I don't wear black clothing (when I do)
because I think it'll make me fit in with 'cool' people,
I wear black because I like it.
I enjoy it. I think it's rad.

I don't wear black nail polish on my fingers and toes
because I think it's 'cool,' or that I want others to think so,
I put it on because I like the way it looks.
I like the chipping that happens;
I feel it's a microcosm of Time, itself.
Nail polish exemplifies Wabi and Sabi.

Besides, I have quite the affinity for black.

I don't wear black eyeliner (when I do)
because I think it makes me so metal,
or because I think I need makeup to look good,
I wear it because I enjoy the theatrics
and I like the way it makes me feel.

I don't have the style I do
because I want to associate with
Goths, Rockers, Steampunks or Metalheads;
I have the style I do
because I genuinely like the way it looks.
It just so happens that I get those labels
because people like to put people in boxes.

I don't do what I do
because I want others to notice and like me for it, if anything,
many others will simply mock and make fun of me for it,
but, ironically, much of that spite and disdain
merely fuels my relished rejection
of modern cultural normality and gender roles.

In times of identity crisis, how weird is it to self-identify?

I do what I do
because I like to do it,
because it makes me happy;
because everything is a way to express yourself,
if you only allow it to be such a medium,
if only you find things to use as such mediums.

I see it as Art for the body,
somewhat poetic and transient;
make of it what you will.

It's truly too bad
everyone misconstrues expression
based on their own psychology,
even me. I do it too, though I try not to:
I am not exempt from my own critiques;
I am, in fact, my closest frame of reference.

At the end of the day, though,
you just have to do what you like,
for people and words shall fade
but it is what you have within that stays.

He is a fool
who, when the sky is lit
in the morning dew,
scowls at Spring
and shrugs.
She is immutable.
Brimming with chances
and hard won charm,
not a tremor in her voice.
She is singing.
Always singing
that honeysuckle song.
He is a fool
who misconstrues his gravity.
Ignorant of his orbit,
trying to tilt the world.
She is unruffled,
and he will roll off her back,
smooth as the mallard,
washing his face
in the sunrise pond.

THE* objectifies ALL;
OR disavows ALL.
They beget OTHER, politicizer of ALL.
There is war.

AN marginalizes ALL.
THEM dismembers ALL.
The ANTHEM nationalizes ALL.
There is war.

MY manipulates ALL.
ONE misconstrues ALL.
They beget MONEY, commodifying ALL.
There is war.

From misunderstanding
arises *sorrow;
from ignorance,
conception.

The deepest grief I believe I've ever suffered was journeying through the extremes of true happiness.
To some extent I don't look at you as the same person.
Just because it's a thought of you doesn't mean I should be entertained by it, although it is a thought occurring inside of my own head.
To wait is to find hope.
Meanwhile hope journeys into the split road of faith.
At what point does metaphysics become alchemy.
The mark of an educated man scribbling on an enlightened woman.
The whom the how's and what not's
The true statement where knowing becomes understanding.
At these times anger misconstrues everything.
The simple wildness of the mind venturing into what the heart feels.
A lion seeking to devour the silhouette of where a lioness once stood.
Without color is it still considered prejudice.
A heartfelt contemplation which the mind deciphers a million different ways.
Sticks and stones swept under the fault of closed  eyelids.
The deepest grief dug by expectation.
The best intentions made empty by the deepest grief.
Motorized hands starting anew once the clock strikes twelve : twelve.
Repeating the thoughts that often replay on an daily basis.
To wait is to find hope.
Meanwhile hope journeys into the split road of faith

He asked to read a poem.

All I heard was
"Show me the real you"

So personal we make these writings
If only people read them with as much love as we write them
Because for us these aren't merely love letters or confessions
These are us opening ourselves up and letting everything fall out
hoping maybe they could pick the pieces up and hand them to us again
rearrange them to fit exactly as they desire

"Show me the real you"
I cringe
Does he really want to see where I came from?
Who I loved last?
Where we all went wrong?
It's all so simple
until the past returns
and Even though we write just to conquer our pasts
We never want to look back and be those moments again

The real me.
The real me is in this moment.
I don't want him to be just another poem on the page
I don't want him to think he's just another
love letter
I don't want him to think I'm this crazy hopeless romantic that
misconstrues *** with love
abandonment with togetherness
caresses for self-esteem

I want to show him that I love fiercely
But I don't want him to know that I've been broken.

What do I show him...

