"crossover" poems
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
We are a team, That have a dream…
We don’t stop, no not even when we drop.
other teams are lame , cause we got game.
Sprint, pass, shoot, dribble, assist, defense
Thats our life as we thrive. This is our house
And the game is our spouse.
We grieve every loss, cause we hate losing
more than we love winning. But the next game
We go up down, down up back at it with the roundup
We get hungry to get revenge, on the team that
Can’t avenge but we don’t rest til we’re the best.
We’ll be on top one day and they’ll pop.
We steal like thief’s in the night,
We wont lose without a fight,
We have the pace, and we keep up with the race.
There are setbacks, slumps, bumps,
But that only makes us stronger
And it makes us last longer.
We fall as one , rise as one,
That’s what makes us family
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
You crossover the cutting board
Quick witted leather fitted
Eyes blasting beautiful rainbows
Muscle rippling with truth
Capes and cowls
Heroes and villains
Smiles and scowls
A league of Avengers
A modern mythology
Patterned after past pantheons
DC to Marvel
The same side of two twisted coins
The same lie that I love to enjoy
Fiction intertwined with philosophy
Violence intertwined with morality
Leaving me with these power fantasies
Of superhero friends and families
You’re on my tv, movie screen
In my comic books, novels,
And even in my dreams
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
Kickin' all the way the Live Coolio
deep in ya Culo/
it's that Boy Yosef comin' with major Flavas/
with so Many Styles more than a Hair Doo Voodoo/
got ya eyes on ya know Who?/
so many ****** wanna Smoke me
Cuz im the New Joint/
puttin' sparks to ya Head ****** Red/
if u thinkin' about Frontin'' Me/
ill make u Crossover like EPMD/
Rap Fanatic since i was Swimmin' in the Nut Sack the Mack Attack/
hittin' all your perspectives
im takin' out all the Primitives/
in the Rap Game Shoot ya Stick
try again my- Flows erected as a ****
in between ***** *****
so take Chance it ya Want/
Watch the gun taunt
in ya Face a sad Disgrace/
Slappin' a new taste
in ya Mouth i Dropped it
my Style can't be Competed
you Obsoleted
i'm Makin Profits the Funk Baby!!!!
Many Emcees sweet as a KitKats
so cut the Chit Chat/
cuz im bout to Splatter their careers into pieces
Gotthem Envisionin' Doubles
like Noah i Told ya
the Tru Soldier Rollin' Dogia/
marchin' to the Beat with my Vocal
a Tru Loco/
when i'm sippin E & J **** an Airplay pinin' Indo/
playin' suckas close like who's holdin' the most/
weight? Pushin' rhymes like weights
Loots stay Connected like freight Train Crates/i Dominate from all states
that's why they Call Me All-State/
but ya Ain't in Good Hands
-tryna Step to the Big Man
keep u heated galore like Afghanistan gettin' in that *** like Sand/
so take Stand and a Bow cuz im the Prowl/
for that Number One Slot
ya rhymes loose as Jar Jelly
**** what the critics tell me
"Mr Big Stuff" girls call me "Heavy D"
From then shaft that lays between me
the Funk Baby!!!
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
What's this what's this there's targets everywhere
What's this what's this there's screaming in the air
I can't believe my eyes, I must be dreaming
Wake up Altair, this isn't fair
What's this..
They're all throwing tomahawks, instead of throwing heads.
They're slitting throats with a blade that's in their wrists now they are dead!
All the people dead, I can't believe my eyes.
I'm so surprised Altair's the only one that had survived...
What's this?
