live life in warm yellows
when the sky is a dark gray and the clouds are a loveless black
live life in light pinks
when the trees are dying browns and the flowers are wilting ebonys
live life in bright blues
when the waters are a wild taupe and the sand is a rough onyx
live life in the colors of life;
for life is exquisite
but to see such radiance and beauty,
one must be appreciative and live life in warm yellows
reds,
oranges,
greens,
blues,
indigos,
and violets.
life is full of color, but one must be able see that to truly enjoy living

Bipolar is not just
swinging madly across a spectrum
of deep blue to fiery orange without
being stained by the indigos and greens, yellows and reds in between.
Bipolar is not just
a season blessed and a season cursed
on a cycle of happen, rinse, repeat.
bipolar is not just
Loud uncontrollable chatter
laughter that bounces off the insides of your head
Or
earthshattering sobs that give way to
teardrops that are waterfalls.
bipolar is not just
wanting to rove our hands over the
planes and curves of
every body we happen to find ****.
bipolar is not just
an amalgamation of wounds
in various stages of healing
each with an ugly story to tell.
Bipolar is just
so
hard
to deal
with,
(sometimes).

from the foam come
uncupboarded hoary-eyes wide,
once more, too

When I met you, I was a draft.
An artwork to never be complete.
My eyes of charcoal
My veins of graphite
No color flowed through me for I was
Lifeless.

You opened up to me
You redesigned my thoughts.
Your paintbrush stroked a bright blush onto my cheeks
You turned me into
Bright pastels
With glorious indigos
Overwhelming scarlets
And mysterious lavenders.

You kissed me in a backdrop of
Forest greens.
You created scenery for
Every emotion,
Dressed me with rainbows,
And completed my blank spaces.
You turned me into a masterpiece.
But before you could sign your
Glorious painting
You realized
You could do better pieces
And pastel was over rated anyways.

i.

under a flaming bridge
blue islands,
sky-stream of
light, as the tranquil
waters unfold,
dream of
visionary seers
and haunted rooms.

gold sun running
like a tide,
pads of echoing cloud,
reflections like
mirrors on
the hollowy
water.

ii.

oil on canvas
pond of daydream,
water wrapped in love
and flower.

sunken, bird of grey
wire, fallen stone,
rippling ghost.

iii.

flower of ghost,
ink lady of sapphire
melting and sinking
like lanterns
in a chine,
where the night
wanders and the stars
lean against the sky.

iv.

watery isle,
rivery summer golds,
trembling pond,
flower of the dragonfly
flower of white sun.

v.

shadows in the leaves
monet fire of gold,
strange indigos,
violet sky,
water-dragon of the pond
water-dragon of the flowers.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
passion would be where magenta and orange kiss the horizon at sunset,
joy would be the yellow of my socks every easter sunday that i can remember,
and melancholy would be just another shade of blue.

i told him,
i am not done with you yet.
three weeks post breakup,
we shouldn't feel as unfinished as we do.
like, in the ridiculously complicated narrative of he and i,
the author got up one day,
scribbled a quick ending,
and then set the novel on fire.

i read an article in an obscure magazine
about Shelley Jackson,
an artist
who got thousands of people
to tattoo a singular word
from a story onto themselves,
and then sent them back to their scattered existences.

maybe that is what this is,
another scattered story.
another vaporized narrative.

i can feel it in the air,
but not pull the phrases together.
it's like trying to hold onto smoke.
our story slips through my fingers and gets in my eyes.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my ribcage would look like a Jackson *******.
my head would be a paintball arena.

i am so full of indigos,
and mustards,
and crimsons,
that Van Gogh, himself, would dip into my palette
and claim to have never seen such beautiful sadness before.

i don't know if it hurts because it still matters,
or if it matters that it still hurts.

i feel the frenzied ache of creation in my gut.
i am not a painter,
but my mirror is showing me
the immaculate collection of brushstrokes
i have become.

a few weeks ago,
i was approached by an artist who offered to paint my bruises.
to collect my contusions with watercolors.

what a beautiful intention,
to immortalize the growing pains,
memorialize the bumps along the way,
to make something permanent
of these perpetual transitions.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my pride would be gold-plated and rusting from use, like my grandfather's watch,
courage would be the pure green of every bud that has dared to grow through concrete,
and love?
love would be prismatic,
like spilled oil on asphalt.

a rainbow one moment,
vanished the next.

the sky's flowers are the
february stars that brood
like a crashing sea.

moon against moon,
the indigos of the night
wind and unwind.

who listens when the
bright beams tremble?

who listens to the grey night's
powerful song?

the sky's flowers are the
slow river of clouds that
flow away from me,

little paper islands
puffed out like chinese lanterns.

only the stars and the
clouds and the moon,

the boughs beneath, withered
and gaunt, start to dream...

