Once I took one of those blot tests, the ones that that Rorschach guy invented.
Or maybe it's Rorscarch.
I don't know, but I call him Roar-shark.
Anyhow.
The ones with blots of black paint that you're supposed to find pictures in.
There was this one blot, and I saw the profile of a lady's face, with long windblown-looking hair.
I was supposed to find a butterfly.

I've always had a different take on things, a weird memory association.
Well, I guess I can't call it memory. As far as I can recall, I've never seen that Roar-shark blot lady in my life, or anyone like her. At least, anyone that I can remember. And I only remember the truly remarkable.

I had these really great microwave burritos that I would eat after school, before rehearsal so I could just pop them in and go.
They were warm and gooey and really realllly bad for me, but hey.
I'm in a hurry. I'm allowed to be fat.
They were soft and I could eat them in the car on the way to the theatre without spilling things on my rehearsal skirts.
But then my grandad got throat cancer.
I was house-sitting my Nana's house one day and opened the fridge to get myself a glass of milk while I fed her cats.
Those very same burritos were in their freezer.
The other day I shoved one of them in the microwave so I could grab it and go,
and I hopped in the car and took a bite
But I couldn't eat anymore.
I looked at it and my stomach turned and for some reason I could not eat that burrito.
My mind had decided that if I were to take another bite out of that food,
I would be eating cancer.
I told myself that I was being ridiculous and stupid and I was hungry, so eat it.
But I couldn't shake it.
So I threw it out the window.

My mind's ALWAYS doing stuff like that, playing tricks on me.
I can't touch the page numbers on the pages of a book. I think they're spiders.
Sometimes I think my oboe reed blades are actual blade blades
and I'm afraid to put them in my mouth.
Weirdness doesn't go away.

So now I've switched my before-rehearsal food.
Tortilla. And milk.
I don't know why this strikes me as appealing, but it does.
My mind equates tortillas and milk-- warm and cool-- with happiness,
just like it equates my face wash to orange and honeysuckle.
(Though it smells like neither.)
and Christmas angels to pillows.
Rugs remind me of Egyptians.
Theatre seats are associated with a certain animated clownfish.
Leaves are reminiscent of the Sistine CHapel.
Pleas don't tell Roar-shark.

Once my English teacher told my class to write everything important in ink,
which brings us back to that one guy,
in pen.
Since everything I write is important, I write everything in pen.
Of course, you can see everything I scratch out, too.
The unimportant of the always important.
I like to think I'm not afraid of mistakes.

But sometimes, when my iPod is on shuffle,
it decides to get inside my head and play that song
that reminds me of you--
back when I bit my lip,
back when you owed me a slow dance,
back when I actually LIKED the scent of apples and pine trees.
And my mind does this "freeze" thing that
makes me stop breathing for a second.
and I hit the next button really really fast and then
fly off to the kitchen to find a glass of milk
because nothing can go wrong when I've got happiness in my hands.
But it's no use.
The thought gets to me before I can stop it.
About
my
our
YOUR mistake.
And then I just get angry and the milk quivers in my glass and I have to set it down before I throw it at the wall or something drastic like that.
Because I am dramatic, maybe.
Because even though I have played it over in my head
because even though I try to think it's my fault
because even though I try to blame it on myself
I can't.
Because it's not.
Because I'm not afraid to make mistake.
But I'm afraid to remember you.
Because
Even if you were remarkable.
You aren't.
Roar-shark would have a field day.

First thing this morning
I broke my pen,
Spilled my ink all over my pretty white paper,
left with nothing but inkblots,
maybe the Mental Health people can use them?

