to pray"
"She was as close to me as I to you"
"She taught me what to say"

He said "son, she's no longer here"
"she's the one who comes the most"
"she finds souls who need redemption"
"She's our church's holy ghost"

I thanked him, head still reeling
I would have to think on this a while
But, as I left, I took one more look
And I'm sure I saw her smile.

Cotton puppies chase their tails
fluffy soldiers fight
cotton kitties play as well
lightning lights the night

Cotton puppies chase their tails
across the nighttime sky
but when the rainstorm starts to wail
the cotton puppies die

my air
is heavy with volume
my air
is hard to attain
my air
is desperately sought for
when the occupancy of
people is tested by my mind’s
carrying capacity to absorb
all these racing thoughts
present with tears,silence,and isolation
in hope to escape the
impending
fill in the blank
course of action or person or idea
that will cast sweat blanketing my body
like inevitable dew on grass
leave me seemingly forever choosing flight
against my will
my feet bear the burden
of countless runs to sanctuary
‘Be kind to your body’
knees meet the earth
familiar contact
bruises are an old friend
hyperventilation the unwelcome relative
anxiety is myself
‘I’m trying’
how many cubicle walls
stood mute witnessing
the remnants of remnants
of strength to hold my face
that’s not my face
leak out in the form of rivers
eroding the skin underneath my eyes
my cheeks will rival that of
marble
smooth and absent of
everything
‘Take care of yourself’
i ache for good days
i’ll even settle for alright
if it means i’m okay
not-overthinking
i wish i could do less of
not-restlessness
my vessel craves quiet sleep and
peace in me
not-fear
i want to cast out these demons
‘I’m trying’
people
events
school
the definition of
things
every single aspect
that encompasses my
life
has been trying
in one way or another
the fragility of my spirit
to endure
all thrown in my direction
with self doubt
with self hate
with self breaking
over analyzing
overestimating
underestimating
second guessing
worrying
uncertainty about
all
‘Happiness is your priority’
the pursuit of bliss
carefreeness
grounding
it’s a method
to combat
attacks
i versus i
long to come back to earth
when my being is suspended
in the clouds
weightless encapsulation
with invisible ties
slave to my own
where is gravity with
this one
does floating have an
expiration date
endless breathes
shaking frame
eyebrows turned north
formed physical mountain
‘I’m trying’
language screaming from my
closed mouth
words etched onto my
form
for only my eyes to
memorize
my mental
health
possesses it’s own personal climate
goes through seasons
falls and blooms
chills my soul
and warms my entirety
it’s ever evolving
unpredictable as
forecasting without
equipment
it is not without the weather of
natural disasters
environmental factors
the state of
my atmosphere in my head
there are disagreeable
conditions
precipitation frequent
cloudiness often
pressure recurrent
occasional storms
however
there are
instances of numerous sunshine
periodic stability
intermittent clear skies
conquering or failing
one day after another
the routine cycle
giving what i get
and providing what i receive
with full knowledge
someday i will have to
try no longer
‘I’m trying’

-Haley

I snuck into your room last night
You always leave the doors unlocked and those lights aren’t fooling anyone
The floorboards creaked with cloudy memories and I feared I’d wake you
But your mind was buried so deeply in darkness the sky could not stir you

I laid with you in silence last night
Your bones whimpered and rattled like the bitter cold wind against the windows
The ice must have certainly entered through those tiny cracks in the glass, in your shell
Crystals fell softly from the ceiling and landed upon your cheeks

I took myself away from you last night
Peeled back your eyelids gently and wiped out the cloudiness I’d left there
Soft cotton picked up the old traces left on your skin, your fingertips; under your nails
Your mouth I traced with honey and perfumes; I placed young crickets under your pillow

I left you last night
Though you walked me to the door and watched me drive away, you never once saw me
You must have been dreaming that I was merely visiting; a guest, unaware
Blind to the mirror you dressed yourself in, and adorned in the “all along”

You always were a light sleeper.

There was a brief moment of cloudiness. You didn’t see the sun nor the moon

Except for one night when the moon was shining bright for you.

You told the moon about the sun and how sometimes she was to luminous in the mornings

And somehow you were always hooked on the idea of kissing the full moon again.

Soon enough though, a familiar radiancy woke you up.

You lost the sun, but she returned, so tell me why does the moon keep coming back for you.

”So what is it then, do you miss the sun or the moon?”

