I am Private and he is mine.
  I see him follow in the feet of the other men  
  when his white eyes are turned so is his face  
  he sits in an aisle behind a glass too straight  
  I call to him but the glass is too thick  
  I am he and he is I so how can the separation be stopped  
  my heart is pattering and he sees it  
  a small bird wakes in the nest  
  eyes open  
  the cold salt  

It is all over yet only to those who remember  
  there is always the now if the then was kept forgotten  
  the then is me and he is the now  
  the others stand around us with long hair
  one has white eyes and skin too cool  
  he is dead and standing
most stand in lines straight on forever  
  some turn around in small shuffles  
  some glance over one shoulder slowly  
  those most eat and drink and eat and drink and eat and drink  
  there is nothing to eat no space to turn and no features to see  
  we look and move and eat to go  
  the one with the white eyes and the skin too cool knows but cannot die fully  
  he first scared me and now he is here
we are here and there  
  he and I  
  the one with the skin too cool too  
  the small bird cries out on the edge of the nest as the wind whips around  
  it cannot fall so alone  
  we cannot see it fall  
  there is no space and nothing to eat  
  the white eyes drift away with no movement  
  they seem to be searching

We sit now  
  although surrounded there is no one around  
  the glass is too thick 
  I can hear the thoughts of the others and he can hear their actions
  the walls seem to go on forever
  forever blocking the light
  his light
  the whites of his eyes signaling recognition and reflection  
  the light allows his sight to see me through the glass  
  he is mine  
  he is not dead  
  I am he  
  the cold salt  
  the pattering heart holds me still and devours me
  I am not dead  
  take that heart away from me so I do not wrench it from you  
  the others look on and see nothing for there is nothing  
  it is only in my pattering heart  
  the bird sees something on the ground in the shape of a open heart  
  the bird falls to the other  
  the cold salt

Before I felt him  
  I tried to save him but the glass was too thick  
  the aisle was too crowded before and now it is too  
  everyone dressed in their best black but wearing nothing of meaning  
  they are the same the others  
  I patter at the one sided glass  
  he cannot hear me  
  the darkness of the shadow hides me from him  
  the shadow of the cross deafens him to the birds song  
  I am he and I cannot hear me  
  I pray for the book under the aisle to be true  
  I pray he will see me soon  
  I pray my prayers are needless  
  he wants his pattering heart  
  I want the cold salt on the cheeks of the best black dressed    
  the bird has no cold salt left    
  the fall took them away  
  the heart shaped ground stopped the cold salt forever
before the men and the women were together and now they are the same  
  the one man with the white eyes moves closer  
  I like his skin too cool  
  the buildings mixed and separated them  
  together was complicated  
  together and alone was complex  
  he is large  
  yet there is space for me  
  when he is I cannot be touched  
  no one knows he is dead and I am alive  
  they do not remember  
  that small bird feels another    
  the cold salt and skin too cool

I am still alone but with him alive  
  here is where I can see him  
  this place too small is where I wait  
  I saw him in the rain and fell to him  
  the bird fell to the pattering heart  
  he is still down there  
  his skin too cool and his eyes too white  
  I want those eyes  
  they smile up at me through the lighted glass even  
  the skin too cool reaches me and I am fed  
  there is no food but his skin  
  there is no sight but his eyes  
  he is the smile   
 I am the happiness  
  I am him  
  the bird smiled on the way to the heart shaped ground  
  it hit the ground and the cold salt stopped  
  the cold salt
the ground hits
  the pattering of my heart beats all the louder against his one sided glass  
  now illuminated
  the light warms his heart and cold salt 
  it patters in time with the rain   harder and harder like the ground the bird hits 
  over and over until his patters with mine 
  he is me
  he is mine 
  his cold salt 
  I miss those 
  I lose them to rain down on him and he feels their sound 
  he is not the smile now 
  I feel his heart pattering 
  mine patters the hardest against his glass too thick and too straight now lit 
  in this room too small surrounded by the others but without him I am alone 
 I am his happiness 
  I want his skin too cool and eyes too white 
  I am his smile 
  the cold salt and the skin and the eyes and the smile are me
he was lost to me one too many times
  my not dead man was kept hidden behind a glass too thick and too straight 
  I cannot see what is hidden even though I am hiding 
  the others sway now   there is no room in here to move 
  the ground is gone 
  the small bird sings 
  he is mine 
  he looked up when I first pattered on the glass 
  he saw nothing 
  he was not going to then without the light 
  now the cold salt illuminates the pattering heart 
  his cold salt
  