Nature's own inkblots,
By time and wind shaped
Each with a story to tell,
Fantasy stirring, recollection as well,
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.  
Some have stooping shoulders,
Like old men after a funeral
Talking quietly on the lawn.
Some have boughs that slant down,
Like eyebrows
On teachers that frown--
Worried and skeptical.
Some stand at varied intervals
Along hilltops above a town
Watching like sentinels.
Some have branches that curve up,
Short, like fancy mustaches,
Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched
To greet a loved one.  
Some stand very close, boughs touching,
Like families saying grace;
On some, the branches intertwine,
Like lovers who embrace,
And on some, the lowest limbs
Fly upwards,
Like a skirt raised by the wind.  
Young ones crowd together,
Some taller than the rest,
Trunks thin,
Like kids choosing sides for baseball.
On some, the branches rise like smoke,
Billowing silently, curling,
Drifting to the sky
Like prayers from a little church
Where all the woman wear hats,
And every man wears a tie.  
Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye--
Each with a story to tell.
Silently standing,
By time and wind shaped
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.

Alone with this desk,
And a notebook chock-fulled with paper;
Endless.. he chomp everything away.

Things truly aren’t easy,
The silence makes it harder.
Hey music, fill the air;
For not all truths,
But laughs of frauds may break out.

Just like the old days.
Just like the lady boss,
Just..maybe.

There should be dancing all around,
Where crowds should chip in
And take things in stern.
Errands were not decors –
Trespass! Like mini ciphers,
Digits, letters, they knock the drill out.

Only a couple more days left,
But in ignominy,
This generation may fall;
How pitiable..

With such marks and inkblots,
The source remains unrecognized.
They’re used to seize papers like that,
Although such are committing theft already.

Left were words,
Can’t spell it unerringly;
Yet the hearsays divulged its address,
So now, it’s time to slam this tome;
End the toil that has always been the crook!

Go outside,
For the sun’s rays are there!
Goodbye to this aged chair,
And to this notebook full of nicks,
With new freedom,
We shall embrace..
Everything.. “Ciao” to what’s new,
‘Coz this is the real world!
Oh college days!

(7/25/13 @xirlleelang)

Do you believe
that a poem
has not one meaning
                                                                ­                                                                 ­     but imports as numerous
                                                        ­                                                                 ­           as the eyes that experience
                                                      ­                                                                 ­                                     its existence
                                                       ­                                                                 ­               and try to piece together
                                                        ­                                                                 ­              how it exists in their life?
that the core of a poem
is some internal light
that the poet has basked in
which has manifested itself on the page?

                                                          ­                but that for each of us
                                                              ­    who is touched by its presence
                                                        ­                   it is an aurora borealis
                                                        ­                  which holds us rooted
                                                          ­                 panting in excitement
                                                      ­                       lost in admiration
                                             and appreciating that someone somewhere understands?

                                                ­                                                                 ­           that an encounter with a poem
                                                            ­                                                 is like trying to find shapes in the clouds
                                                          ­                                                                 ­       or constellations in the stars
                                                           ­                                                                 ­            or meanings in inkblots

that within its randomness
patterns emerge
and each one  may discover
exactly what one is looking for
                                                             ­                                                           that within this meeting of minds
                                                           ­                                                                 ­     there is an universal connect
                                                         ­                                                                 ­                        a personality test-
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                        that reveals both
                                                            ­                                                                 ­            the reader and the poet

so while reading any poem
it may be worthwhile to think
what did I learn about you?
and what did I learn about myself?

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
18.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled
on an unmade bed meanwhile I
am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing
autographs that serve no alternate purpose
subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently
my heart scratches and claws and penetrates
bone, muscle, and choked fat
to get to you

How will we know
when we’re no longer
young enough
to inconsequentially
rot our bodies
from the inside
out?