”The thing is you already have the sun, so why do you still want the moon?”

y.s

I want to be cool
Like ice, no, like
Breeze- unattached.

I want to breathe life
Into others’ lives-
Bring them to tears.

Apathy is cool
When you don’t care
To get hurt or pain.

Passion is cool
When you give life
To things through your pain.

Sunshine is cool
And you bring light and
Cast it through the panes.

Cloudiness is cool
And you fog up and
Distort, to question things.

What is not cool
Is effecting nothing;
Then you are nothing.

What is not cool
Is feeling nothing
When no one cool’s around.

time
meets earth,
forever turning,
cooled days fall
as sunshine softens
cloudiness disappearing,
memories
unfolded
memories,
disappearing
cloudiness
softens sunshine as
fall days
cooled,
turning forever,
earth meets
time

You gave her bouquets of branches,
because she saw more beauty
in sticks than flowers.
And today I was asked what phase
the moon would be in tonight,
to decide how discreetly
he could kayak on an overly patrolled lake,
beneath the stars.

Seven cigarettes and others,
to ease the tribulation of a
warm lonely summers night,
where unplanned contacts,
led to strange content.

A book and a boy and a pen,
and a thousand words
that had yet to be inspired,
through a faulty habit
that took paychecks and too many hours.

Darkness molded itself around my peripherals,
like the ones your grandfather watches baseball out of,
and the love that pushed through the cloudiness,
to enter my cornea with grasping motions
from pretty faces with laughter to spread but no dime to spare.
They are the reason why

In a small church parking lot
I found beauty in the delicacy of change,
and the way things can crumble
and bloom,
so very near to each other.

to a beginning no one has dug far enough or searched their souls long
enough
nor has been ever a man who lived as long as Moses, or caused more  doubts than Mephistopheles.
Don't get me wrong, I am religious, in a vaporous way,
I see apples as figs and floods as myths.
Reminisces cloud my atheistic thoughts. Day to day according to the sun shines
or cloudiness.
And steam rises from my breath, at times. When I feel so alone, and coldness closes around, I doubt  my doubts.
I seek God to speed healing when a loved one is in need.
I am first off, an honest hypocrite. I would sell my soul for Peace.
I see the new day, sometimes, kneel down in prayer.
My question remains as I say, Amen, for what.
And to whom?

Watch the video for this word splurge here: https://youtu.be/7Cf6AFrOJ7w

Once upon a new day's coming of age,
We see beyond the mirages of these planes.  Knowing that as a component, Eye am the brave mage with energy off the page - Setting stages with graceful patience Paying attention to the placement of the arrangements."
Even though we want to rage against the machine
One must remember we can be lucid in this dream
Ah yes, the God of your Being, casting & crafting the current reality you're seeing.
Recently We've seemed to have lost touch with our delicate sense of feeling
So why not, Jump into our true emotions to induce our own potions of healing
25 percent, at 552 pm.
Our temples came from distant galaxies
So Ain't No use in getting worn down following drowning crowns spoutting fallacies
I mean..
The Stardust carbon rush in this body may be temporary
But what if I told you you've existed since the dawn of eternity?
Would you feel like you could give up some of that tight-gripped uncertainty?
Realise the lessons, blessings, and signs from what didn't go "perfectly"?
We tend to get hung up on our heads
And take it all personally,
And in doing so forget our powers other-worldly

A little bitta insight keeps us mindful
Backwards down the line
My bright flame was quite low. Right now though my soul glows, so to wherever there is lifeflow, peace.

For this moment's first time
Let the connection begin again
Show your color's intention and let some self love sink in, take it to the brink of your existence - Switching perspectives via timetravel on synaptic memory highways positioned, to tune into an opportunity to listen.  You will always be in the right place, so long as you can learn to believe.  
At the depths of my own mortality I was reminded I can still smile and breathe
Once we clear the cloudiness
All is illuminated to see
The star's light's mighty bright tonight yet
Pollutants still roam free
Some might call that a travesty, duality, or something in between
I know of both light and dark
I feel former in the latter as we speak.  My heart strings our tied in writing spells called poetry.. Which has saved me inside times of need.
Add 1 more little release,
To help me better be
In this moment
I am able, I am grateful, and at ease

A little bitta insight keeps us mindful
Backwards down the line
My bright flame was quite low.
Right now though my soul glows, so to wherever there is lifeflow, peace.

