He was the only boy to care for me more than I could ever care about him.  He came into my life when I needed a shoulder to cry on the most. He believed I deserved more than I was ever given. He fell for me but I could never love him back.
2. He was the first guy to break my heart. He had a way with words and he was dangerous with them. The words from his lips came out in the most beautiful of ways with the deceiving smile to make you lose your breath. But his lips could never just land on me. After all, him and I were never a we.
3. He is the one I want but the one impossible to attain. His heart is shielded by a million brick walls and to break them down is the impossible. He makes me feel countless explainable feelings for him but he runs from any sense of affection. He's not simple and he is deep and it makes him better than any other.
4. He was my distraction. He is around to take me out when I need him. He knows how to make me feel a little better and gives good laughs. He developed feelings along the way of our countless dinners and nights spent talking about life. But I would never be his.
5. He was the one I loved. I believed he was the best thing in the world for the while we were a thing. I was only 15 and he was 18. I was too dumb to realize that an 18 year would ever want a girl my age for anything more than his brain could think of.

Do you ever just have the
biggest ******* crush on
someone ever and you just
know it wont work because
they're too old or you're
not good enough or they
and too attractive for you
so you pretty much spend
what feels like eternity
having the explainable
feeling for them until it rids
of the small bit of heart
you have left until you find
another person to have the
same ****** feeling towards.