There are lies in the words
that scatter these pages
I want to be viewed as a poet
but creativity only flows with certain phrases

There lies a victim
in-between these lines
she misconstrues my conflict
and unravels my rhymes

Hidden agendas
to manipulate and deceive
wanting the reader
to identify with me

My attempts to impress
with beauty and grace
receive passerby glances
and a pie in my face

Backfiring motives
a shot through the heart
critique, the smoking gun
my ego blown apart

Although I have failed
I haven’t given up hope
there’s a victor pending
and it’s gonna be dope

Hello to the 3-year-old who lost innocence early,
Losing a world of purity and light.
Now grown, shedding a face set to default
For one deemed "acceptable"

What does your true face resemble now,
As you mold to fit in?
Do you still grasp the understanding of your expressions?

The thoughts haunting your mind,
Are they the norm you perceive?
Staring at the ceiling,
Heart fluttering in panic.

Is it fear that grips you,
Or a fleeting relief?
Does the weighty silence
Lead you to seek solace in music?

Where do you wander
As rhythms loop endlessly?

A day will dawn, breaking
This cycle of self-neglect.
How will transformation manifest?
A lily in hand, turning crimson,
Or finding peace amidst wilted petals?

Eyes meet with supposed warmth,
Yet fear misconstrues as judgment.
The first syllable of your name
Raises goosebumps of dread.

Visible and heard, unwanted,
In the unmerciful words of others.
Sinking deeper into masks,
Straying from true selves.

Why are your smiles held with
Scotch tape and glue,
Holding despite the cuts of insults?
How do you continue
As a mere stepping stone for others?

Answers unfold within the hourglass
As we journey on, unsure.

If I could but verbalize
This written language
I speak in my head
I'd express divine gardens
Perception renews  
On the tip of my tongue
Yet my mouth misconstrues

Astrology oceans
Of my consciousness
Like a nuke of emotions
Set to implode
As my knowledge oasis
Dries up in the deserts
Conversing these places

As speech bubbles pop
My most wild dream clouds
Asleep in my mind
Like dormant volcanoes
With so much to share
But discussion eruptions  
I just can not bare

Silence sometimes is suffering unsaid….
Silence sometimes means a mountain of words utterly unspeakably unorganized…
Silence is a recipe for misconstrues
Silence is also a relief from the burden of words
Silence is a veil of the mind and it’s contents
Silence is anything but silent noiselessness……
Its a loud or soundest expression which can never be known till the pact of silence is intact….!!!!!!

Mellifluous days that harmonise in hues,
If it weren't for her screams they'd be beautiful,
Nil could but walk an inch in her shoes,

Feelings so ineffable she misconstrues,
When will she learn that she needs to be merciful?
Despite the tragedy, a series of revues,

She feels a hiraeth to deeply bemuse,
A home that never was and so she is woeful,
Lest turns to the bottle and downs the chartreuse,

Thus she shall awaken when the day renews,
Full of hate but too tired to be revengeful,
The epoch of her failure brought on by the blues,

Craving the limerance that others enthuse,
Alas! it seems sincere that she is doleful,
That mocking kind of sorrow she tends to misuse,

Nothing more illicit than ego to refuse,
To dote on herself would simply be shameful,
Would leave behind ephemeral residues,
Nil could but walk an inch in her shoes

Sweet Oblivion
Dark and true
The propensity to sin
Has long subdued
Transcended the barriers
Where one misconstrues

Amidst of life, death
I'll be waiting on you

Reality an elegant ruse
Mentality portends the muse
In blight or bliss it misconstrues
Twisting neutral, natural balance
as it may choose

Perception blinds the aching mind
thru meaning sought in surfeit
of information's dissipation
by humankind, concerted

The relevant and elegant
realities we're exposed to
are simply short of sembalance
as limitations impose you

No objectivity exists
interminably trapped alone
as we are forced to reminisce
with ego's memories on its throne

Sink
In surrender
She wouldn’t soon
Weather
The storming of you
Misconstrues
Valuation
My life is but dirt
To a withered carnation
Just want you to know
That my love is engraved in
The strongest of stone
Still at home in goodbye
Still acquainted with
Living for
Reason to die

Quite often a secondary desire
She comes from another one of her kind,
Perceived frail and acquiescent
Society misconstrues her serene and tranquil self,
Yet, with her scars at every dawn
She marches on fervently.

Discarded and mistreated
Patriarchy remains nonchalant towards her despondency,
Aspirations and ambitions subdued over time
A leisure valley is all she is considered now,

Transient respect is what she gets
Ripple effects of kinships,
Objectified here, glorified at Lord’s
Mankind plays with her mind,

Species’ survival on her shoulders
Even now striving for equality,
Being vociferous still a luxury
She remains sceptical of nights and alleys,

Why is it that man suppresses her?
Is it because of his ego or maybe his inferiority complex,
Or is it because like a warrior
With her scars at every dawn
She marches on fervently.