Dear J,
   Happiness is a relative thing, or so I've learned. There are different versions of it. Your happiness probably differs from mine, which is most likely the reason we don't talk anymore. Your happiness didn't mesh with my own, causing some friction that lit a fire, at first starting love but then flaming into contradiction. That's okay. Happiness being a relative thing keeps us all from enjoying too much of one thing.
   You see, as humans we always expect that the people we love most share same interests and ideas and joys. However, this is wholly untrue. The most compatible couples have completely different opinions on what makes life better than others. This ensures that we have a wide variety of happinesses to choose from. If we were stuck with one our whole lives that happiness would eventually become nothing more than regularity. And that's another reason we became nothing more than acquaintances.
   Our happiness became so norm that we abandoned it in hopes that a new joy would come along, taming the fire of contradiction. When nothing was directed our way we instead became bored. And that's also okay because a little boredom reawakens our old happinesses.
   So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope you found your happiness. Whether that be the way the sun falls on her laughing mouth or the music you write or the poems you read, I really hope that they make you see what life can be about with this happiness in it. I loved you so much you became my happiness, and then you outgrew the position. Become someone else's happiness now.
              Love, Claire

I call it poison, but perhaps you won't. These cold pressed apples, pineapples, and spearmint only paste more modge podge over my face as I schlack it on...gritting my teeth I light yet another cigarette, now that's 2 packs of Marlboro Red Labels now onto American Spirits Light Blue. Cancer isn't coming fast enough. I wish I would at least be ******* out my innards by now, I haven't even vomited, maybe I'll take that toothbrush I bought for you to use when you would stay the weekend, that I haven't gotten around to whitening the sink with. Maybe I can do that Sunday. FUUUUCCK!!!! I am not praying I make till then. I don't know if I can even breathe another hour like this. I haven't drawn a sober breath in years- I'm on the wagon, but I was just transferred from a wheel into the **** bag for a horse. Being ****- at least it's something I am used to (a sigh of temporary relief washes over me. Or is it finally the Nicotine buzz I've been hoping for since I escaped to the forest with an airplane bottle of Southern Comfort[Brainstem: South to the **-femalien crease that's been comforting all these years, where are you now?] , and a pack of my Uncle's cigarettes to find out the first time how to make the pain she's gave me go away.

Men drink essentially because they can no longer illicit their needs.

You who I wasn't even attracted to at first, where together we barely called [Brainstem: this is where I construct a motive for using a chainsaw to pick my nose with] . You who I can now remember the way a mixture of your hair, body spray, sweet sweat, and vintage knits began leading my nose and my memory towards one of the greatest happinesses and darkest times I have EVER had.

[Brainstem: I just hate him. The kind of hate you have for a mosquito, a person who encourages you to speed up while they're walking without reflectors or night-lights in the middle of the road at night with their dog- that kind of hate. The hate that has me smoking my cigarettes to their orange and gold filters, that has me staying awake, unable to touch my own **** because it's already started staying at someone else's place and looks like two Californian Prunes and a shriveled overcooked mini-hotdog does. The kind of hate that has me burping up what smells like rotten eggs or bial.

....Out of nowhere without anything but the image of a virginate 21 year old casing around my aorta, lying in my bed in just a pair of her Fuschia & White Victoria Secret striped 100% cotton ******* that ever so slightly crease inward into the creases where her skinny young legs meet the ever-so-bite-worthy crease....After our first official date where we knew we weren't going to **** each other but rather she was focused on her breathing hoping I wouldn't be able to notice how excited she was [Crime: #4] then step away and find an imaginary monster that challenges every thought I have, conversations and incidents and challenges and givers and receivers and lines and dots, darts, knives, life, and *** and blood faintly stained onto the bottom of the that 1 1/2" piece of fabric which is the biggest obstacle between us.