Salt rocks and lollipops
Gemstones and Zen
Spellbinding wizards
and dragons that eat men

Lightworkers and Indigos
Heart chakra crown
Don’t block kundalini
you’ll surely break down

With Ohm in the house
like it or not
Theta beats Beta
No judgement or thought

Malas and Mantras
to the Seat of the Soul
dissecting wavelengths
to uncover the whole

Ankhs and crosses
With fire and white light
Circle of crystals
bring spirit into sight

Mystics & healers
heed the cosmic call
extend love to our planet
to save us all

Saint John the Apostle says: “Hellenika and Tsambika, they will be the lily, the saffron, the rose and the violet, but also new, like the calendula and the chamomile, making of all a crown headband, to ad put the world of the Duoverse in everything its radius, for the star that illuminates par excellence as a white planet without thorns, which is the perfect one among the perfect ones, anti herbicide of language and incarnation, as in the Empyrean medieval zeal and in the highest of heavens. It is also the site of the physical presence of God, where the angels and the souls welcomed in Paradise reside, between Thistles and Roses towards the nourishing plane of the conventual voice and the tonic of the Milky Way; galactogens, ******* third grade milk to curdle in children who have not been a Messiah yet. Paths of thorns will guide the visitors of this gallery of flowers and plants, through the Panagia Monacal, for the holy homily with the Lilies and their lower valleys, where no more Lilies can evade their chains of the Liliorum genome and in their valleys of galactogenic virtue. As Mother Rosa and son Lirio, being the mother of all and of that one, behold ... your son, "I myself in the path of the three Marias. Over there in the desolate andurrial, an aquiline carries me imprisoned on my heels, as a bond of a son who makes my footsteps, the columbine sole of my saving feet.

At 320 meters of altitude, the Still Life appeared, concealed behind the Vas Auric, here everyone approached the auric circle of Morality that made them authors of the proximity of the Universe falling on Greece and Herbalism that fell with all its historical structure in the forest where many more species such as Caltrop, Laurel, Olive, Linen, Granada appeared, in a simple and flat devotional with nuances with pro delegating status; the same Hexagonal Birthright, to make the cinnabar fistulas, which was elemented by the different colors associated with the Grail tutorials, which were seen indigos on top of some Rhododendrons. If it is eschatological, it is in mystical nets of the Empyrean, further away in a form that is said to be called a form of gonism, between Cardinals and their dead Lilies. As the first among the last, the bulbous and clayey Tulip orb and basilica symbolism, peacemaker and philosophical Eritrean, for spiritual searches, which eager effusions of the Empyrean, reached the Messiah on his Pollino on the way to Bethany.

Around the Monastery, they could all be seen arriving to the beat of the cymbals and aulos, among the lyres that prowled, tickling the inquiry to rest their fingers, or perhaps by some augur Trojan villain in those of "Daedalus".  The latter being, here a tulip, with flames of a true seeker trying to sacrifice subsistence daring over the risk of the flame of saving death.

Daedalus says: “After the incident with Perdix, I Daedalus was expelled from Athens. I then went to Crete, and in the kingdom of Minos I was placed in the service of the monarch. One of his tasks was the creation of Talos, an animated bronze giant who defended the island from invasions. By order of Minos, I built the labyrinth to enclose the monster. The labyrinth was a building with countless corridors and winding streets opening one to another, which seemed to have no beginning or end. Minos locked me up with my son Icarus, whose mother was Naucrate, a slave from Minos, in the same building. The reason for the confinement was the collaboration of Daedalus in the escape of Theseus from the labyrinth. I have to lament for the rapture of Perdix, now turned into Partridge, who now carries in his clutches the creation of the Universe-Duoverse, turned into his own, and me in envy, harassing me with the endings of my endings and not initiating nor ending. That is why I appear here coming from Crete, to wrap myself around the garden and its mystery, closing all the madrigals and trees, like a world that has created me. In its splendor, seeing the humility, fragrant of violets grafted into lavenders, with my soul now, of a somewhat  syncretism Hebrew-Hellenic and Mythological-sub Mythological, like a nobleman who walks free and without chains ..., passing through the Parthenon to put garlands, in dresses that are adorned with linen, but of evangelical lineage here in Kímolo. From here in the humility of heaven I will go with Kanti and Etrestles to unite on the prominent hills of the Hexagonal Birthright.