To paint the scene of my former life
One must first take a look into a little dusky room filled with shady sunlight,                        
Streaming in through dusty blinds that  never actually shade the eyes.
They produce blinding shafts of light that burn the eyes like blades are hiding within red  fired laser beams.
Imagine a little rocking horse, painted black and gold, with a little red bell dangling off of the red reins attached. Nostrils flaring, ready to be ride out into the sunset, but never actually to be ridden.
Two comfortable twin beds shoved into the corners of the room, leaving indentations upon the slightly greying,
Off white carpet that had once been plush, now smashed into the ground with dirt and grime from children playing.
The comforters on the top of the bed lay strewn and rumpled; covered with dinosaurs and their names,
Allosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, and Brontosaurus.
All with goofy pictures in greens and oranges that a child could laugh at when frightened.
On the right side of that room, from when you walk inside, the walls are painted a malicious purple,
Like a swelling bruise had been inflicted upon the wall by some unseen hand that had forced a fist.
A big ugly bruised wall.
Accompanying that bruise on the left half of the wall is a faded blue,
The color of pearls painted over with a smattering of blue paints,
Enveloping the trim of the room is a metallic silver haze that was just beautiful,
Creating illusions of moonbeams and silver roses within it.
The ceiling was glorious as well. It was covered in millions of stars.
Although they were glow in the dark plastic stickers that could be hung anywhere,
I still saw them as fiery gases burning miles away.
Of course, at the time I was well aware of what stars were, as I had a love for them.
I would gaze upon them late into the night, often in awe and wonder at how it would feel to be one.
Would it feel as if I was enlightened and owned the universe,
Or would it be a darkened, frightening place, filled with loneliness?
I had always wondered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~
There is much screaming. High pitched, it sounds like the whining buzz of an angry bee .
A scream nonetheless. So very loud, it is, and it rings like church bells in my ears.
Ringing, and ringing, and ringing...
The scream sounds so very close to me,
Perhaps this is because the wailing sounds some from my very own mouth.
The screams, crawling and digging their claws up and out of my throat,
Unburying themselves as they seep out in tormenting waves, leaving my throat a red and raw coated mess.
But still, I scream.
My throat resounds the despairing loneliness that had welled up in those short years of my life,
Finally taking their act of freedom, welling up and pouring out like caged birds,
Fleeing from the cage with freedom in their hearts.
Although this was never true, this was never to become freedom,
The fleeing screams do not pierce the veil that shrouds the deaf ears that were meant to hear it,
Turning away in ignoramus bliss.
“You are the banshee wailing,”  
My Mum says with a growling lilt to her voice as she pushed the door to my room closed with a glare,
Her fingers clenching the door, knuckles turning white with frustration.
Tiredness has already beginning to  line her once youthful face with spiderwebs of indecision of what she truly wanted. As I scratched my bleeding nails across the closing door, frantically searching for a place of escape,
My mind races and thus, I began to horde emotions of resentment for my parents.
I constantly wanted to free myself from the jail that my world had always seemed to be revolved around.  
My nails are bloodied and fingers bruised, I give up in defeat from the fear.  
Although it may only be pounding upon and freezing the insides of my veins,
It is exactly what created this insane version of myself. This wild animal who scratches, bites and roars,
The primitive animal comes from deep within the skin wearing it as a costume in the form of  a little three year old girl.
I was locked away for most of the three years I had spent with my cold and unfeeling parents,
Who wanted nothing to do with me, nor ever share their love.
(Or so I thought as a child, whose hopes of freedom were breaking away even before they were molded).
I have retained this in my memory banks for my entire life,
Even after when those around me told me I was too young to remember it.
But how could I possibly remember this in such crystal clear detail,i
If I had been a thoughtless, and blank minded child at the time?
This experience has obtained and earned one of the darkest places in my mind,
It has forced me to keep it inside my entire life.
I call it the dark forest, the place that remains shadowed, blackened and cold.
Most of my horrible memories are part of that forest, creating the trees that form it.
From this forest leaps the monsters that tormented me in my dreams, howling and baring their teeth,
Their shapes surrounding me like a thick and rank fog that was inescapable, their breath rolling down my neck.
The stench making my eyes roll back, turning the world black.
Then suddenly I would wake up, an invisible scream rising in my throat, sweat soaked and shivering with fright.
Even then, I could still see them.  
Their red eyes glowering at me in the darkness of my room that I shared with my sister Dakota.
Sometimes I imagine that I can still see them, and a paradoxical paranoia rushes down my spine,
Forcing every hair to stand on end, and cold fear to paralyze my body, to the point that I am immobile.
Like frightened prey trying to hide and fold the body in on itself,
From an  un-explainable fear that was reared from my childhood.
I was created at the hands of those who love me now, but at first were disgusted at the sight of me.
I was merely an obligation in which they had to feed and bathe on few occasions.
An abomination, something to be frowned upon.
Their indecision and ignorance was what caused one of my largest complications of the brain.
This experience created the driving need that I still carry with me today to be surrounded with people.
I feel as if I cannot survive without them, because my childhood was so filled with loneliness,
That I need to gain back that attention that was taken away from me.
Considering this, of how insane I had been as a child, like a froth mouthed animal, begging for scraps of food,
Only my food was social activity and freedom, in which I was explicitly not allowed to be given often.
My grandparents, if I have remembered correctly, their faces seeming more youthful than my parents,
Pouring experiences  into me like a mug, gracing me with feelings of wonder instead of blind fury,
Overwhelming me with their kindness and compassion.
They were the ones who changed me, took me in and made me feel like I was really alive and was of relation.
They made it seem as if I were still slightly human, not a craze eyed child who acted like a wild animal,
Who was feared and pitied by those who came to see me.
Although it did take time to recover from my horrific experience,
I have learned to gain control of my emotions through meditation, sometimes to the point  of becoming a blank slate.
I was the girl who acted as if I was not of this planet, as if I was off in another universe taking a soul vacation.
Tracing patterns in the constellations, my eyes star struck and filled with wonders that only I knew of.
Being so used to a constant state of harmony, that the world around began to blur,
Taking little notice of any change within it, even if the images crossed and passed within inches of my unseeing gaze.
Viewing the world as it was meant to be seen; with beauty and stained with emotions.
This is a story of a girl with the once crazed eyes who saw the world as a fearful place with no freedom,
Who behaved not unlike a wounded animal caught in a trap,
Whimpering and pleading with her mournful gaze for freedom.  
Only now this girl had been turned into a starry eyed child with wisdom from a past of tragedies.
~This is who I am and this is my story~

I’ve been crying a lot lately.

—

Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my  imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it.

The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry.

I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry.

That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die.

“Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,”

those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it.

—

Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard?

That was the first time I sat on the public toilet,

crying.

—

“What’s wrong with crying?”

A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ...

—

So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them.

I cried.

And cried.

And cried and cried and cried.

—

I’ve been crying a lot lately.

I was in my dream last night...
The girl in my dream was a self image that my self conscious created.

She had long thick curly hair running down her back like a wild river,
and There were these thin wisps of black curls that rested on her forehead and would not budge no matter how many times she swept them aside

The ensemble she wore was rich in color
I admired the way the colors complemented each other
incredibly lively and elegant
She wore an azure tank with an emerald silk scarf
A Celeste cascaded long skirt embellished with tiny vibrant glass beads that shimmered ever so brightly
She was bare foot but i couldn't help but notice every step she took
On her ankles were anklets that dangled the prettiest of gems

She walked towards me
Her beautiful clothing dancing against her body

She sat next to me on the curb and said
"You look sad, what is the matter?
i can see the circles under your eyes
the insufficiency of laughter

Your heart and your mind are intertwined
You convince your mind to keep you in a dark place
then your heart crumbles leaving your care-fee spirit behind.