While I write, recall, remember and dictate and draft up this piece, I realize that I am not the lawyer visiting the killer in prison OR even the killer cruising around in a slightly rusted robin's egg blue Volkswagen Anti-Climaxer, I am not even part of the story anymore, after you decided it was acceptable to be so graphically forward with me (I take another Xanax that's beginning to be two an hour that I avoid taking) Interspliced are scenes from Dexter, versions of serial killer life, visions of this fake superstar with his **** out flailing around spurting a little streaky one shot of *** onto your tongue and in your mouth, or maybe you were plastered with it.

I just know it's good I don't have a gun, I could go for a bullet sandwich 9 times over about now. I never touched, discussed, abused, misused, lead on, flirted with; I never did anything unattractive with the exception of being a heavy smoker and a low-earner right now, but I see women even younger than you make better choices than you. In fact right now I believe you will not even breathe on me. But it's no matter I have the reconstructed skeleton of his severed body parts I let soak in hydrofluoro until I could pick away what little gum-like pieces of pink sinew are still left. (Dexter: The Sarge and The Lieutenant walk  out of the precinct at the same noticing each other.

Do you believe that I really handed over the upper-hand to you? I've never had someone begging to **** my **** on a Thursday and getting a fake celebrity ****** from an awesome artist. And what really ***** the hammer and lifts my limp **** and ****-ticket up to your pretty little mouth, is knowing that eventually you will have to be alone again, and the shine of this excitement will wear off, and then I TOO CAN PLAY THE GAME.

1. Time to light the cigars.
2. I present the Nicaruagan landscapers' body, George Marshall, who is better known as 'The Skinner."
3. I accept that you're going to think being honest about your most promiscuous moments is attractive to talk about. I certainly thought that, up until you That is.
4. No more chocolate cake, again.
5. Throw out the soda.
6. Start taking Amphet Salts and running away from home and into everyone I would've liked to kick with my foot, bare, filthy, and furious into their cheekboned. Then smear the bottom of my oily and baby-***, **** and inviting foot into your Hood until you spray like the five hundred other times you tell me you didn't. But even all this. This cell phone, this furniture, the awful sound of the train all night, the illusion and total manic state that puts diplopic faces of imaginary people between me and the rest of the world.

I need to know, do you even want to here this? Are you confused? What led you to come over or invite yourself here?

Pills, blade, play, or having that kid. But putting up with his ******* to be in the background of thought as someone while I was at home with his four kids. And I just relax then because, while I thought organizing the tower room to serve our primary guest of action was necessary when I looked at it so lit up by the buildings across the way shining their light through its atrium making all of the room much more suited for making art, writing and dancing. This is a huge handful of good-naturedness in a friend that can't seem to get off the phone and I must have to hid the monkey. I have to go to Walmart and return the monkey. I will...... and this is the biggest luxury, the hotel maintenance will even cover up my own series of murders or Dexters.

You believe me right sweetheart. You're my closest friend, but she is worn together and I just like the rings I own to be worn by you so that you don't get the idea to slip up and not just give me more anneurisms for my ****** up already head, or cancel the party, but really play that game and seee them cased out, otherwise I could be...a? A Cosmetic Manufact- "I believe in Freedom." You said.
"hahahaha", I can see that got you where you are today, postulating my grief by throwing self-care out the window and just judging me based on what you don't relate to instead of what you do relate to.

PS I know you didn't have time to let anyone know I was coming already? Until I snuck a peak and figured out you had been casing me the whole time from beginning to end to break me. But I'm not broken. I'm just not eager to be touched by anyone else of the ** form other than you for a minute. I also have time believing that while you were scared of me giving you your first ***-to-mouth experience while I stand you up in a skirt in the back of the school bus. And I can recognize tears of someone around us, and so I stand up and I recognize that it's my friend Stephen who is really (...is really, an imagined hologram of myself I invent to learn about myself in dreams, and other horrific events that my mind shuts down for, and no you're not the only 5' foot and 5" inch blonde haired ex of mine that performs from the camera but not for the eye. It will all come out in the wash regardless. I better to get goin.....I could write on and on and on and on about all of these multi-secular, uninhibited, depressing suggestions from the same bill my sister has to pay her Electric and Water monthly on, but I need to not sleep to make the need more. And even though I say the photo of her touching a single toe with a dead boring hell bent nobody Phillistine that could care less about her Grandfather being sick or her getting an STI or STD or if she is taken care of. But I do. I will. I don't stop being the good natured caring and and passionate person I am just because someone I really thought was going to take me an honest man, just taught me to be more meticulous in making sure I dispose of the body properly... But maybe she isn't playing pretend, maybe she's just another Fake Prada caught up in the mix.