on the steps of the notre dame
i lost my sense of color
every moonbeam through the
cracked walls of the House of God
danced around me like blue gypsies
performing a ritual upon
every ringlet of hair on my head

in the catacombs of paris
i lost my sense of touch
every skull feeling like silk
dead calcium caressing
the flesh beneath which
my bones were moving
alive and restless

beneath the arc de triomphe
i lost myself
the curve of stone caving in on me
like a Parisian Goliath
and I, a madman David
names of fallen soldiers
engraved upon the walls
breathed back to life
from dust they have returned
they reach into my cerebrum
their stone fingers pulsing
with the hymnals of war
to meet with the battle
of indigos and crimsons coursing
through every nerve of my anatomy

behind the eiffel tower
i lost my art
paris lights beating down
a beast sleeping through the
tides of eulogies and odes
its orphans have to offer

I have found you,
but in your eyes, I'm not seen.
I may be different,
but you don't have to be so mean.
I know of my abilities.
I know of yours too.
Just show me something.
Let your indigo light flatter my features
and caress my soul.
It's not red or coral
or navy or white.
We're indigos and nothing compares.
A rare breed, is what we are.
A rare breed of "kids"
We've been here before, we already know better.
We see signs of greatness and glimmers of power.
Don't underestimate us,
for these indigos are anything but cowards.

You are not visiting me
You are staring at murky terrain
Which underneath holds a hallow husk
Turn around in your five inch heels
Make your way back home
If you yearn for my presence
Look into the infinite whirlpool
Of indigos sapphires and celeste
Wave to a mass of white wisps
Remember that I’m always with you

I’m the squeak from your shoe on a rainy day
To instill everlasting confidence
I’m the splash from your cannonball in hot July
To inspire extraordinary inner youth
I’m the generous breeze that blows the same night
To remind you of compassion
I’m your one piece of hair that stays out of place
To show you that imperfection is angelic
I’m the excess of softness in your cotton jacket
To comfort you in dour times

Remember that I will always be your anchor
I will be the reason your Facebook goes blank
When there’s still schoolwork to be done
I will be the flat tire on your pink mini
During that dismal drunken night
I will be the espresso between
Those extensive college hours
I will be that dazzling glimmer
On the ring that he picks out
I will be the tear in your honey-cinnamon eyes
When you say your vows
I will be the one to whisper “grow”
In your unborn child’s ear

So don’t ever go back to that wretched place
You are not visiting me, you never will
From this moment, until
The end of your convivial journey,
I will be visiting you

"where love is a song settling in the night"

you were the softness of feathers
and the harsh cadence of grief,

you were the sky's frail mists
and its glittering pools,

in the warm indigos of summer
i welcomed you home,

the sea with its engine pistons
played loud harmonics,

it wasn't the noise but quiet
i wanted most, the way i wanted you,

star silent, drifting like a boat.

Close your eyes.
What do you see?
Darkness, maybe.
Or do you see colours?

Fluorescent , vibrant hues of wonders;
Dancing under your eyelids.
The sun, sending warm tangerine waves into you.
The moon, kissing you goodnight with rich inky indigos and blues.

Cover your ears.
What do you hear?
Silence, maybe.
Or do you hear voices?

Expired conversations that replay differently each time.
****** retro punk tunes you can't remember the names of.
You send yourself letters when no other sound can be heard.
Your address is never forgotten and nothing is left unsaid.
  
You don't need light to see.
You don't need noise to hear.
Just look and listen ,
and you will feel.

We're literally verging on death and no one even bothered to properly orient us on what it would be like.

There's the West Valley Fault, ready to strike a fatal blow that will make buildings crumble and set an entire city afire. There is always the Tokhang, a ruthless method that could practically annihilate and gun down anyone through gossips and word of mouth. There's the brewing tension between the North Korea and the US, the possibility of nuclear war and bioterrorism breathing at the back of our necks.