Let's fly and rise higher than our skies.  Really try, for there is purpose where there's life.  Sure the body will but the memories won't die.  Communicate to a source of the design, keeping the prized wide-eyed alive
A toast of tea to everything, and I choose to sea life as divine.  Those seeking control will scratch and hold as you climb.  Stuck in an old mold as the unconscious mind's bind prevents the sight to ask why.  
They still have the the power to heal and make right.  Left with nothing but a reflection behind closed eyes.  One with experience keeping the beat of heart as a platform for the next line's rhyme.  I'm just a thought, brought to you by you, and this scene is just another peak on this ride knowing a drop will come soon.  There's been such a growing number of those I know told "RIP", but maybe they're the ones waking up from the dream.  Maybe the only change is how we perceive.  Our weather patterns can freeze or be a gentle warm breeze.  No matter the conditions we choose to live in, may we all rise in peace.

*A little bitta insight keeps us mindful
Backwards down the line
My bright flame was quite low.
Right now though my soul glows, so to wherever there is lifeflow, peace.

given the digitalisation, i've become less a poet and a lesser entertainer, and more a drug-dealer.

where do you levitate with this, hmm?
well infected mushroom's *dracul,
the laughter,
                                             the laughter,
you're lost for words, making Descartes modern:
cogito ergo rideo - both are verbs meaning both are
active ingredients - therefore being a mathematical
modulator akin to + or ÷, thus the twins nearby -
tell a joke without actually telling one
and laugh - fork in the road
****'s sake concerning thinking
as proof of existence:
make it out as: i think therefore i laugh,
give thinking a higher tier of expression
other than from crafting a theory of relativity
to not crafting one and reduced to menial
tasks the sri lankans would gladly accept -
still the chicken moon, the cloudiness
and the laughter, not self-love mind you,
and still the lighthouse warring with the cliffs
to spare a ship -
i just said a joke and laughed, there was no
joke to be heard for 5 miles apart to be made apparent,
but still the laughter came -
i ended up reading an article about the pharmacological
prince - pains and aches - died aged 57 -
indeed think therefore laugh rather than
be spotted thinking as a way to qualify yourself
to be recipient of stars and sun, moon and tides -
it came when i thought too much, having dislodged myself
from making choices i let thought scream narrative!,
and the only narration worth expressing came
with laughter - it didn't come with hideouts
of thought coupled with existence having lost
the pleasures of cartesian thinking not having
discovered the theory of relativity -
thinking as basis for being conscious became hidden,
no longer a twinned analogue for parallel comparisons,
existence needed some emotive expression
against the apathetic sum, it was necessary to
craft thinking into an existential parameter greater
than a unit recipient of being aligned with
                    the planetary chronology
             of mercury, venus, earth, mars, jupiter
                 and horoscopes defying geometrics -
laughter sprinted to be minded -
                          above existence per se, which
thinking is not part of, per se, since no one can prove
thinking exists akin to the proof for the existence of god -
car crash, ******, slaving, i can tell you
callousness exists, that slavery exists -
but i can't tell you thinking exists -
given the example and the murk custard of
hallucinations, the ****** of the senses
                                     and intuition... i.e.
too many particulars to be minded,
in terms of evaluation
particulars are governed by thought,
              while universals are governed by god;
i know poets hardly memorise their output -
they have a page with scribbles in-front of them
rather than having memorised their lyrics with love
and contentment and a guitar -
we can't be theatrical to say the least -
poets are not engaged with arenas and epilepsy
inducing stage lights, their instrument is a page
rather than a guitar - what's missing is the self-love
akin to memorisation - but as i say:
you can never know if you wrote a good poem
if you haven't written a 1000 ****** ones.

Right now I'd rather turn around and walk away forever…make that RUN. It's much easier than facing the truth. I will do virtually anything to keep from feeling the searing pain that has manifested itself in my soul in both my past and present moment...and it has made me so very tired. And frankly I don’t know how to survive right now. I have nothing left...I lack the energy to even make it through the days. So I have been taking advantage of the copious amount of anti-anxiety drugs that Dr so graciously prescribed for me during times like these (aka: “crazy nita” times).