If I could
I would search for a space
impenetrable
by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms
that exists between
my pale finger tips and
your freckled
bare back moving
slowly up and down

If I could
I would be somewhere where nothing
is the tarnished byproduct of anything
where no one will remind anyone not to
clog their throats or minds or eyes
when they
shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots
and chug gasoline
and wipe away dirt stains
and drink each other’s shame
and form cuts on the soles of their feet
after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones
to reach other

There is a rising beneath
The shape of cresting wave peaks
Where light shines through and down
/
Into the rushes, cupped in the hands
Anemonae— between the bubbles and the air pockets
And pressurized space stained black and white and blue
/
This is the land of the deep, the deathly still
Where only the brave light of pyrosomes
Wan— cast upon the inkblots that pool in human hearts
/
Can fill with air the lungs that breathe
And float, and buoyed and bobbing,
Teach us to feel the warmth of sun again
/
So let it be known I combed the ocean floor
I paid in sleepless solo night sojourns
I sought the sacred in sands, tectonic rifts,
/
And elemental Pelagaic bits
Dark bits that, cupped in the hands—
Stronger now— squeezed— burst to stars

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction

I have a love unending
Transcending space and time
Living in the world I create deep within my rhyme
And I stand 'till I choose to sit
And I will sit for now
Wiping inkblots off my page as if sweat from my brow

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction

She was and still is the girl
The girl who was unobtainable
Yet my body stays restrainable as I sit here scribbling
Tossing her hair over her shoulder
I stick to my seat as if atop me's a boulder
And I try to convince myself that I'm too busy

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction

I am a boy who doesn't take chances
While the words dance in my brain
And I write of love and true romance and live them on the page
So my **** has finally decided to not partake in the occasion
And stay seated so I'm not defeated to prevent sorrow's invasion

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction

My brain and heart battle for control
Of shifting feet and lover's soul
And what stands as inconceivable is why I'm so lost
A chance is a chance and that is all they are
And I need not travel very far
Not trying is still losing and standing and sitting both have their cost

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction                                                                                        

Heaven's eyes lie through ruby curls
She meets my glance and smiles at me
While I stew with ink-stained fingers here in purgatory
Stand up, **** it! Just stand up! My heart and head reach a conclusion
Pages only go so far and the safety of sitting an illusion

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Level-headedness was never in the job description
Pushing away this world like it's a bad addiction

I stand up and find, to my surprise,
My legs choosing to support
Dropping pen and picking up the ball that's in my court
And I walk up to the girl who plagues my dreams
As if her very being, to me, beckons and calls
Only to hear the world laughing at me as I slip, trip, and fall

And hell is all to real to the boy who occupied purgatory
With tear-filled eyes from looking to heaven
With ****** nose caused from leaving his seat
Seeing my chance flutter away as I run out of the room
Indented in the red haired girl's eyes as a simple buffoon

Let's back pace, erase my face from your memory
I will leave and make you believe my new identity
Coming back another day to claim my love once more
And being ever so careful to make sure my face meets yours, not the floor

Hundreds of little droplets
          tethered together
          perched on clusters of wire
          set in five
swing across the surface
at varying rates
          up down
          and around
until they plunge into
final resolution.

Most see a mess of lines and inkblots.
          an indecipherable language
          a cousin to Braille
They see the only stark contrast,
          black against khaki
          the page aged with affection

while I hear the harmony.

I asked the love inside me
to sleep but not to die.
To fly like swallows at sea,
give me peace,
but please,
be homesick.

I asked the love inside me
to relent it’s doping up
like an Indian Luna
discarding the moon
for daylight.

I asked would it be stoic,
Drown the sun for just a day
and hang dark over street-signs
that have anagrams of her name
or point to wherever she sleeps.

I asked the love inside me
to keep the love-bites
in my capillaries
lest they phosphoresce
like the backs of cuttlefish.

I asked would it be patient
to shine them later,
as inkblots, reminding me
of what the softness
of her lips can do.

I asked the love inside me
to remember and not to hope.
Keep our room everlasting
alight with music,
and like my love,
my own.

there’s lipstick kissed filter tips
and roaches made from textbooks
littering the ash-hardened carpet.
The lift of bra strings over collarbone
tracing a mole
meeting like the Saone and Rhone there.
Hungover afternoons
where the heat stays asleep in the air
circulating with our radiance
as if our hearts fill the whole space.
The time moves glacially
like we’re children
having nothing to compare it with
but the length of hair
and the states of cliff faces.
Two stillborns
meeting in the afterlife.