Earlier today, a friend of mine witnessed an accident. A death, I hazard. Broken bones and crumpled body. A loud explosion, a worker coming face to face with electrocution. He fell from the roof of the footbridge, she said, near Session road. Mortality is easing up on us, she said.

So before any of these befall on us -- any of these dooms -- as it inevitably will, I would like to ask you to go out with me. We'll go anywhere, anywhere at all. Everywhere, nowhere, wherever we want. We'll talk and dance and scream and exist all at once. We'll build bonfires and watch the stars and roll under the moon beams and in silence and anticipation, we will wait for the arrival of the morning light.

We will savour the last sliver of our days and we will hope. We will carry the splinters of our bones and we will find our way out of all these harms, into sea mists and sunsets in indigos and golds. We will never cease hoping. We will go on living and with each breath we draw against everything that happened to us, each beauty we make out of our sorrow and uncertainties, we will mock this grey, grey world.

i ache to be beside you,
cat-like i stretch out,
i curve into your corners,
unravel your avenues like wool,

tender and surreal i carve
my name on your lips,

in the last of summer’s
indigos and fire, slumbering
in the now damp grass,
i feel your love, the shadows
and the softening golds, the
honeyed fever of your touch,

ripples of blue water,

tides of an impossible
sun,

you light me like a lamp
an electric blue-ink canvas,
tireless like the engines
of the wind that bid us melt.

bodies familiar in the hues
of a dying day
in the shadows, in the shade
blacks and grays,
indigos and jades

whispers muted in the last
gasps of light
our language,
words knit into the night
our vision, monochromatic --
your breaths,
the moon,
my static

I found myself
Staring into an ancient rythym
The mustang narrowed its eyes within my ribs and pounded on.

Waves of machine thunder
Broke against my mind,
Washed away with my consciousness,
And played there
Like spent dandelions upon an autumn breeze.

In that maelstrom of indigos and ether, lightening split the void
And I just fell...
My layers and lies, suddenly too thin to keep,
Fell away exposing the wilds of my dreams. Refracting my every wonder unto the waters of time that spilled there in eternal complexity.

And then?  she simply blinked.

Crush my lungs and steal my breath, you’re only the blood pulsing through my veins. There are no words for the way the blood seeps out onto the cold tile floor.
I guess maybe it was all a game to you, a deck of cards. You sat there with your poker face on, still intact no matter the cards I played. I raise and you call. **** it, I guess I was never good a placing bets.
Your name is branded on my lips. I try to purge myself of your existence but you still remain. Caught up in my tendons, heart strings and all.
You can’t see my broken heart and river run tears forming fountains of seas between you and me. But each time you tell me to leave, a piece of me dies and withers away. Eventually there will be nothing left so I’m begging you to choose your words wisely because your tongue is a sword ripping through my spinal cord, Breaking my stance. Baby won’t you be my crutch?
My lungs are tar black and my heart is crimson red. I’ve lived my life in violent indigos, but you were my first taste of a yellow hue.
Loving you feels like driving fast, exceeding the speed limit, gas pedal floored, unlocked doors, passenger airbag off, busted headlights and no seatbelts. It’s an adrenaline rush. I can feel my heart racing by the grace of your touch.
You remind me it’s okay to slow down.
But the pain knows no borders.
It’s all adrenaline,
All chemicals and no impulse control.
I wish there was a way to
                                make
                                            it
                                                        stop.
You knew just what to do to make me beg for you.
You and all your callous words, taking shots at my bruised soul.
It’s much worse than broken bones and a ****** lip.
I crawled into the chambers of your chest, built up a wall and barricaded myself in.
There were always two sides to you.
One was scarlet red and the other a deep, dark blue.
I could never cut cut the cord between the two.
I convinced myself I was just seeing double.
My heart's been broken for a love that lingered on and off for 7 months but never seemed to survive a week.
And even though we collided like atoms in Einstein’s dreams,
It doesn’t excuse the way you tore my heart strings.
I no longer know you from the distance of an arm's length.
Because the past 4 days have been spent burning bridges and building walls.
You were the first one to shimmy your way into my chambers, muscle and veins.
You said you liked the view from brown eyes and how they look like honey when the sun hits just right.
But I was always falling into your ocean eyes.
I lost myself in the tides.
I became background noise.
I couldn’t think of me without thinking of you too.
But you always said I didn’t think enough.
Loving you always felt like a privilege but you made it feel like a chore.
And I could never fight the constant urge to scream.