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
There's a song...
a piece of music
I wish you could hear
when I hear it
a couple appears in my mind
they move lightly
step forward
back
forward
smooth
two as one
the music
flavor of Latin
sultry guitar
dulcet violin
breathy flute
suffuses their bodies
tawny velvet skin
ignited in a warm glow
hands raised
palms touching
crossover steps
bodies syncopated
perfectly in time
perfectly in step
perfectly together
turn
turn
his hands on her
slender waist
move softly
in rhythm
with the easy swaying
of her hips
her silky dress
floats and ripples
a scarlet river
shining under fluorescent "stars"
their gaze steady
into each others' rich
mahogany eyes
until she is twirled
back to his chest
hands still on her waist
his lips tenderly brush her neck
he takes her hand
she turns
into him again
in that moment
no one
nothing else exists
only the music
and their fiery zeal
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
The moment you graced my presence, my mind switched to 16-bit mode.
You was a classic type of adventure, one evolution rarely shows.
All these side quest chicks you made me put on pause soon to be ended.
Cause playing sandbox style wasn't the type of image you've given.
Hips more curved than a sonic loop makin me want to do a quick run thru.
But your eyes told no lies they made me more than see.
That your quest was bigger than any final fantasy
So I'm taking my time to learn this pattern
To figure out how to beat your robot masters
Stage 1 your name Stage 2 your number skip to stage 6 make sure I'm the thoughts in your slumber
My mind's so focused my inputs gotta be right
One wrong move and I lose my last life tonight
No save points just passwords you say I gotta learn your codes
Wouldn't dream of cheating ya besides I don't know what buttons to hold.
Well **** baby you say that I made it to the end?
What's that? To see the true ending I gotta... Beat it.... Again?
But there's somethin about you that just seems worth the hassle.
Cause you got me jumping like mario racing to bowser's castle.
You're as cunning as zelda, as sweet as peach
As scary as you want when you feel your inner sheik.
You got a smile more connected than the perfect tetris
An old school star that's leavin me feelin rather hectic.
Cause you see it's so easy playing for the highscore
But when ya add a lil passion you don't get as easily bored
So I see this challenge as straight 2D
No circular levels just a series of puzzles between you and me
Let's make this purely one on one a street fighter thing.
No crossover tag action hyper fighting fling
See you got it all twisted just check my guide book
A good portion of character data is written on your look
Quick call doctor mario I think I got the flu
I need help tryin to convey these abstract thoughts to you
See you're like 16-bit beginnings hand drawn and expertly crafted
drawn so precisely each movement in action
So I'm focused on this quest like them double dragon twins
Ready for whatever final boss you got at the end
It makes everything worthwhile when I see your beauty on the go
And I drop my ps3 world to switch to my 16-bit mode
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:13 AM UTC
My mother used to tell me of her dreams of being a figure skater. She made sure to start my brother and I early, so as soon as I could walk, I was on the ice. I wasn't bad... Nothing special, but potential was all I needed. I remember watching the big girls in their pretty, sparkly costumes jump and twist. I remember saying to myself "I wanna be like that." Sunday mornings flew by, each one becoming harder and harder, and soon I was offered a private instructor. At this point my mother had given me the choice to continue. Ten years old and well aware of my strengths and weeknesses, I quit. I wanted to go shopping on Sundays. I wanted to have play dates and eat ice cream. I didn't want to spend it in that freezing cold arena, working on something that I may or may not be good at. So I quit. Gave up.
Occasionally I miss it and go back to that arena. I put on the bright, white 'big girl' skates that I used to look forward to growing into. Doing laps around the rink, I try to recall what I'd once known... Crossover, jump, spin, turn. Not as grand as they used to be...
I see the little girls in the middle, they look about ten. They wear pretty little costumes and shiny white skates as they hop, spin, crossover, jump, effortlessly.
I wonder about where I'd be if I'd continued...
One of the girls falls out of her spin and lays there helplessly on the ice. She looks as if she's going to try again, but her face reads: I want to quit.
She sighs and stands up. I skate over and tap her on the shoulder.
"Don't give up. I promise, you'll regret it."