The first time
and the last time
and all the love in between
is alive.

Black Butterflies are everywhere.
Flying up, down, on my head, on my heart,
      in my hands. Everywhere.
An opened cage, dangling from somewhere
      within me has broken.
Black gildings and metal works are
       slowly crumbling.
The butterflies are leaving.
One by one.
Then two by two.
Then by groups. Multitudes.
They're leaving.
They're leaving.
Leaving me.

Of all the lost souls I have come to know,
You are the bravest, strongest, most divine.
These misplaced foot steps set the world aglow,
With each touch of your hand, new stars align.
I assumed your wondering made you lost --
How foolish of me, but now I can see
You are more than stone: bright granite embossed
With love’s red roses, not sickly ivy.
Envy is my desire for your hands
And how they can shape such beautiful thoughts.
You are like a creation of Dream’s lands,
Lulled spirit tattooed with scattered inkblots.
     Wandering but not lost, found but still searching
     To bring color back to Earth’s eve of spring.

Vocal ingenuity
A generous gratuity
I wish could be removed from me
But I would still write poetry

--Which someone else would have to read
As from the page the inkblots plead
"Give us a voice!" the letters said
Without a voice they would be dead

But no-one reads my poetry
And so its voice is left to me
To show the World, or just to try
Be truly heard before I die

princess blood cult
throne of tethers
rumor's of frazzle drip murders
and blood spatters
on a bed of grinning hooks

X
marks the *******
she bled they fed
in love in bed

torn dress and flutter ******
form her squandered torso
as bare feet dangled
while skies shrieked knotted eyes
watching her get it hard

wet **** drunk
she tumbled
in this little black house of madness
****** her in a sack of sins
while **** buckarooed  
in a wood shed paradise

welcoming death by sexicide
she backstroked head over heels
exposed
flirting in the graveyard hacked and black

beckoning orchards that
caressed her by squirming *****

she adored the mole that snuggled her
while thighs shuddered with anticipation
hurricane tongued
she licked grinning *****
for pudenda's pillow
shimmed black light disco daggers
down her lips
to ****
to thighs
to drooling
raw lips

her ****
like a shucked oyster

whimpering disciple
of enticing wounds
bloom in gloom
she tasted like taffy panicked *******

erotomaniac
from head
to lips
to feet
chanting squeals
of infernal opera
in the throws of blood *******
and weeping barbarous 
stammer
beezel blaba blaba
Beelzebub

her body stained labyrinth floors
in soiled cathedrals of desire
while growing phantasm babies
he whispered death music
in grottos of legs over head
that made her hotter than
boiled fish eyes

chopped her in two
she  squirmed
shivering inkblots of madness
cu cu cu cu cu cu
*******

swing the scythe
and
get the knife
she shrilled

pump the ****
split the bone
smudge the lips
spit and blood
moon eyes turn blood gauze
and heads swivels hula

the **** yields
a spooled mouth contortion

her *** crack
a smile of accomplishment
and tormented ballet feet
stretched tickle toes
for heavens edge

she panted rolling away dark air
in an uneasy creeping
and widened thighs
she lost her head
like a chopped carrot
for the miracle of oblivion

you could hear the last thump
falling as silence falls

she spread like bat a wing umbrella

I wish I could draw circles
Signs and symbols
And have you understand
That there should be
More to life than this

The mundane
The days found lacking
The words that mean nothing
There is more than this
There has to be.

I cradle my head in my hands
And wish on a higher power
I draw sigils on my skin
and hope they mean something
Hope they make me more
Than what I am.

They don’t,
They are nothing but inkblots
Open to interpretation
But nothing else
They are not important
I am not important

I cannot draw a line on the ground
And turn it into a wall
I cannot paint birds
And make them fly
I cannot stand in a circle
And be protected
I cannot call upon power
That I do not have.