The clouds overlap
Into cities of bridges
With rivers of indigos
Painted in the sky, as the
Evening begins, early now
Autumn has come.

Swirls of red and gold
Stretching across the world.
Filling the planet with pale greens and deep indigos,
You are the flower on a desert plain.
You are the sun on a cloudy day,
The rainbow after rain.
You are what makes this world beautiful,
The artistic touch painting the earth with marvels beyond compare.

Artists strive to harness your beauty,
Musicians sing of your grace.
The indescribable image you paint,
Of a baby blue sky and lush green grass.
Day after day, people gaze in admiration
Finding joy in your very presence when they can find it
Nowhere else.

You are the light in a dark cave,
The path through an infinite plane.
The finishing touches of a painting,
The smile on a child’s face,
The laces on a shoe.
Something so important we’d be lost without it
Yet so subtle most look past it.

Bleak skies, barren terrain.
Without you, everything is boring; the same.
How would we symbolize love, glory, shame, danger?
How would we see the edges of each object with such sharpness?
Without you, we would all be at a loss,
Living in a bleary, stark world.

I bite my lip when I miss you
I apologize if my kisses taste like blood.
Lately my tongues been tasting like asphalt and copper.
My cheeks are soaked by acid tears.
I’ve lived my life in violent indigos.
You’re my first taste of yellow.
The static isn’t so loud now.
You touch me like I’m made of glass
I know I’ll never break by your touch.
Those calloused hands,
so smooth yet so rough.
Those eyes, so empty and lost.
I could drown in that shade of blue when the sun hits just right.
We’re driving home and taillights paint red on your face, you grab my hand, and the corners of your mouth rise.
The moonlight kisses you.
And I’m so-
So envious.
Bringing you to me was the kindest thing the winter could ever do.
And I loved you through the piercing cold.
And I love you now.
God, I love you now.

Bees emitting that awful buzz of theirs
circling asters and tiger lilies
down by the water
Ever after we wonder how
full petals spring forth from
garish beginnings
hiding their color until they’re ready to bloom
I know I marvel at the water’s rush
just cool enough to dispel the heat
Kidding of course I’m kidding I’m kidding because I
love the way the water remains frigid
maintaining resistance
not by nature of the earth
Open your petals then color
popping forth from nowhere yet
quietly may come from everywhere and from
random corners of
silent torrential oceans
Tear away at what dark was left
Under old floorboards and in dusty cupboards
Valor comes in all forms
white as an afterthought to
xenon and plum
yellows and indigos and hues bursting with a
zest to combat the storm

I wanted a broken heart
Because many hearts were broken
And to be like many was "to be like..." -
Relating was a cosy thought

It was like that cool dime-sized scar on your elbow that you could show your friends to brag about your adventure
But instead of a healing arm you have a philosophy that needs to heal
This knotted idea, constructs tangled like a pair of earbud headphones you left in that near-useless right front 'pocketception'
And it will require patience
Patience and nimble fingers
That will someday hopefully be used to pluck a guitar to the soundtrack of your soul

I wanted to cut my heart
So I could craft it into a diamond
Refracting all the shades of pain the world has to offer, all the hues of hurt
Shades and hues that paint a portrait of my experiences
Sad indigos, angry crimsons, ***** onyx

I wanted jagged edges
That resembled a ninja star
That had been thrown in a wood chipper
Whose cuts were familiar to many
Whose veins were identical to none
I'd like to think the same pain flows through my veins
As that that flows through someone's

There’s secrets we hide under this skin.
Swallowed tears and oceans. Chants and earthquakes.

Yet, the secrets I often find are in between breaths and prayer.
Alchemised in our folklore and decoded in our beads - transcended into patterned clothe - spread through our beliefs.

We are spells

carrying keys beneath these tongues that could unlock time and serenade the gates of heaven. Songs that make us meet the avatars that linger in our bones - wishing to dance their way into the days that we now breathe.

Our, history, lives in us. Heaving in the vernacular we almost forgot.

Our history, is being reborn in Shamanic spirits coloured in Indigos, browns and blues. We are Prophets and Holy Souls. Dreamers and See’ers. Amens and Ase O’s.

It finds us through our mothers’ hymns and fathers’ laughter. Hides in our grandmother’s bedtime stories. Is reborn in the waves that lick the shore.

We are the eclipse.
We are the shadow.
We, are the black hole.