Aye, Vladimir, just before I met thee
I hath been sure I hath loved him-
no matter as queer as it may hath seemed!
Thou knowest not, how much tears I hath shredded
and noticest not, how t'eir vanity made me look dead!
But why-why then didst thou appear-
and wokest within me t'is secret fear-
with understanding in thy eyes,
and with a love t'at is to me so dear.
Why-why t'en thou left me, left me again!
Whenst I got to knowest thou but for a moment,
ah, with not so much of an endearment-
afforded ourselves only t'at streak of lovely,
but still weak of too a bond,
or any pact, of young novelty.
And everything was corrupt
As soon as thou re-released me
into t'ese qualms of insincerity
wherest I am still tossed about, guilty.
And hushed, hushed always,
like a trivial, parallel wind!
As though my dear heart's bathed in sin
and of a soul t'at is so thin
So worthy not of thy soulfulness
and sweet dreams of many happinesses.
Ah, Vladimir! If only thou could knowest
T'is thread of passion thou hath sowed
and how my entirety seekest being loved
By thee, and only by thee, o my rain!
As thou art but king to my sneaky moon
and my very own kingdom of stars
Not him-not him, o t'is I entreat,
albeit his wits hath been but to me so sweet.
Still he be a mistake, ah, a chilly autumn mistake
to me, from whom I didst just turn awake.
Probably thou would hath loved me;
imperishably and blindingly,
until all thy superb charms and wit
t'at wert but tortured and unbending
shalt be left within me lit;
and thus leaving our fiery souls entwined
with winds t'at art even sweeter
yet might be torturously everlasting.
Vladimir, Vladimir, oh my only Vladimir!
Thou altogether belongst with me; here,
so unjustly yet heavenly
And in our hands is cherished
our love, o, so wickedly-but fatefully!
How I longst to be thy lover, dearest-
and be so comely as thy only flower;
which ripens thickly in thy winter
and blooms robustly, in thy summer.

~
Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.

There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.

Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.

There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.

A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.

The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.
~

When asked what is sadness
there are a number of answers
perhaps sadness is
what we feel when we're alone
but not completely at ease
perhaps sadness is
happinesses broken younger sister
perhaps sadness is
the thing some people crave for
more than anything else
perhaps sadness is
loving someone who doesn't love you back
perhaps sadness is
what comes when we lose love
or have never found it
perhaps sadness is
the only one that feels our pains
perhaps sadness is
a reminder that we're human
well most of the time anyway
or perhaps sadness is
just another emotion that follows confusion
sadness is an emotion we feel
when our minds just don't want to believe what's just happened
or we just don't understand...

I’m waiting patiently to wake up
a living nightmare where I’m always stuck,
this thing called life that I have no desire for,
there’s a million exits but only one opened door.

So I raised my happinesses tolerance
now referred to only in the past tense.
Two sides and two faces; who decides which is best?
I just don’t know which one I recognize less.

My only saviour has been running late
but I promised that I would always wait.
She says I’m acting too stupid when she knows that I’m smart,
it’s these little contradictions that rip all apart.

I’m trying on all shades of purple and white,
I’ve gotten bored of only blue and red each night.
Why say so long when we can just say goodbye,
all that’s right is wrong and we feed truth a lie,
that’s the similarities and differences of you and I.

I've not been myself for a while,
had my heart
broken y'see;
It was a little while ago now,
the pain has faded,
it merely ebbs now and again

I've not been myself for a while,
it changed
me y'see;
I pieced myself back together,
best as I could,
but cynicism still spilled
into the cracks

I've not been myself for a while,
totally someone
new y'see;
there is so much that I want now,
so much more than boys or love,
I'm hardened to all that

I've just discovered myself,
I just realised a second ago,
I never really went away,
I was just concealed under the surface,
waiting for life's little pleasures
life's little happinesses,
to pull me through,
out of the ever-ebbing darkness.