I hop off of the ice and compare what I could've been to what I am.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
Home
From shelter to smother
Hope
From zero to subzero
Dreams
From ceaseless to evanescent
Feelings
From persistent to transient
Solitude
From instant to rare
Beliefs
From firm to brittle
Judgment
From deep to epidermic
Sobriety
From fascinating to monochromatic
Transitions
From fast to rapid
Life
From tasteful to insipid
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Lavender parted by blunt wind:
the unkempt morning hair
of a park's running path.
Pale-green grass crawls up everywhere
in tufts like a thousand lost toupées.
In spring
cars, northbound from San Diego,
packed with kids and camping tools
or slimmer businessmen,
get full view of it:
a transient glance
between La Jolla and Los Angeles,
a moment of flashing color amid asphalt miles.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
eight years on,
she, airplane borne,
takeoff - a minute from,
texts a parting thot
"love you madly"
you can't recall ever
that prescient précis designation
on any earlier editions
of your other old lovers resumes
this tidbit of reckless abandon
moves fury fast,
direct to the top of the list
madly, manly madness,
when you man,
allow the crossover to occur,
when boundaries twixt honesty and
sensibility
are declared
voided laws
when the white cloth napkin of careful sanity knocked, swept to the floor
maddening love rawest realized
conceded
in madness, completion is indivisible,
indivisible, completion is madness
manly madness
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Open up your eyes realize
Everybody out to get you sin through
Ya body mind and soul take control
Don't let the ******** bury you
Take a sip of this tangeray
To calm you
Picture your adversaries buried
Restin' with the rest of the dead
Puffin' **** clock Gs til.my eyes bloodshed
Look in my eyes tell.me what you see?
Ya see a nigguh down for the Revolutionary
Most see an early cemetery I never worry
God's on my side but I was put on this earth for suicide
Can't hide from the pressure
Since I'm.human I'm.prone to feelings
I mentally prepare myself Cuz I'll be murdered in cold blood
From a bunch of thugs
Naw! not street thugs I'm.talkin' DC thugs
They stay lurkin' in the dark
And there I was
Chillin' suddenly I seen a spark
Eyes flash quickly death roads ahead
Will I struggle and toggle to survive?
Or will I let the crossover thrive?
On me my soul wants to be free
Damage is done so theres no more saving me
Its time to go done being bounded on hells shoulder
Tryna find a heaven but I'm.stuck in this boulder as my body grows colder
I'm shell shocked
I thought I told ya this is the ballad of a dead souljaaaaaaaa!!
Ballad of a dead souljaaaaaa!!
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Pain.
It's tempting.
Hidden in hearts
That hold onto memories.
Addiction.
Healing.
It's reluctant.
The mind fails
But it always continues.
Affliction.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 7:36 AM UTC
All through the afternoon,
among these drinkers
to their tables to java cups
all from a bird’s-eye view.
Blended individuals,
of varying hues
too much sugar, no need to stir
hot, no ice - “a language of their own”
adding “cream to this crop”
like fraternity’s rushing thought
to seemingly **** out the weak.
Textbook before my face, coffee to my right
surrounded by chatter, and apparent debacles
behind the rearing of my ear lobes
set the seem from my shirt and cut
play the motion picture, film, pan out.
360 crossover,
these eyes wander, merely to ponder
conscious parenting to the mind; reminded
yes I did complete that -
atoning to what could be done,
view now from my eyes
around clouded peripherals
(zooming into this page)
trying to read to figure
a Venn diagram of the temporal lobe;
committing to memory ironically
it’s long-term function to maintain
the conception of this thought.
Distracted, back to this drink
re-calling coffee mythically impedes growth
or so they say to stray from focus -
the holder is the cup, to handle is abrupt
but we drink it, to straighten our view
so much as this morning vice stimulation
branded by a jaded graphic mermaid,
or possibly a siren, or to some a muse.
But, it’s the afternoon; no need to rush,
just here and there, casually taking sips
temporary jolts of caffeine
a temple of thought,
temporarily fading,
due to lacking the day-to-day rest.