I am sitting at the top of a building in the rain 
  the rain falls just as the bird and my heart 
  the ground fast approaches 
  a glass too straight through which I see him 
  he is alone in his room 
  the one with the skin too cool 
  his heart now pattering through his wrists 
  it falls and patters like mine did and does for him here 
  I want my skin too cool
the best dressed do not want to really see him 
  they do not want to see me 
  so they remember 
  I am in a room too small wanting his skin too cool
the others with the long hair carry ropes in their hands or a gun or a bottle 
  we are all in a room together but cannot fit 
  there is no room 
  there is no light 
  the aisle is now empty and the glass is still too thick 
  I am he 
  I walk 
  the cold salt drops 
  I am not dead until we are all dead 
  he is dead the room was too small and could fit no one 
  the small bird loved his skin too cool 
  the man sees the small bird jump for him 
  I am the bird 
  I am the man 
  he is me 
  he is mine 
  I have his skin too cool and now pattering heart  I am here 
  the cold salt falls now with his smile and my happiness



Private, he my friend.
He mine.
See.
  He come back to me even now.
  I don’t have to tell him anything, he knows.
  They all looked at me, but to him I say nothing, nothing needs to be said.
  He reached safety and came back for me.
  His love penetrated, and now mine patters even more.
  I cried cold tears when I saw him fall.
They never left my cheeks and he dried them.
  I see him in my room and play with him like all friends.
  The church glass was the last place I saw him.
  Wet with rain from my tears he was a bird, broken and small.
  Sundays were hard for him and me.
  I had love for him in the pattering of my heart.
  I tell him that over and over now, and he understands.
  He my friend.
  The one I only have tears for anymore, even after the rainy day took them from me;
  after his body reminded me of the small bird on the ground under the nests.
  He did not come back to the school or to his home, but to me.
  I am his pattering heart, only fully opened now.
  I don’t have to explain that the men and priest made me into this.
  They took my love and warred against it.
  They told me to feel this and not that.
  Love was red and boys were blue.
  Now I know why the stained glass which separated me and him was all colors.
  Now I’ll be on the lookout.
  I tell Private what a new winter this shall be, another one to warm my cool skin.
  We’ll be warm together, Private.
  Private.
  I don’t remember the verses of the Lord.
  The black book under the pews, those hated aisles, have no rememory to me.
  All is he, and he is mine.
  We would be one again, you tell me in my room late at night.
  Private came back to me by falling, like the baby birds on the farm under the nests too high.
  You warm my skin and catch my tears.
  You got close and I am now.
  When you fell I wanted to lay with you and now I can.
  My pattering heart and its contents now flow freely from the arms longing to hold you again.
  I am close. 
  I should have been close then.
  I wanted to.
  Nowhere I had lain in peace since the rain and the fall.
  Now I can lie like the birds and their young.
  He come back to me, Private, my friend, and he is mine.

dew patters
upon the chestnut carpet
autumns melody

The slight twist of weather
Rain, sunshine, and clouds
Whispers in the air
To increase gradually or calm down
The rain pitter patters on the tin roof
The clouds scurry over in a ****
Continuing on just for a short while
And then trails along the sun shining with a smile
April fades and May swings by
Then summer comes, June and July