I am not chosen or called upon
I just live in the world
I haven’t changed it
The marks I make are superficial
They can all be erased

"We had all these crazy ******' dreams together, Me and Her. We ate our weight in marshmallow ***** pancakes underneath the stars and kissed each other with tongues of fire licking roofs of open mouth. Her mouth was like a ******' inferno, like in the sense that it seems so small and insignificant until you actually get there and then it just swallows you whole, gets you hotter than you've ever been in your ******' life and you're there for eternity. It's endless. If you weren't thinking about it before, now you're thinking about it.

You're thinkin' about her, and thank the ******' heavens for that. If I could get every man on the face of this planet to think about her the way I do, at the length that I do, til we all ******' keel over, it just wouldn't do it. She's somebody that gets stuck in your hair when you're not looking and somebody you trip over in the mornings when you just ******' cleaned the place up. She clings to the bottom of your shoes til you can hear her name in any number of footsteps on any number of paths."

_________________­_

Baby, let me sit in the driver's seat.
Let me drift smoothly, subtly into your lane.
Remember how you always said I was too **** skinny?
Guess what, baby?
When the tail lights call to me I can slide right in between them, like a fitted sheet or rungs on a washboard. I darted between the raindrops like you always said I would but I got wet anyways. What do you know about that?

I don't know much about it, myself.

The doctor said I can't drive anymore. I told that *******, "my eyesight's 20/20! I seen every single puzzle piece on those office inkblots for the knives and daggers that they are! The **** I look like?"

I'm exhausted, Baby. I'm leaking black smoke out of my lungs. I don't brush my teeth anymore because the fluoride ***** up my third eye. How do ya feel about that? Meditate on it. Meditate on me. Meditate on the stars, on the heavens, on God, on babies that died inside of us. I always told you, Baby, you're the best idea God ever had. You ******' did it. Tie me up, baby. If I can't drive anymore, drive me out of here. Tie me up to the god-**** tracks and cover my naked body with those whaddya call ems? Tuck me into your blanket statements so big I get them confused with the entire god-**** sky.

springtime artistry:

floral inkblots bleeding through

winter’s blank canvas

We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones
as a vivisection, on our love.
there, she’s whispering into shells
into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses
and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute.
I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica
and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea
always accompanied as I were
with the shark-eye, death, of her looks.

We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe,
filled the place up with lit and lightless places,
Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued.
Spent hours inside, laying floorboards
and then laying on them
to stare at the sodium lights
and discuss the inkblots on our eyes.
We vivisected our lives,
and splashed it on the walls
and carved it into the carpets.

We set alight to christmas trees
when the kids were sleeping upstairs.
We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror
and answered the door.
Valentines day was full of bone bouquets,  
the gripper rods grew through the carpet
so on them we danced.
I prayed for the first time in the first year
and every one hit me subesquently
like I was its anvil.

I should have gone to war.
Because it makes forever shorter
things can only happen right now.

I watched everything in our domestica,
like when the static moved off the television
and played on the window
gutting me of my escape.
The smiles hung on our faces like lupus,
We had people round,
we cooked and coughed and choked
And their faces peeked round from the doorframe
and laughed.

The domestica lives
only to be a bit of fun,
but in the very same span of time
that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill
and my children’s love for me
and my dexterity.
We’ve happened to the whole world too
I promise you, my love,
my little hospice fire,
my flat tire at night at nowhere,
the lie you recognise means it’s over,
A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers,
the brightest night when you’re hiding,
your heart attack on holiday,
your bloodstained bed sheet
And sleep, whilst outside
the sleet and snow makes every emergency
harder to get to, and still the morning
much more beautiful.
I, you, we happened.