She comes to vibrate with you
Without seeing already the meaning,
Since the time pure life thinking,
When it grows that winter afternoon,
In the reservation of the pleasure,
Simple without cruelty a life,
In the purity a dream as a treasure,
A life whole innocence comes to tell her.
That's too much but amazing as never,
You do not forget Morenita,
Neither two eyes said by you to love her,
She does not forget, Morenita,
Either you in the daytime with coldness,
You enjoyment touching the moon.
In the first time with her,
It was for you a madness,
How long for telling you,
And that beautiful moment to appear,
Dreams and longings, and happinesses, a life,
Your life, she is in, you can for her,
That's too much but still alive forever.

The sunrise comes after the darkest part of the night,
The small victories appear after the long struggles,

Those small bursts of happiness
make all my struggle worth it,

To my goals I am approaching,
Soon I will have everything I dreamed for.

Preferred  are those conversations accompanied by cigarettes and splifs and misfits sitting where they knew they always should.

There comes a time when cleared minds realize conversations of personal problems and unified disfunction's exposed feels right. As though your ideas of crazy themes and wandering dreams are unified.

Listening to the good die young by billy Joel blasts as slow motions and hand gestures toss stories and emotions like cracking the binding of a books once judged by unpredictable covers.

I connect with people who's skin has sunken ink that tell stories people think need to stay forever by vibrating needles. Piercings on questionable parts like on noses that drip from other kinds of recreationals. that give bad impressions to those cliche stereotyped people. But if we're all the same species then how do you begin to distribute labels?

I believe there are certain people that smoke cigarettes. That need a release knowing risk that with each pack your buying death. But living larger then safe is easily the option that's best.

To fly free through roads just watching others live lives and in  split seconds build their story lines. Like that feeling of peoples first expressions when first meetings happen and the only conversations are those of eyes that frigidly glance back. When you realize everyone is there for same reason. But curiosity is the catalyst for judgement and we have all done that.

I believe there are layers to the soul. Not like designated  pieces and parts but one giant relation that we all hold. It's that common beating of trapped souls kept in that bone cage our chest mold. Each chest holds humanities most sacred vessel so how come so many people turn out damaged and evil when born starting with the same soul?

I'd like that think that our common bind is that we have the ability to breathe. And even when things get crazy and life gets messy and that ability to breathe starts to feel more like your starting to choke at least it's sign your still apart of this earth as a whole and not already six feet deep...

There's something beautiful in the fact your mind makes you who you are.. Or do you make up your mind? Are we all strung up like puppets being pulled on premeditated strings? Or are we morally free willed  where fate is created based off every individuals caged vessels desires and whatever subjective shoulders conscious ends up deciding.

It's funny to me that people have angelic and demonic whispers on opposite shoulders because I believe that they are one in the same. That in reality our conscious is one unified subjective subconscious who has free will to take a ride with the devil but if they chose to live a live of angelic routine the heart gets hurt and your heads to blame.

Because the heart wants what it does but the mind always knows what's best. But what if together they worked the same and the explanation for decisions being made, are based purely on happiness with consequential benefits determined by what's locked inside that bone cage.

When does choosing between what's right and what's easy ever stop giving beatings to the beating vessel a rest.

Because I have never seen them coincide for most instances there's always that contradicting choice. The one you know you've already chosen but if you want everyone to win you will have to personally sacrifice happinesses of the real meanings of life.

The ones that hurt the most but are so addictive they are mentally deadly to any head that's got a heart full of selfish wishes that claw to fulfilled within me.  

Regret is a funny concept because it can always be avoided, that intuition is real and if any instance of doubt or denial is present during, before, or after these ordeals,
you know your accepting the warm rush of blood make it's way home and suddenly your head turns numb and cold. And the only thing to do is uncage that spirit and let it go.