These are simply realities you must face

you know, things fall apart
so better things can come together
it might break your heart
but believe that hurtful moments don't last forever

Sometimes in-explainable things happen
sometimes the going gets tough
but you cant allow it to break your spirit for too long
The sun will rise again, sure enough."

Then, just as she gracefully came,
she gracefully left
I Awoke.
She left me with my sadness
for me to decide.

I scribble on
With a half lobotomy;
A radar seeking Hell by looking up
And another dictionary
From another time and place;
An alternate timeline
Reaching right and left
As well as fore and aft;
The beard of a ******
And naïveté too;
Undiscovered depths of emotional manipulation
Unseeing, unthinking,
A new old structural familiarity
To abduct and probe
The time-honored, vacuum-sealed
Ineptitude of ideology
Whose meat is sweet
But suits the skeletons of standardized educational theories
Like a pair of jeans at age eleven that you expect to grow into;
In hope of justifying
Overuse of monetary resource
For the sake of bonus states of mind;
Scouring the depths of discarded everything
With hooks catching on to all the similarly forgotten names
Who live in fear of obscurity
Clinging, not unlike insects
To their sixteenth minute of fame;
Finding in myself no way but out
To understand that which lives inside;
With disregard for any thread which weaves past me and takes no hold,
And loathing for the ones that do but unravel before the eyes;
Lightheaded, ending any sense of continuity
When, prostrate in the comfort of another tapestry
I stand abruptly, let my dreams be drained from me through tendrils
Like the passing of a temporal existence;
Drinking in the dust and glue of crowded bookshops
In fear of losing inspiration
To the insatiable jaws of my consumerist natural state;
Rummaging in a bargain bin
In search of someone to tell me, “Stop!"
With heads in clouds and bodies in ice trays,
Stealing lines of logic and lyric,
Throwing down and hacking into
Elemental bits which fit into my own vernacular
Sacrificing beauty for originality and vice versa;
Choosing idols idly with the tides
Of knowledge and of art
Rising and falling without fail
Never apparent and never blurred by motion;
Searching for a style like an odd-numbered jean size;
Finding greater inspiration in waves of unopened mysteries;
Following examples laid by unsuccessful fictions;
Learning ethics only from the prologues of ****** novels,
Unsuspecting victims snuffed in interesting and lurid ways;
Letting technological distraction detract from the projections of psychological complexity
Which I, from atop the high horse of my own pretensions
Pretended to embrace;
Committing massive acts of thievery, fraud, and infinite lethargy
For the sake of juvenile, illegitimate art forms;
Seeking other seekers who exist autonomously
For the sake of personal independent credibility;
Leading unsuspecting, overreaching, overeating, understanding, undemanding,
Too forgiving, not forgetting,
Victims of domestic warfare
To a loveless watery grave
For the sake of my own loneliness;
Patronizing every segregated buffet
With courage enough only for a small taste of everything;
With the flavors of the day swirling around
For me to shoot them down
And pin their carcasses to elementary school walls
And Mormon tool sheds
And nature centers
And all the forgotten places of summers past
In the hope of rediscovering
Some old buried treasure
Be it wondrous or worthless;
With the uneasy insincerity of a rodent who pretends to understand a city;
With adopted methods
And repeated thoughts
And ideas which came to me in waking dreams of my own retirement;
Sharing, for a captive audience,
The formidable giants which
Inform our common denominator
Searching through myself for only the most indecipherable
With the fear of being understood
And the fear of being ridiculed
And pretensions of some preternatural predetermination for greatness;
With acceptance of predisposition for obscurity,
The cost of the inundation of the new airwaves.
The series of tubes that feed us intravenously
With information, information, information,
Having killed God and left material validation in His wake;
It could be that new gods are born in the minds of the innovators,
Those wonderfully wealthy
Whose social structuralism
Was a beacon to us all;
In the darkness of an architectural anomaly
Where lights extinguish as my body lies dormant
Alone and abandoned
Only by my own subversion;
Confined ever to a convolution of passages
While above me all my peers still carry on;
Overstaying welcomes
And letting emotionality
Color conversation
A sicklier green,
A green of a tree only just sprouted,
A green of a new recruit,
A green of an inexperienced schoolboy
Faced with the daunting and timeless act
Of copulation;
Somehow taking in the sights and sounds and smells
Of advanced mathematics
Even occupied, as I am,
With explaining my actions
Most eloquently;
Devoting myself to another cause,
Another, another, another
Always relaxing my grip by losing focus;
Desperately hoping not to let my fellow travelers
Lose their innocence
While I reluctantly, dogmatically
Keep mine on a leash;
Always keenly aware
Of the universe of worlds
Beyond my control,
And even my understanding;
On the increasingly frequent
Intrusions of risk
Into my significant reality
And the iota of explainable truth which guides the motion of my body but most frequently my mind;
Questioning the meaning of all words
Without thought or coordination;
Considering another restful journey
To clear my mind of human language
And in its place acquire thoughts and emotions from the street;
Without foreseeable direction,
Malice aforethought
Or noticeable signs of critical reaction
Giving birth to litter
Forgetting articles
And floating my sense of time up the Ganges;
Taking only seconds to counter the possibility of
Accepting more responsibility for myself;
Complicating matters with an interesting or bitter goodbye.