inkblots
are blackholes

warp to another dimension
an abyss
stare at it long enough
and they come right at
you

a starless night
where the sky
is your canvas

the power of
your imagination
turns ink and paper
to any possibility
you wish it to be

rip through reality
through time and


s p a c e

i am a poem.
my stanzas are in my skin. my rhythm in my heart.
beat in my fingertips.
pulsating.
my scars are my story. the ones you can see and the ones you cannot.
i am many mistakes, lines words phrases X out.
change this to sound prettier, change that to make sense.
i am my history as ink to paper, traveling incessantly, twists and turns and loops.
i am cursive and i am print.
i am story and i am song.
these inkblots are in my veins wicked and tangled.
i am free to be what i choose, whether it is what you like or not.
i am insatiable, for my words are endless.
i am lies and i am truths, manipulation of words to caress the readers ear.
i am adjectives and nouns.
i speak verbs to make me move.
i am hesitant when i wish then i am done.
i am goodnight sun, goodmorning moon. i am swordfights and fairytales galore.
i am sensible by little means, but you listen just the same.
i am a beginning, i am a middle, and i am an end. but not this end...

This aching churns within me where happiness will bubble
T-minus 5...4...

My writing is ****. There's no art here anymore.
Sob
******* onto paper.

Everyone relates to interpretation, but inkblots have no soul.
Stains, waiting.
Sunlight cannot creep where darkness cannot grow.

Coin-flip. Mind-trip. Sad rag-time beat out, off beating
beat poet beats drums no one can hear.
There's nothing here.

Jeckyl wishes Hyde would hide, run away
never come back--
I'll never forget how much I lack
I've cracked, back fractures breaking
too much ecstasy--not enough--You're shaking

is that me?
can't be.

This desperation
this need to cling to SOMETHING
it's worse every time--it's cheap when I rhyme
I can't ride out these mistakes, can't fake that I'm ok

I seem to be doing fine.
but its one
or the other in my mind

-NOT SO YOU COULD THROW LIGHTSWITCH RAVES-

can't be saved
keep repeating
I wish I could be saved but
they never let me have my pony.
No white horses
No dreaming

So obsessed with this wheel I keep spinning
the only thing I seem to be able to do is change direction.

tedious, no?
It's what we're working with.

All I ever wanted was somebody to love me
now...when it comes to be
it just makes me more crazy
how can someone love me?
it doesn't make sense.
I go to rip off your mask and I take off your face--

surrounded by rotting skin
searching for a way to end
so how can I begin?

Because I'm better at being all alone
Than living up to someones expectations
And that's not living at all
They will drown you in plastic
To cover your flaws
I'm sure thats a job that lasts all year long
And I've got lots of them
Time to conjure one last acceptance speech
I'd like to thank the industry
for teaching me how to sleep with sheep
I'd like to thank the machines
For making, able bodied apes think this laziness is okay
I'd like to thank the dawn of a new age
Where hope is holding on with bruised fingers
Though we cheer passionately from the sidelines we wouldn't dare go up there to help it
I yell until passion wells
In the eyes of the wealthy who couldnt imagine a life that wasnt paved and pre packaged for them
But a single moment washed over us ,and so we lowered our
Heads to let it
Sink to the bottom
Now to unlock our DNA strands
Standing in a perfect circle
A surge of energy immersed us in the ability to understand what we weren't certain of
Electricity fizzed from our finger tips and now we're seeing this
Is being amongst brothers, sisters, and friends
No longer strangers, haters, liars or saints. Saints who sin .just creatures each was cursed with consiousness; in constant connection, we met to
Shed the skin of society chip at the obsession with illusion of time so we can finally aquire the tribesman lifestyle, simple, yet well earned we listen to the wind and learn from the Earth
I accept it as perfection
And think that pain is a hurt stray waiting in windowsills
Praying that peace will fill
Some lonely girls chest
Though she too was begging
To rescue something other than herself
To love is to welcome the infedel
With open arms
To love is to become and see
from each soul, go and leave  
yo tremendous
Ego half dead at the last show  
Now we reaching deeply to all walks of life, argue bout the art of hard knock life, weather lazy fate will win or through some luck find the strength to fight
Keep on getting beat down
But I rise up Everytime