Every hand is a winner and every hand’s a loser…and I have come to the decision that the winning hand for me is to stay asleep as much as possible. I haven’t been feeling well physically –And the fact is that I have been plagued by nightmares when awake and asleep. Sunday morning I opened my eyes for the first time at 11:30am and not even a strong cup of coffee could keep me awake and functioning, so I saw the light for only a short time. Why fight it… isn’t that what the therapist would say? “Nita, listen to your body and if you need to sleep 22 hours out of the day, then  be okay  with that."  So I have been listening to this sluggish, disgusting, hurting body telling me to just take the drugs and go to sleep. And take enough of them to ensure we all stay asleep.  

The drugs do not prevent the nightmares but somehow make them more bearable, if that makes any sense at all. I still feel fear, still wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding, but right now it is still more tolerable than being awake.

I don’t think I have been this numb to the reality of life in a long time. I have been present and in my body and aware of my surroundings for about 10 minutes the entire weekend. I'm okay with that because in this body is the last place I want to be right now. I cannot seem to rid my brain of the infinite dark cloudiness in my head long enough to even muster any type of  cognitive ability.
I am tired…drained…unwell.

I wish I could talk about what has happened but I cannot.  So please forgive me if I check out for a while...I did not plan this…but it is what it is and I cannot change it right this minute.  I am discouraged, angry, frustrated, fearful, confused...and I cannot face any of that right now.  

And so I have a bedside table with the necessities to make it through the rest of this period: bottles of lorazapam, xanax and a bottle of water to wash them down with...and a bottle of wine and some *****...if need be.  I just want to be totally and completely 100% numb for now.  
What? Nita, I thought you were past that? Yeah, me too…but I was wrong.

Now the best I can hope for is to turn toward the window and hope that somewhere in the darkness, I, like the gambler, will break even… because I'm currently out of aces...

the sky had a case of random cloudiness, the moon,
the stars could still gaze upon the Earth from the
glass shelves, that only rarely let the stars fall and
the moon change shape, like the way your *******
heave when I kiss the nape of your neck
many times

Next time
I wont have this job
You wont have that job

Next time
The distance
Between
“See you soon” and “welcome home”
Wont extend from here to there

Next time
We will stick around
Till last call
And till the call after that

Next time maybe just maybe
It’ll be your call
Your decision made
Phone rings
And maybe next time
I will answer with something
Other than just hello

Perhaps next time
The cloudiness of it
Will clear up
And we will see through
To the horizon, even to space

It’s possible that next time
If there ever were to be a next time
That next time
We could have some time

Well, maybe next time.

She looked at him like he was the moon. Fascinated as she stayed up late, focused on his cloudiness which she described as her spectrum. All dreary and grey, dark and sunless. Countless people watched with her in the way he danced with the stars, the way he flaunted his brightest dim. But she kept on wondering if they even searched underneath the clouds when he wasn't around; had they worried if he seemed to be missing a part. Because she liked his company more than all the stars combined, even when he left her the morning she was supposed to arise.

Cloudiness of the mind
Is only an illusion
What you have created
Or the others that fill your thoughts
You scratch until you bleed
To rid yourself of these barbaric thoughts
You cannot stop them
And nor do you want to

painting
there are so many different kinds and
so many different artists with respective training
let me tell the story of one
she liked to let go
she didn't like lines
the cloudiness of watercolor she found no woe
flowing with ease
the water went where it pleased
without tedious thought
it took the 'pain' out of painting
she was able to feel the art and the thoughts and the feelings
that art should inflict on a soul

Jesus wore sandals, you wear sandals.
The heat from the flames seared from out the window of the black Buick.
Emails from job recruiters are trying to make you work for them. Work for the man. Don’t use your brain. Be my slave. You do not exist. You exist for me.
Washington D.C. has a neighborhood; and walking deeper and deeper into its trap will lead to the retelling of the Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
My GPS is my angel, pointing me in the right direction. A cliché, yes, but how very true.
The Washington Post stand is blocking the entrance to the corner store like a trusted guide.
There’s a lock on the box that holds the newspapers. I’m a Vietnamese American man.
Man,
Whites, black, Hispanics, Asians; they, all give me weird looks.
Emotions course through the stem.
Sleep awaits, but NaS said, “sleep is the cousin of death.”
There is this beauty-skin book sitting on the balustrade of light green row-house, propped against a neat, white fence that holds in the pink magnolias. Rain drops on the book.
Pattering along the cover, the raindrops, slipping, now running down the cracked brick, seeping into a cigarette ****. This is the neighborhood. The book is hope.
Allah, God, Buddha
The can from the soda company is in the grass in the D.C. Neighborhood. Who put it there? It is raining, cleaning my body.
The rain is pouring and I feel like I’ve found my calling.
It is to form the language.
And as that epiphany smacks me in the face, my left side of my brain starts hurting.
What does this mean?
Am I truly waking up from the dream?
I understand. You’re listening to me.
The raindrops fell on my glasses and I felt my vision was changing. The cloudiness disappeared from the lenses. Cay’s pain-stricken face turned into a smile, full of happiness, full of friendship. He’s a good friend. I’m the bad one.
I want to be good.
I want to be good.
It’s change.
For the better, for real.
When it was raining,
The lightbulb popped up outside.
And I finally had the lightbulb speak to me for the first time.
I knew I was a bad person and now I needed to change into a good person.
The car stops moving forward,
I turn the engine off,
And go back to the beginning.