And these constant battles of war and peace have never in history coincided it seems. But what makes you the winner or the losing team? In reality it all doesn't matter in seems, because things happen and If you chose regret and if that's true happiness should anyone put there's souls intentions to rest?

Because hurting are those who believe they would  rather  let everyone else win because being themselves would ultimately hurt others.. And its conclusions like these, they say, you just cannot win. But I grew up when I realized life was really about how your pawn is played. And let's be honest,  Humans have always been the most dangerous game. And ultimately everyone wants to win in a way, but their victory prevents others from reaching their souls restless place.

So this circle of life is that of our species chosen shape. Which makes a lot of sense in minds bigger state.

And I guess that's cool because anyone could say, that we do live condensed on a circle floating in an infinite space, where its never ending and confusingly contradicting , kind of common to that comparison about humanity's constant levitation around mixed messages that mind and heart keep sending.

But in the end were all just spinning. Rotating on sanities axis and gravitationally pulled one way, because that's the way the stars aligned. And that seems quite similar to humanities battle of premeditated fate. So free wills just another excuse for regret shunned away?

But after your feet get planted back in the ground and your mind doesn't feel like it's spinning, that's when you know your true conscious is winning. And even if I there's regret as minds price to pay, let your heart benefit from not caring what decisions it's made.

And for once don't settle by locking it back away in its cage.

See ribs have have rows of entrapment like cell doors and windows but don't they say if god doesn't open up the door he will a window? I think your heart needs to only be able to see through what it can handle. And your mind only cages that soul of questioned decisions away, because it's the one that hurts in longevity and gets damaged with mental repercussions in your head that will always stay. And hearts vessels only know what they've seen through the cage. It will be bruised but like clockwork healing starts and familiar tempting feelings once again become craved.

And anxiety of memories are sent to the brain when the heart wants to start over and relies on its mind to be brave. And sometimes that deceivingly beautifully ****** devil, on your shoulder distributes desired deadly sins your mind is banned from letting it's sweet heart discover.

Which is when it knows it's time to come back down from that beautiful risky heart thumping heaven and evaluate  the damage you have done. And so now I see why hearts and minds don't get along. They desire each others abilities of their methods to stay strong...

These scars that
I wear across my
face deeper down
then you can see like invisible
little pin ****** hold
the secrets to a life
spent living through love every
bad choice or
sadnesses
is compounded by a million
happinesses they hang
together
like the stars in the skies some
twinkle
and some some implode
succking half my life
with them huge black spiralling abyss’
made from the
need to exist in my own right away from
the impression
I
made wether good or bad was
made
because you chose
to believe I was one or the other
but why can’t I be
both
I THINK I AM DROWNING IN MY OWN EYES REFLECTED IN YOURS
as you look at and process what you see but what do you see….

a pause then silence .

I remember when loving him wasn't so wildly painful,
and I remember backseats and whispered things
and I remember winter nights and tiny joys.
I remember when I fell asleep against his arm on the way home from a dance I hadn't wanted to go to -
I remember a kiss on the top of my head,
the gentlest thing you can imagine,
to wake me up.
I remember the thousands of tendernesses.
I remember the the ecstatic joy you filled me with.
I remember I couldn't sit still when you were close by -
I remember the electricity, the wildness
you put into my limbs and the rhythms of my heart.
And truth be told these are what I'd rather remember
and this is how I'd rather it be.
I'd like to hold onto the joy and the recklessness,
the love instead of the loss.
I'd rather remember our happinesses, because they were so many.
I know your fickleness and your faults,
I know that you are in a constant state of moving on,
that you do not hold on and that you probably don't remember
but you know that I do.
I carry things with me and nights like these,
they do make me remember. They make me want and ache and they fill me with things I don't have a name for. They make me breathless and nostalgic and crippled. They make me think, write, and love. They fill me with the same abandon that you did, only quieter now and deeper, but no less beautiful.
And it's an odd thing, to remember love without feeling it,
Or to feel love in ways you don't understand because they feel so odd and out of place, being only yours. It's a difficult game and an exhausting one, and I'm struggling, still, to find my footing.
Today I remember loving you.
Later I will remember missing you.
Later still I will remember remembering,
Or maybe I will forget altogether.