Dinosaurs were in existence for 160 million years.
**** Sapiens have been in existence merely 200,000 years.
Will humans remain the dominant species on Earth... or are we simply a phase of life that will eventually be replaced? ...and if so, how so? Will mankind extinguish itself? Or is mankind -is the aspect of life itself- some type of chess game played by the Gods of the universe? By Gods of the universe... do I literally mean spiritual Gods and anointed souls... or do I mean the physical and chemical forces that construct and compose the world beyond the world that we live in.
What about dimensions?
Are the crossable?
Should I mention; they say that human beings are the most intelligent creatures alive. We exist and thrive off energies and vibes yet how many of us utilize the potentials possessed within us? Does that make us less intelligent than they say?
But who is 'they'?
Who believes in the extraterrestrial?
Who believes in Magic?
Are dreams a portal to things unforeseen?
Is there a higher power, or are all things reasonable and explainable through the documentations of science?
Have you ever pondered the wonders of Faith?
Does everything happen for a reason, or are all things coincidental?
Knowledge is Power and Evolution is Revolution.

Hey,
I don't know your address.
I hope you never read this.
My therapist says that this is the way to get it all out of my head.
I was under the impression
that writing to someone
ended in burning the evidence.
That it was a kind of healing ritual.
Cleansed by the flames.
But no,
electronic almost-correspondence
appears to be the answer.
Here goes:


I got drunk today.
It seemed like the thing to do.

There was a couch,
it was grey.
Yeah, that one. The red wine stain
is still on the underside
of the cushion cover.

I prefer white.

I sat on the couch.
That's what they're for, couches,
so not much of a surprise, I guess.
But I don't know what to say,
I'm filling the void with
obvious facts.

I didn't even use a wine glass.
I filled a pink mug
full to the top.
Had to sip off the rim of it
so it didn't overflow as I carried it into the sitting room.
With the bottle of wine,
of course.

And I drank.

So I'm drunk now.
I keep laughing.
Of course, I'm not a happy drunk,
but everything is
wrong
anyway.
There's no one around to
tell me to shut up,
for one thing.

Not that I would mind
if there was.
It would fill the silence.

A silence punctuated with
pathetic little
giggles,
as I mentioned before.

I'm not sure what I'm laughing at.
Could be the man outside yelling at his car,
the alarm has been on for an hour now.
Maybe it's the fact
that you took the kettle with you,
and I haven't bought a new one.

I make tea in the microwave now.
Ridiculous.

I don't like you.
Not at all. I don't like the way
that you can't seem to
say anything of importance
and I don't like the way
that your absence
is like

it's like

being stabbed, but that's not enough I feel like I don't have the right to claim that kind of physical pain, I don't feel like I have the right to cry or even walk out my own front door for some reason, and for some reason I was not good enough for you even though neither of us tried our best because we thought we were enough but we weren't and I don't have the words to describe what you are to me, or what you were to me, only that grocery-store sushi used to be that pathetic thing you bought at past-eleven-pm-sometime and now I hate it so much that it's the only thing I can eat and I

I don't need you.

I don't. It's impossible for me to need you,
in the scientific, explainable
rational sense.

But explain it for me,
please.