Dormancy urges this vessel to
waiver in the processes of sight.
Each reflection an eclipse on
what is viewed from oneself.

I wish not to be repossessed  by
a motion where I'm a husk of
inactivity. Static in reality not
of my choosing but I slumber.

In the cloudiness of a mind,
I'm creating false versions of
myself, wisps of imaginings.    
But I see mirages of untruths.

I wonder like the spectral
apparition within an absence
of self. Weaving syllables of
disillusion, Yet  not of my words.

*"We slumber like death that is but a misplaced beat between both,

my love, you are a haven of tranquility
cloudiness climes and starry skies.

your laugh lights up the world
which the sun takes in vain
for it shall never shine as bright as you.

the way you burst into a room with such ebullience,
brings me such euphoria, for I am proud to say
that is my love, my love.

loving eyes, pools of honey
the few things that make you so dear to me.

the smile, the laughter, the voice of an angel,
the good times, the bad times, & even the painful,
the adventures, the train rides, darling I love them all,
with you the world just needs to be explored.

you’re wise mind is envied from all those around you
for they wish they could be speak with such eloquence
and outdo life as you do.

it was only through pure serendipity that I met you,
for without you the world feels so blue.

so in which I thank you, my love.
I love you <3

You made a home in my bones
You made a home in my bones*

You crawled into my bones and you made a home and now you won't leave,
You don't even pay rent,
All you're good for is picking me up and throwing off of my feet,
*******, I'm tired of it

I'm tired of being awake when I should be asleep,
I'm tired of covering up for you because we both know that you can't speak,
You're too weak to fend for yourself,
So you latch onto me and feed until I can't tell the difference between being free and wanting to feel free,
Until I can't tell the land from the seas,
My head, that is, drowning, because you tied this anchor to my feet,
And I'm getting tired of swimming,
I miss the trees and the sand of the beach

I miss waking up and actually wanting to do things,
I miss eating pancakes whenever I felt like it but now I don't feel like it at all,
I don't even want to eat,
I miss listening to music for the hell of it,
Now I can't even listen to music without feeling a tear roll down my cheek,
After the dirt got the best of me I'd climb onto my roof and pretend I was a bird,
I just wanted to feel something

I was so ******* scared of saying something about it but now I feel so powerful I can hardly speak,
All of this, it's not just a dream,
I am alive and I am proud of knowing that I made it this far,
All there is up to reach,
Because I've been at the very bottom for as long as I can remember and ******* I'm tired of it,
I think it's time for you to leave

What? Are you scared that I'm talking to you directly?
I'm telling you right now that you no longer have that power over me,
Just go pack all of those bags and do your best to stay the hell away from me

I'm sorry for screaming but I'm just so excited to finally be myself, the thought is crazy to me,
Like, I've gotten so far in the past few years to give it all up without battling,
I can hear the coffin door rattling,
I can see the sun through the clouds now, it feels like this sadness is shattering

I'm tired of it, I can say it over and over,
I'm tired of it,
I'm tired of it,
I'm tired of it,
I can feel my lungs again, I'm breathing,
I thought I'd never see the day where someone would ask me if anything was wrong and I'd reply with "hardly",

I can smell the flowers again,
I can see the vibrant colors of the petals like it's my first time on LSD,
I can look up without a care in the world again, I thought I'd never say that, it's always been so foreign to me,
But what's happening is beautiful, this sense of empowerment that seems to rip through the cloudiness of it all every now and then to show its face to me, how it's so lovely to realize that I am more than what my demons seem to be

This is beautiful,
I am beautiful

I am alive and I am proud of it