Same perspective,
but this time curious, calm, and collected
like a child looking above an ant-farm - proud
gazing at moving points like synapses
of our coffee cups as opening our wakefulness.
Can we just remember to understand
that everyday is different.
Our mornings may start mundane
but we find joy in the day
for afternoon connections
no matter what they may be, just to remember,
so that we can have lasting memories,
and not the caffeinated ones.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC
*Oh Sally,
on the day you "disturb me,"
the messiah will, must have come,
anything else, but a minor inconvenience,
a foolish distraction
Lola! Grandmother!
the things we say with out thinking,
quick retorts that boom an
instantaneous, say hey Willie Mays,
mutual concern cognitive proposition,
and you foresee the child conceived within*
"should be a poem in there somewhere"
*in the handed pen, drawing heated inspiration,
from the confluent patty platelets of the
shared single river
of heart lungs eyes flowing as one into this
busy subgle poetry pointer finger @ 4:18am
your secret safe well hid within this writ,
you, mother laureate to a thousand at minimum
so many secret lovers and children in your posses,
the eloquence of your kindness world renown
your behind the scenes presence,
I am smiling, stupified, amazed discerning,
and stand awed,
the global Amazon store of only good
so late nite/early morn the clarity rises with sun
so many secrets lay before me in plain sight - prior unrecognized,
what was obvious, delayed, as sometimes I hear,
messiahs are
one more, maybe two, perhaps as many/few as a minyan ten
of grandmother queens raising up the children,
poets all, such as yourself
then, Messiah will be choice-less, compulsed, compelled
to return and bless us all
course, even when that happens
you still won't be disturbing me,
for you will be right-sided beside him
but not to worry for at this continental crossover hour,
most are sleeping, others feeding the babes,
some returning from church or mosque,
no one looking here at ShePo,
a secret of glory disclosed,
revealed,
only you will see,
so as promised Lola,
your key to a certain stairway,
safe tween
just us three
no tears please,
for this but just,
a just confession, an overdue library book,
a poem resting on my night table
awaiting reading, composition, completing,
arrival?
and that's between
just us three*
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
To ignite- - like love-fire
Words crossover express
Rollover under the cover
New- Lover
Eyes- express Lighthouse tower
Caress good news to digest
Nevertheless*
Unless*
Express to dress
Don't impress
Lost time to address
Mindful - Express- train
Possess-God-Bless-Invest
Open* expression* request*
Bucket list Jekyll and Hyde
Secrets dark you decide
* * * * *
Yoga stretch two lovers coffee
Picture selfie - express what's mine
All we need more time
Success * to express
Jun 16, 2023
Jun 16, 2023 at 9:06 AM UTC
“extra condoms” (explicit!)
a title deposited in the poem-to-do file/notebook,
with no body yet to follow through on or upon
which she tumbles to, an irresistible unrepentant
crooked finger hook line and she is sinker stinker caught,
worming in her feigned anger
current curiosity comes
fast and furious further,
demeanor—demanding
ex-explain-nations,
how could this
ever be a
poem?
stare ferocious, I am the prettiest pretense
of a pride incarnation hu-mane incarnate
call me in another language
Vasco da Gama
a sea route to India will uncover
on your worldly tattooed body,
drawing maps as we go along
devour her neck with stingless bites,
explorer voyager a rambunctious tongue undenied,
every space in and between needs
surging surgical tastings, erupting into her indentations,
inserting her appendages into my places where they
have a business going-knowing
just in case that’s the one!
secret passageway canal holy crossing crossover
later she whacks me because the question goes unanswered
and no sheath employed when my tongued fingers are ten times
more demanding and supple and supply the exploratory course closing with spices and woven silks in Indian colors vibrations
*why then,
extra?
god she is so lovely locomotive annoying!