This is the time of your life!
To do your deed to the country you love
For the promise of a prosperous land
A  brighter future for the nation
Our pledge for a credible leader
Guide the citizen with religion faith
Lead our life with nobility, integrity and honesty
In the present day, Future and the hereafter..
vote ! dont lose your voice
Dont you  keep your grievances at heart
Let your voice be heard...
So do not lose your vote... VOTE!
To win or to lose
To die or to live
Winning or losing is part and parcel
Of a COMPETITION...
Contestants please play fair
Voters stay calm and cool..
Try not to spread evil and hatred among us..
Leading us all to chaos..
Also Try not to remain silent
when given the right to choose
Play democracy! Play fair!
Chaos may end up bad..
If we do not maturely contest
For who’s wrong and who’s right...
Chaos may end up a disaster, a massacre...
Explainable chaotic phenomena
If we do not curb our lust for greed..
Campaign maturely for Malaysia..
We despise chaos and fights
Votes are the voices of people
Let us all do our bit to Malaysia
Stop this Chaos!!
Silence the words of slanders and hates...

the planets will align
every once in awhile
to arraign all who need
or are deserving of it
those who find themselves
treading the wrong path
those who can no longer
see what lies ahead
despite all those
gazing upwards
     silently questioning
these immaterial messages
will be overlooked
unheeded by the majority
only recognised by the few
comprehended by even fewer

this singular occurrence
rare and rarefied
may be explainable
in its most basic sense
logistically
     empirically
to even the layman
it is but a simple matter
of timings and orbits
calculations of gravity
versus mass and inertia
but that which truly matters
the universal push and pull
will leave even
the most discerning of minds
in the dark

Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.

I love you,
I know I'm starting off so very vague,
for this word is not explainable in any other way.

   I will caress you form the shadows,
I will keep you from harm's way,
I will hold you,
I think of you throughout all of my days,
I have set on you,
I don't think of them the same way any more,
I want you to know,
you've got me forever,
I won't go!

   Your laid back outlook is a breath of fresh air,
your smell is to die for,
those other males wouldn't dare,
because they would lose their lives if I saw.

   I promised I wouldn't lie to you so this is how it is,
It isn't unconditional,
For this I feel so selfish,
Love me,
Trust me,
don't leave me,
I'm so sorry it's a lot to ask this.

   I will give my life to you,
this will be the last thing I do,
I would rather my heart pounded for you,
than you cut my heart in two.

Come,
Dig the question tiny dancers.
How would it feel to be one of the beautiful?
To do as you pleased and not be accountable.
Your bad behavior always explainable.
Anything you say is socially acceptable.
Everything you wear is said to be fashionable.
Though even on you it may look really terrible.
How would it feel to be one of the beautiful?
To live a life where everything's accessible.
But for others so incredibly untouchable.
Something about this doesn't seem quite ethical.
The law around you tends to be a bit flexible.
How would it feel to be one of beautiful?
When your face becomes not so adorable.
Your company not so preferable.
All of your accomplishments made minuscule...
virtually undetectable.
Everything about you now is utterly expendable.
Come,
Dig the question tiny dancers.
How would it feel to be one of the beautiful?

Hair explainable, perhaps only attainable,
via jagged electric lines from the sky
yet eyes follow, shimmer greengoldenbrown
with none of storm's lined chaos, no,
but maybe focused-inflicted madness
as
they
settle straight-on, brightened above wide-eyed
smile
-something new, there,
shattered-glass that's mended fast
upturned hopes but sails at half-mast.

the human mind is just an extravagant illusion.

a complicated spectrum of polarized emotions

fluid and elegant dreams like boats on waters that ripple infinitely, obliviously

(because once you wake up, theyre gone)

what we call "love" is just a chemical released

what we believe is the sun , the moon, the energy

is nothing compared to what they ACTUALLY ARE.

it is just easier to assign them names, proper scientific qualities and observations than to stay awake in our beds and enjoy the mystery

we don't have enough time to be confused.

confusion?

in which the mind struggles to process a stream of thoughts into a single explainable or even remotely comprehensive one

therefore, transferred into words,

metaphors and similies

because emotion, the concept can never be explained clear

these, after all, are just words.

they shall make no significant impact on those who don't accept them.

words are just a series of symbols we convince you to believe in.

like numbers,

time.

where does the past go?

do the memories still wallow in a another realm exactly where you left them

the times you danced under the moon

or that first kiss

you swear, so much, that the energy is left behind.

the fascinating way you still feel the shadows of things that will never be again.