It's difficult to describe your kisses
They taste like Ocean's Spray
Feeling the rushing waves of your highest happinesses
And tasting the stinging salt of your deepest regrets

Your kisses take me to the Eye of a Hurricane
Gently caressing in your calm storm
But feeling the wind currents of your demons
Circling around me and tumbling like the drain of an antique bathtub

You kisses take me to a Sand Storm
In the midst of your golden crystals
Flying through the air
Just barely missing my eyes

I hope you I can kiss you forever
Because I want to visit more of the Earth's Wonders

When I see the people abandon their old American Dream,
I read about their travels, their hungers and their happinesses,
I wonder if it is
madness
or if it is
love
which has inspired their souls
to commit the ultimate treason-
the pursuit of freedom.

.
In forgotten places
She made our bed,
Draped with golden
Sun and shade only,
Longing lovers name
As they stalk shyly, shines
Of trailings, low happinesses
That others delve seemingly
Deep and joyous always into
Graces left everlasting for them.

In forgotten places, of hurt,
We made our streaming supper.
By a bank that only salmon traverse,
Knowing with hazel branch and leaves
Buried round ancient moss of circle stones
This was our testament, the tame grasping
Of light as it flickers in a whirling of whim,
The hot breath which knows coping hope
Has no end in beginnings, the lancings
Of eyes as they tear into faint mystery,
Lamb white and bleeding, sacrificial
In the dawn, trained to never want.

When you love someone,
you will do anything for them.
If the sound of your voice
keeps them sane,
Then you would talk forever.
If the touch of your skin
on theirs kept them happy,
You would hold them
as tight as possible forever.
If it makes them happy
for you to go away,
Then you would move
to another country
Because you see,
When you love someone,
you would do anything
for them to be happy,
Even if it means you
sacrifice your
own happiness

There is no time
As you time passes through
Eye's perpetual needle
And a basic understanding,
      There are no seasons
That resonate forms and certain
Needs,
   There is not enough time
For anger and happinesses,
Only that it remains equal
In the chaos of a a hurried
Mind,
   A flutter into tornadic
Expressions,
A desire into a yearning fire,
Indirectly the season gives
A feel,
The cold winter she walked
Into the wind and her hair did
Not move, time does not beat
There, but arches into
A future,
    That summer the sweat
Off your brow bought the car
Of a dream in a dream,
   Carefully time snuck by
And perfected a moment's
Theory,
    A man needs both time and
Stillness to recognise that
All is fleeting,
And the only thing real
Is the mist,
In the mist
A temporal moan.

.
In forgotten places
She made our bed,
Draped with golden
Sun and shade only,
Longing lovers name
As they stalk shyly, shines
Of trailings, low happinesses
That others delve seemingly
Deep and joyous always into
Graces left everlasting for them.

In forgotten places, of hurt,
We made our streaming supper.
By a bank that only salmon traverse,
Knowing with hazel branch and leaves
Buried round ancient moss of circle stones
This was our testament, the tame grasping
Of light as it flickers in a whirling of whim,
The hot breath which knows coping hope
Has no end in beginnings, the lancings
Of eyes as they tear into faint mystery,
Lamb white and bleeding, sacrificial
In the dawn, trained to never want.

So, with doors locked
and cupboards vacated
and evening fallen
and images intertwined
in a head full of rain on
a cold Los Angeles day
I proceeded to shift rooms
once more, filling new ones,
leaving empty spaces behind.

I stood for a moment,
lost in thought, staring idly
at the cat on my former doorstep
mewing for catfood or *****,
I couldn't tell which, for
I didn't speak her language and
my ghosts were all my own.
I'm sure she would've had me
lend an ear to the tales of
all her personal hauntings,
given half a chance
and a yellow Babel fish.

Last night in Singapore,
packing an overstuffed bag with
gifts and memories,
leaving a few scattered behind
here and there,
along with scraps of discarded poetry and
some yellow-silver moonlight.
Across the hall,
newly vacant room, populated by
a wrinkled Snickers wrapper,
silhouetted against a sky
the colour of oxidized Iron.