to peak you peeking
to see your astounding astonishment,
you are our provisions for a sea voyage
and put the risk in, the trigger in,
when wherever you see the world-word,*
extra
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
**For Sheron, On Our Seventh Anniversary:
Bound and Boundless**
~~~
*different shaped,
a square peg, a round hole,
and yet, the carpenter is pleased
two planes,
different shaped,
yet overlaying,
occupying
conjoined space,
angular symmetry
and yet, the geometrist is satisfied
can*
bound and boundless,
*fully opposing notions,
incontrovertible,
yet be in pleasing poetic
combination?
how
can it be,
two bonded,
distinct spheres
contoured with crossover
bordered blended boundaries
exceed aligned,
beyond merest connecting,
overlapping,
intersecting
two circles
electronically collide,
venn diagrammed
to share,
programmed unknowingly for creating
a big bang
of a harmonious, simultaneous
new star creation
this mystery,
this poem,
its
resolution~solution,
comes to the poet
late in life,
yet contented, believing,
it is a far, far
better
thing that he does
now,
than never
life and love
living in unison,
transforming, deserving
of a unique discrete,
le nom est
l'unite
perhaps you are thinking,
this poem, a failed attempt,
neither the best or the worst
of any written anywhere
upon this green globe,
this day
yet he smiles
as it composes itself,
for though without its own sustaining merit,
it is a poem
regarding the best work
he
have ever done,
and the unity
it portrait paints,
is a
nova
worthy surely
of a thousand millennia
and yet, the poet is content
with its
content*
~~~
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
This is how I imagine I will tell the story of us:
When I was sixteen I spent six months cuddling, laughing and picking my bra up off the same guy's floor once a week, every week. He would pick me up in front of my house and we would hold hands on the way to his house while he told me about traffic and family and jobs and his dependence on caffeine. And sometimes when we stopped at a red light he would rest his head on my shoulder and if a song he liked was playing he'd lift our intertwined fingers into a fist bump just to make me giggle. We'd pull up to his house and he'd tell me who was there by the number of cars parked out front. Then we'd get out and hold hands up the path to his door breaking momentarily so he could unlock it. His dog didn't bark after the first two weeks and after I took my shoes off I'd always back up into the family room and sit on my heels to rub its stomach. Once he got his boots off we intertwine fingers once again and climb the stairs, sometimes I'd lead, sometimes he would. There was a small ledge that stuck out from the wall and I would always rest my elbows there while he fumbled with his keys again to unlock his bedroom door. Then he'd open the door and sit on the bed while I took off my jacket and set my old, cracked crossover purse on the bedside table resting on the wall. He'd talk about choosing a movie from his collection but that would just lead to me telling him I didn't know what we should watch and that I really didn't mind. Then he'd look up from his post, simultaneously pulling me to him and I'd lean down to kiss him. Every time. We both knew we wouldn't be watching the movie for long. And so we'd lay down, my head on his chest and after a few minutes he'd kiss my forehead and I'd look up, and he'd kiss me so softly, so slowly, so lovingly that I knew he knew exactly what he did to me. And that's how it went.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
There are several ways
to cross over to the other side
HUMANS
we spend our existence
disagreeing on what
the other side contains
~FACT~
we all have to go anyway
we all will find out
like an impatient kid
that demands
i want it now
we are too impatient
to wait and see
the universe's ultimate surprise
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
You would wake up, clocked, alarmed,
lost in the crossover transition,
from dream to live beauty,
and find me writing
laughing, crying, simulcast.
If you slept with, beside me,
you would put your head
on the chest that warms, enlivens,
the few who ever privileged to touch it,
shape-designed to give what needs taking.
If you slept with, beside me,
your vocabulary would contain
new creations daily, poems, words,
like nippilicious, and thatsridikulus.
If you slept with, beside me,
The first thing you would see thru the window,
that chair, angled toward the sun rising,
where I everything,
and sigh-smile simulcast.
If you slept with, beside me,
you would laugh at that man who takes
that newly arrived coffee mug,
and lifts it to warm that naked chest,
heat external thru skin,
waking up his heart, caffeinated for you.