There was a time that I
Would laugh at the word
Known as the curse
Of the world—
Humanity

Destructors,
Murderers,
Abominations

Heedless,
­Reckless,
Unspeakable

Without any doubt
In grandeur
Thoughts of themselves
Among artists—

Animals,
Innocents,
Irreproachable

Here for but
Love and safety
Nothing more

Humans—
Dreadful,
To the core

They have emotions of greater capacity
Empathy beyond explainable magnitude
Yet with humanity are neglected
In the case of convenient
Vile manipulation

Here I’ll ponder thoughts in nostalgic regret
Why give staggering, mighty, beauteous emotions
To only those who misrepresent
This bestowal of divinity

Perfection is such an ugly concept.
Fortunately,
Beauty and flawlessness
are not synonyms.
Society twisted its definition though.
Into something hideous.
Something unattainable.
It's meaning has gotten tangled in the words
and lost in our worlds demented web of lies.
Pretty shouldn't have a size
and I'll be the first admit despite my shame
I'm guilty of thinking that
sometimes
before I catch myself
and remind myself
Beauty is not tangible
or even explainable
Beauty
one of the few words
that are not words
but concepts
and one of the few concepts
that are left undefinable.

clouds
pink orange
float past
like the venetian gondolas
sing to me Ambroso

she peers through the fogged windows
cold as winter frost
mountains seem mere specks
particles of unappreciable magnitude

oceans engulf masses of land
strange orchestrations
slowly encroaching

views the sandy depths
of the clear Caribbean sea
marking majestic patterns
of explainable riddles

heavens in the skies
she peers
hoping the sense of the world
will embrace her beautiful mind

for if not,
they’re of lackluster solidarity
these passing days

I can't seem to sleep anymore
It's because of you
You know that
I imagine the shape  
Of your body beside mine
Warming and unexplainable
The way it feels as I lay
Curled up beside you
But not really.
I'm alone with the empty shape
Of your body beside mine
Cold and explainable
The way it feels as I lay
Because I'm curled up, not beside you
I'm sleeping without you
and I can't seem to sleep anymore.

Love is unexplainable in terms
You’ll do anything in your power to make sure they don’t hurt
You’ll treat them like everything and the world even if they don’t know your worth

But that’s ok because you think they won’t make you hurt
You think they won’t make you cry; you think that they know your worth

You think that they’ll see a diamond in the rough and not a dead lies in the grave under dirt

But just thinking about that in your head makes your stomach turn
Makes your heart fade and then makes your brain want to burst
Hope that they will stay, and you won’t talk through the ****

But then they’ll stay and then make your day
Wake up every day to see that smiling embrace
It might drive you crazy but its worth it in a way
Love is unexplainable by words but more explainable by actions
Don’t try to investigate into what they say just look at all their passion

“Ladies first”. He uses his theoretical masculinity
To duck his way out of everything. He crosses his legs and looks accusingly at her.
She stands and tells him that he reminded her wasted energy,
Of the tall glasses of apple juice,
Drunkenly tossed at the electrical outlet,
To get some type of “Zap”
Though she said it more like,
“Zzzaap” wiggling her fingers to try and show a current of energy.
She said it as if she didn’t really know,
What type of reaction she was looking for.
He is quiet until he isn’t.
She reminded him of a seconds old baby.
Blue because the reality of oxygen hadn’t touched her yet,
And he was still waiting for her to turn into a peachy color and embrace reality.
“Before we met, I hadn’t slept in my bed for weeks,
You couldn’t even get through a coffee date”.
Her eyes are fiery and she says something that a person with fiery eyes would say
“Before we met, I didn’t need to have ******* with people to feel intimacy”.
That is an explainable response.
Anyone would say that
So I guess that implies that everyone has fiery eyes.
He scoffs and begins to stand and she mimics him
“Don’t make me throw apple juice at you”
“I’m a broken outlet remember”
“I haven’t thrown apple juice at you yet, we don’t know that”
“It doesn’t matter. You can’t breathe with me around,
And I’m more of a margarita guy anyways”
He leaves
She cries
They both have fiery eyes.

Deep dark corners of iminagation, responsible for child hood hallucinations don't disappear in the later years

Late nights without sleep till daylight play on the mind and set reality aside giving way to paranoia to well up inside.