Drowning in
a sea of photocopied class notes
and uncertain recollections of
shimmering April heat
in the ramshackle heart of
Northern India. A few stray happinesses
lodged safely in the occasional
corners of luggage not occupied
by books. Long drunken walkways
and fading bird-calls.

So, with new closets loaded
and bookshelves stuffed
and posters re-pasted
with cheap tape
on freshly painted walls
I unlocked the old doors
and checked one more time
for things left behind,
just to be certain.
Two IKEA light-bulbs in a drawer,
and some dust.
That was all.

when you left you took my broken soul with you
leaving me with nothing

nothing

you took it all
leaving me numb
emotionless

you took my broken soul
now it cant be fixed

i could've fixed my soul from some love and happinesses
but i cant anymore
you took everything away

now
i write poetry
trying to feel
but how do i feel without my sunflower soul

please give it back
i know you have it
please let me be happy
like a sunflower

but how can i be a sunflower
without my sun
you took my sun away
my brightness
my light
my everything

mad?
no

how can i ever be mad?
you once made me so happy
you were once my sun
you were once my everything

but soon you became my moon
the most beautiful moon
but the moon doesn't work for a sunflower

so no
i'm not mad
i just miss you
i want my broken soul back
i want my sunflower soul to be whole again
i want my sun back
even if that sun may not be you

i just want to feel.

There’s a whole world out there,
Full of lipstick stains and fairgrounds and cities you’ll love.
It has people who share their love as freely as a child,
And people who keep it hidden inside the barbed cage of their heart.
Once you are loved, you’ll feel it in every fibre of your being,
The depth of your soul,
And it’ll put a rose tint on life.
Dare to be present, my darling, and the world itself will gift itself,
It will weave the wonders of the world, and the beauty of life,
With the delicate ribbon being the subtle kindnesses shared.
Forget those who have left you, for their love was false,
As it did not thaw the sadnesses that are concealed
Between happinesses,
There is no life without losses, and no life without love.
I may not be a genius,
But I’m smart enough to figure that out.

n.b.

When I accept
the unhappinesses
of the moment,
my mind can be at peace
and my mind can be ready
to enjoy
the happinesses
of the moment.

Attic lily,
Crafted from Michelangelo's  hands,
a gem eyes fumble to adore.
Shapes, lines, curves perfectly placed on her body to sing harmonies that echo perfect anatomy

Attic lily,
a dazzling dream,
but her soul hugs a dead sun.
She's a sculpture of fair marble
built with a jungle of thin strings to fill her entirety, like a cat's cradle adorned with twines of roses to mimic completion.

Naive,
she thought losing a few petals for the happiness of others was kind
A rose for him, a rose for her...

Selfless,
she is all but a mirror,
for her smile has always been a reflection of others.

Hypocrite,
she wears a face with printed traces of happinesses to shadow the gloom breeding under her own.

Attic lily,
strong built independent woman
but secretly prizes to be caressed in hands with a feeble touch,
...to be pursued with a genuine smile
..to be treated worth more than an art piece in a gallery that eyes dart on and forget about it, the second they walk past.
to be checked when her soil dries out.
Attic lily, she is,
for no one notices her unless they need something from the attic.

I do not let you beg for my attention,I give it to you .
Your breath on my arm ,got my attention
Your silly and weird jokes ,got my attention
I do not let you beg  for my love ,I give it to you when you least expected it ,I give it to you through my patience ,I give it to you the way I look at you and smile ,I give it to you in my Pains and happinesses.
I do not let your lips go dry ,I soaked them with my big lips ,in private or in public I make sure my love for you isn’t shy .
My hands browse your body always ,every inches of your body feel both my physical and emotional attention .

I do not let you beg for my attention,I give it to you .
No one else has it but you ,no one else sends me into a trance that makes the rest of the world oblivious but you.
I give you my attention the way it pains me when sadness evicts smile from your face ,you got my attention when food becomes poison in my mouth ,I am a kamikaze when I can’t feel you’re happy when you text me .
You got my attention cause I love you ,I do not make you beg for it or convince me to get it .
You got it cause you deserve it .