If you slept with, beside me,
you would get to choose,
your fav body part,
a choice tween tongue
and tongue.
If you slept with, beside me,
we would argue mightily,
what be best,
multitudinous colors of the sky,
grass lush green or,
calm bay blue treading waters,
Bach or Billy Joel.
If you slept with, beside me,
you would not have to read this,
for this would part and parcel your life,
no need to say and see things twice.
6:43am sept. 14th
Postscript:
If you slept with, beside me,
You would to bed dispatched,
With the taste poem, of me, lullabyed,
And awake to the poem-chronicle
Of the first few moments of this day,
And in between, a duet,
Sleep, and a poem, entitled, me.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:47 AM UTC
~dedicated to the heart fixers~
sometimes I smack my head,
when a poem commission is lying on
the ground before me, and I just don’t
hear it, believe it, in order to retrieve it…
many months of physical rehabilitation,
sessions always ended with a certain cutesy
Gen Z~Millenial crossover phraseology:
“remember to tell someone you love them”
the instructors mostly youngish,
so we senior~smile
a tad dismissively, give them a reward~grin, and
head for the locker room,
where we gossip and compare notes,
on the Part II of our in-process-future-realization,
living a grueling new life of self-preservation, 24/7
the PTs & EPs pound you on the machina, go faster, work harder,
eat better, sleep more, take those meds, motion is lotion,
walk the talk, never be still, but race to live longer and
prosper, this hard work is your new job, and resignation
is non~optional
now, it hits me, via a figurative sharp slap on the side of the head,
triggering an actual physical manifestation that reverbs to the toes,
that the most important lesson went under the radar,
evading the former trader’s dimming vision,
flunking himself on the rehab test paper,
a purple F for fool,
a grade, earned and deserved, and herein poetically preserved
the hardest heart work, begins only after you co-
commence the longest road back to where you once
belonged, but where you can’t walk alone, for therein
a recipe for failure; and the work that needs doing,
is on you; take that tear-repaired heart, and give it away, it,
one can be healed, but not if sealed, for the hard-hearted
walls thicken, and “*over time, the thickened heart muscle
can become too stiff to fill the heart with blood; the heart
can't pump enough blood to meet the body's needs.*”
so break off pieces of your heart, give them away with
relentless abandon, for this is the heart that self-repairs,
new tissue, new fiber, and most important, regeneration,
the one single reparation that can successfully
accomplish the true miracle of getting by giving,
no forgiving, if you don’t exercise the heart by
“remembering to tell someone you love them”
dedicated to the hard working staff of the
Cardio Rehabilitation Unit
of Nyulangonge, Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation
who started me
with a mighty push on the long road to utilizing my heart properly
<•>
Apr 26, 2024
Apr 26, 2024 at 8:13 AM UTC
As I lie,
his last words ventilated my empty cadaver.
Wishing one final request from me,
from the departed.
No rose, no sweet song,
just ash engraved in stone,
carried by unwanted winds,
spoken loudly.
"Here lies a woman whom I loved so hard,
and shall not crossover 'till returning my heart."
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
two letter word and the goodness it held;
crossover the forbidden pleasure of sense
no sudden burst of supernova
shall ruin my assayed constellations
if million years do exist, why seconds don't?
but if I have to wait a light-year for my universe,
I will spell out a more magical three letter word
when the time has come and everything's in place
where would I be? in my universe?
I wish I'm with my universe, but first...
let me be drowned in my own bittersweet dreams
I'm not yet done in killing myself so I could finally live
if matter has space and has mass and so do I,
then why I keep asking "do I matter?"
the absolute value is not my care, to whom is
because for those who really care is the essence of worth
many claimed pledges were already burned
by the raging wrath of my trust-doubting sun
in a world full of lies, where should I start
to breathe the purity of painful truths?
so by then...
four letter word will rest in my soul again
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 9:34 AM UTC