First its simple and explainable but worsens with time, a point comes when fear proves to be alive only sinking you deeper inside

As the devil stands over you watching in plain sight, you try to force yourself outside but terror keeps you frozen in time.

But talking to the shadows satin left behind  to keep a close eye on every move you  may try, eases the tension cuz someone finally sticks around ournd for conversation.

If you haven't taken rest by day five the world a group of spies trying to ruin your life. Arrest you without a chance of ever seeing light

After 6 strung out nights reality is a dream and puppy's can fly, your wanted by the FBI, every move you make is another surprise.

In less than a week you can suddenly be a different take on yourself, a person with 6 different names, each with a life and attitude completely different From the rest,
Impossible to talk to cuz very one of the people in your head wanna share there views

we've met somewhere in a magical place
a misty dream where our souls dance together
we've got drunk by our connection
electrified by in-explainable energy
that suddenly explode to nothingness
and i wonder if you got hurt like i do
got lost in a grey forest without trees and flowers  to talk to
got your eyes bleed from crying because you miss me like i miss you.

Existence. Emotion. Bond. Experience
Life. Joy. Un-forgettable. Heartfelt
Struggle. Love. Irreplaceable. Un-foreseeable
Death. Numb. Spiritual. Question
Challenge. Grief-stricken. Invisible. Un-explainable

Soul. Sorrow. Eternal.
Journey. Dark. Solitude.
Breeze. Whisper. Presence.  
Guide. Heard. Un-spoken.

Thread. Sunset.
You. Me.
Free. Caged.

Wish.
PEACE.

Thousands of miles
And four hours away
Somebody stopped and watched you playing your music
And said,
"Thank you for smiling."
And I finally discovered
What I should have said to you
The moment I first met you.

All the hurting I do
Wondering and worrying
If I'll ever feel the warmth of your sunlight again,
It's all about that,
It's all
Because I am just afraid
You'll never smile at me again.
It doesn't make sense,
It's not explainable.
It's a happiness I have never felt before
And do not expect
To feel very often in my turbulent life.
It is a joy that stops the mind,
Save for one thought:
Don't
Go.
It's what that man saw
Walking by.

Maybe that man is sad.
Maybe his life has him down,
And he hates his job,
Or he is fighting with his wife,
Or his dog just died.
Or maybe it's even worse.
Maybe that man
Has just had the worst years of his life
Drag him helpless behind them
To hit the ground hollow over and over
Like a tin can dangling from a dingy car bumper on the highway.
Maybe he has only just
Stood up again.
You don't know.
How brilliant, you don't know!
Because he could be any of those things,
But you
Made him smile.
You
Gave him hope.
You
Had such an effect on him
With just your smile
That he stopped,
And thanked you.

I wish I had done that when I first saw your face.

Maybe today
You only made that man's good day
A little better.
Or maybe today
Your smile
Saved his **** life.
You have no idea.
That's the point.
I know what that man saw.
I envy him painfully.
I know how it feels
To be smiled at
By you.
All the poems I've written you,
All the nights I've spent sleepless
Afraid to lose the little tiny moment of you I got,
All the time I've set aside for you,
That's why.
I want to thank you
For smiling at me.
If everything from here on in my life
Crumbles like wet chalk
And I lose any chance I might have
To thank you otherwise,
I consider it worth it.
I consider your smile
Worth all of it.

I now know why I get invested in people.
People are interesting. Interesting in the ways they talk, the ways they step, the ways they carry their shoulders as others pass by. People are quirky. Quirky... but not explainable. We all grow up in the same ways, but with our own little twists that seem to twist us too. People are ordinary... but so very unique. You can generalize all you want, but you'll never be able to describe two people in the same way. Not accurately, at least.
I now know why I get invested in people.
Everything is my own little case study. In my brain that works like a psychologist and makes sense out of the abstract and the patterns of people... everyone is my own little case study. I don't take down data. I don't try to fix people. I don't choose who becomes a case study... because everyone does, and that's just the way my mind wraps itself around the world.
I want to understand people.

Newton told me that an object in motion tends to stay in motion,
but can he explain why my mind wanders
around the massive uncertainties of this universe
while my feet are kept planted in place?

He mentioned something about my mass and acceleration
creating some explainable force, but how can he account
for the way my heart flutters for miles
just by looking into his eyes?