I do not let you compete for my love ,you’re the last and final contender,no one has caught my heart but you ,it belongs to you ,you are the Queen and the empress of my heart .
I do not let you crave for my love ,I place it in your arms ,you play with with when I kiss you ,you nurse it when I’m angry at you .
I want to get your love and attention,I want to know your heart isn’t split and shared with someone else ,I don’t want half ,I want all of it .

There is a man I know
That to me was loyal and true
If only he knew
Had just a clue
How at times he hurts me so

A decade ago when we first met
I thought little of him I must confess

He is stubborn and well set in his ways
He thinks he is always right
and we all must abide to his ways

17 years difference in age I think to him like a father
in to many ways

I've lost true love I've tainted the nest
I gave him his wishes his wants

Now I suffer the loss
Paying life's ultimate cost

There is no room for a third  in any ones bed
Never let it be said never be mislead

It never goes right its never fine your walking
on happinesses s thin line

Yes.
I am.
I truly am.
I am happy.

There’s always a quest.
A quest of there instead of here.
That instead of this.
Then instead of now.
That way instead of this way.
That one instead of this one.
But with all the “here”, “this”, “now”, “this way”, “this one” I am happy.
Coz that’s my recipe to be so.
Nothing different.
That’s the perfect composition of my life.

Yes.
I am.
I truly am.
I am grateful.

For all the imperfections as much as the perfections.
For all the failures as much as the successes.
For all the heartbreaks as much as the happinesses.
For all the wrongs as much as the rights.
For all the I don’t haves as much as the I haves.
For all the unanswered prayers as much as the answered prayers.

Coz that’s what makes me - me.

And I wouldn’t change a thing.

and she was so caught up in her own sorrow
she forgot a friend
who's happinesses she "borrowed"

Attic lily,
Crafted from Michelangelo's  hands,
a gem eyes fumble to adore
   Shapes, lines, curves perfectly placed on
         her body to sing hormonies that echo
            perfect anatomy

Attic lily,
A dazzling dream, but her soul hugs a dead sun
fair marble sculpture,
     built with a jungle of thin strings to fill
          her entirety, a cat's cradle adorned
                with twines of roses to mimic completion.

Naive,
she thought losing a few petals for the
      happiness of others was brave
          A rose for him, a rose for her...
   Selfless,
    she is a mirror, for her smile has
         always been a reflection of others.     Hypocrite,
     she wears a face with printed traces of
           happinesses to shadow the gloom
                 breeding under her own.

Attic lily,
strong built independent woman
     But secretly prizes to be caressed in
           hands with a feeble touch
...to be pursued with a genuine smile
..to be treated worth more than an art
             piece in a gallery that eyes dart on
     and forget about, the second they walk past.
to be checked on when her soil dries out.
       Attic lily, she is,
         for no one notices her unless they
               need something from the attic.

Now
Sugar and a little cream
Palliative potion of comfort
Elixir of coffered considerations.
Contemplated and envisaged
Morning brews,
Propositioning sunsoothes
Particles.
Helios sweeping mightlight across
The metallic movingmorn
Undulating nightlight.
Topaz infused
Daydreaming muse
Stirs the digested amnesic night  
Drinks to
  
Apollo offline
Drinks to
The empty holy grail of evening,
While Helios slept.
Hallucinating prophecies of fleeting images,
Succulent hopes of happinesses
Drunken inhaled trippy
Folktales
Of lore
And lay.
Oracled god of prophecy
God of healing
God of poetry
Healing lyrical music medicine
Hear my poemprayer
Hear my prayerpoem
Drink to
Elixir of life
Elixir of love lost.
Drink to
The elixir of a childless day.

The nascence of your  happinesses
Essence  in your tone ..
Is a pinch of euphoria.
lits up me like a drug...
Possess in an obscure ambiance..
Real reel in a memory flim..
Dose of drug to doze off ....