Oh come on come at me I needa scapegoat for my anger
You came to play huh?
Wait til i load these lungs
lets release a contagion of language
if it's a virus anyway let's get sick and stain the papyrus with inkblots and secrets lost under my mumbles so I'm bout bankrupt on selling my emtions
To get well..very unprepared
I know, but under the surface I'm working on a dwelling I can go
To escape the hell
Here she comes they call it
The inevitable farewell
I accept the plane is powering down
Thank you for the freedom to scream my thoughts loudly
Though the crowd might be lousy
At listening
This time we've tried Bonding
Instead Of repeating
History
Farwell
To all of my survivors
Alive and well still wandering
Among the wreckage and can't quit bettering the new new
I accept you and respect you
So until our next hello my friend
Regretfully I bid you and the world farwell

Finding treasure in the night
on top of buildings the bright
stars shine a cool crisp heat
with scarce enough light to treat
my eyes to yours, tous le jours

Like children we use the stars as dots
connecting our way like nature's inkblots
Oh there's life in this moon
more than the sun at noon
to a sunflower, we breathe the power

How does the ocean paints so well ?
The inkblots of white
That populates the sky
How does a drop of water
Turns to a mirror

How can a cloud feel?
And some forest leaves, smile as emeralds
And a rose, sings love
And a sunflower, passes as a guide to a star above

How one does not appreciate a star
That is inside his eye but yet still far
How one does not appreciate the moon
That soothes the air not too soon
That caresses the expressions of the ocean
How one does not feel the sun
That is ever-present inside each and everyone

Before you say goodbye,
there is one thing you should know;
in all the time you have known me,
I'm at a loss for words.
They have abandoned me at first chance
leaving fumbling parts behind.
Inkblots on crumpled paper and
loose fragments across a screen
are signs of words for thee.
Splayed across pages in notebooks,
and old hard-drives rest are
unshakable words belonging to you -
points of fluorescent lights or songs
without music that remain strumming and
humming in my head.
They are thoughts we wish to speak, but
better left unsaid until a voice is found
that sings the words of permanent ink playing havoc
with our minds and chaos with our souls.

Dancing smiles,
Spinning hearts
Popping bubbles;
We're like hand and glove--
We fit so perfectly love--
You and I
You and I

A desert in the sky,
Pinks and Blues and
Purple
(Ripples of water)
And Pink

Smoothing out your sheets
Then messing them up again
Oh how I love you,
I love you.

Losing my grip on reality,
But fantasies have always been
More fun to me.

Words:

Fever
Forever
Yours
Mine
Ours
Death
Life
Lust
Love
S­ecret

Secret
Secret
Secret

(Words)

Tell me what you're thinking about,
Spill your guts out to me my darling,
Tell me every little secret
That you keep inside.

I'll unlock the door
And set you free
I'll be the key
Fly with me
Into this abyss,
This dark unknown,

And explore the night,
And the starlight,
And let our thoughts mingle,

Like the ink and blood that
Swirls in the bottle on the
Writing desk of my mind,

While inkblots decorate the atmosphere,
And clouds are full of glittering eyes,
And your colorful sighs,
And your beautiful smile..

Our masked eyes stare,
Gazing into each others' love
And fate has left us high and dry

Waiting for Lady Luck to dance with us tonight
Under a cloudless sky,
And another full moon.

these words fail
to capture any such real emotions
we talk and we talk, sure
but you can't feel my anger
frustration, my sadness
left to wonder
in a wander
through the maze that is the mind

with pen put to paper
the characters resemble more inkblots than letters

and so

yielding myself to the misery self-induced
that has, as of yet, only ate at the heels
my chrysalis burst
but no winged thing emerge
only pus, bubbling out my pupa

Our window is an ever changing frame
Left to its own devices
It never moves from its placement in our old home
Yet never shattered once
On good days, nothing but the ticking clock is disturbed
Those days of silly arguments we forgot
The moment the ice cream man begun his serenade
On bad days grey inkblots would erase that baby blue
Forcing cabin fever down our throats
At the loss of movie night
Yet there are the nights you sit alone, lost in the races
Between short lives of the rain cloud's children
Nights where you join the portrait's current mood
Our window is an ever changing frame
Capturing each moment of our existence
Replacing your trace