What force am I creating
other than the force of utter, prodigal passion
that can neither be measured nor equated?
But maybe he got one thing right:

He mentioned something about every action
resulting in an opposite and equal reaction -
so is that why I go from feeling so much
to feeling nothing at all?

gd

I don't know why people read my poems.
I really don't.
And I am disinclined to believe the numbers that come up,
"600 people have read [insert poem name here] since 4 o'clock".
It seems absurd that people would devour something created by me.
But,
See,
It makes a bit more sense when I think of it the way I always end up thinking of it:
They're not reading me. They're reading you.
It's really terribly true, you know-
Never let an artist fall in love with you.
Everything they do will be you, for heaven knows how long.
(They don't even know.)
In fact, I've yet to find a piece of art of mine that isn't everyone I've ever loved, just a little.
They leave shockwaves in my life, and it comes out through my poetry and my art.
These people by the hundreds,
They're not here to appreciate me.
They're here to appreciate you, my love.
It's all about you, and so they are drawn to it.
Not because I am so horribly wonderful at writing, but because
I have stumbled upon a way to explain,
In small little parts called poems,
What you are to me.
It's not explainable, not fully, but people love the trying.

I'm trying to build something, see.

A good poem,
About a feeling that cannot be expressed in words,
Does not try to name that feeling- after all, there are no words for it.
No, a good poem names everything but.
It talks around the feeling, so precisely and with such excruciating detail that by the end,
There is a hole in the middle of the words, and, reading them, people stumble across it,
And fall into the feeling uninhibited.
Because it has not been said, it has not been limited.
A good poem leads the reader to an impossible word, and makes them feel it.

You are an impossible word. But you don't fit in a poem.
That's why I'm writing so many.
I'm building something.
Something like a poem, made of poems the way a poem is made of words.
I'm trying to build it, so that when they read these poems,
(Whoever "they" are)
They stumble across the hole in the middle, the space shaped just like you and what your soul looks like behind those blue eyes,
And they fall hard, just like I did,
And they understand what it means to have met you, even though they never have.
That's why I can believe that people read my poems: They aren't reading me.
I'm only the words. The placeholder that bends around the real point of all of it.
You?
You are the impossible word. The impossible feeling. The impossible person.
And these people
Their love
*Is yours.

now those eidolic dread horses have scarred your slumber, passed 9, passed 10,  and even your furniture has silent, open mouthed, nightmares over the too soon dead, dead school friends who never ended their crossings, and see, see, she stoops, in shroud  ghastly knelt as in prayer, but you can’t see, see through the tricks  of light that scream “she is there”, your crumpling chest  boiling as the bones in your legs subside while those, without body,  cross the empty room, no need to surmise that which lies bereft and restless may yet have something to say and you, you are the luckless soul who lives upon their byway and now,  now the voices, the voices start, those grody sounds, that won’t stop, stop your heart, beneath the floor, within the walls, the precedent for dull footfalls calling, calling to us one by one with no clear sight of saint or villain, a spectral round of hide and seek, directed by a floorboards creak, each time we search there’s nothing, nothing there, but of this guest we’re so aware, who was first, it or us, we can’t be sure, sure it wasn’t brought  from distant shores, for it never raised its head or voice before, before that gift from land of Vlad was carried over our threshold and ushered in something, something cold,  the bearer of an ancient fear, something as of yet unclear, or are we in thrall of phantoms more explainable  


This is a combination and refinement of what were two separate poems, previously published, to make by far a more satisfying whole. I believe it more convincingly captures some of the fear and panic I was trying to convey and should be read in a breathless manner as if you were living in a world that was entirely scripted by Samuel Beckett

When I was young
My mother would find
Creative ways to write back
To my letters to Santa

I didn't know it was her
Because when I went to bed
The cookies and milk were not touched
The carrot for the reindeer was still sitting there

When I was young
I believed that there were things
In this world that were not
Explainable
That there was some kind of
Magic

Around the age of 7
My friends started to tell me
That there is no Santa
That this was all a hoax
I believed them

I asked mother about it
She told me the truth

Suddenly
All the magic
That I ever believed in
Had disappeared

I realized
That life was not
Full of magic
Or beauty
But instead
Full of people
Always needing an explanation
For every thing

People on this dreaded planet
Have taken away
All senses of hope
And all the magic
That ever existed
(Did it ever exist?)

People are always looking for something to believe in,
Something to blame when bad things happen,
Something to explain the un-explainable,
Because we're afraid of what we don't understand.
That's why people turn to luck,
But it's just an illusion, created by sad, confused minds,
And you can't let an illusion rule your life,
Even if it seems like a good option.