The sky amidst
I think of those I miss
Even a day could change
Things we never thought age

I think of us
Sitting on the bus
I will change for us
Why am I holding a dry husk

Of the people I fought for
Some not anymore
Some are ropes
I pull no hopes

I would go back
My mind playbacks
I walk on empty shells
My heart aches as hell

You people are here
But can you hear
My thoughts that linger
Maybe you no longer tingle

The rain still patters
I am in fetters
The sky hangs amiss
I wonder about those I miss

Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run

my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters

Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own

my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up

my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore

a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"

I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone

I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds

(this one is about a piece of cloth)

The said attire is not common wear
no suit and tie or gown
needing no further introductions
or additional instructions

Its layers are abstruse

It is of certain quality of tension
resembling clumsy bodies
trying to meet and greet each other  
talk about belonging to someone  

Reserved and refined
restricted they cannot rewind

Ornamental is what they are
And you
         you are judgmental 

Ready to look at the attire again?

One layer got lit by a precedent match
which led to an arson
you could not even start that
with the fire you drew up your leg

Everyone is promised to someone
who lives in another country,
and will break their heart
and turn them into a pillar of salt
for looking back to the tragedy

Forever drawn too impulsively to those
Daria is not supposed to look at
She touches them as often as possible
Only few times she's been able stop  

Those times retain a repetitive pulse,
same in its essence but,
alternating on the patters and pace

I can see you are listening to me right now,
I  should probably want that

Listening is a beautiful thing,
a blessing in disguise and
acting on the details of your acoustic research 
is a physical translation of affection

Tell me that you are not unable to translate

I at least need to feel you again
Laugh at you even though our situation is dead serious

I scrutinize the piece of cloth for any signs of damage
You see I wouldn't want it to
get ripped off anytime soon

Although I'd gladly tear off
the rest of your clothes next time I see you

The rain, the rain, drives me insane
It patters on my windowpane.
Each single drop of rain that’s spent
Leaves my mind in such torment.
A feeling that I can’t explain
The torture of the pouring rain.   6


Please let it stop, it can’t go on,
My sanity will soon be gone.
Pitter, Patter, Patter, Pit, it
Drives me mad, I cannot sit.
Each successive single drop
Makes my brain want to pop.

              
The sound torments, I have no peace.
With every drop the sounds increase.
It feels as if my brains on fire
And I’ve begun to mass perspire.
The sweat that trickles from my brow,
Begins to Pitter, Patter, now.      18

Oh Water God, please rescue me,
Stop the rain and set me free.
Hear my prayers and let me go.
Remove the curse of H2O
I did nothing to create
Please let me be, I’m in a state.


I’ll begin to beg and cry,
Set me free, I’d rather die.
The pain, the pain inside my head,
I’d be better off if dead.
Hear my plea, I beg please do
I just don’t know what else to do. 30


I’ll hold a pillow to my ears
And mop up my cascading tears,
It’s water, water, everywhere.
My mind has just become a blur.
I can’t go on, I cannot breath,
I’ll hang myself and take my leave.


Still the rain it patters down,
Someone save me, or I’ll drown.
My minds in a submerging pool,
Oh Water God, why be so cruel.
Let the falling water cease.
It can’t go on please give me peace. 42


Pitter, Patter, Patter, Pit,
Pitter, Pitter, Pit, Pit, Pit.
Water running down the drain,
The excruciating, crippling pain.
The racking of each nervous cell
Ringing out my own death knell.


Deafening noise I can’t keep out,
Grant my prayer, send a drought.
Let my mind have peace again,
Remove the daggers from my brain.
Oh Water God don’t torture me
Stop this rain and let me be.  54


If you’ll just grant one single wish
And leave the water to the fish.
Don’t let it fall upon my glass.
Each single, soggy, squishy, splash.
Then I’ll forever sing your praise,
Forgive me Lord, it’s just a phase

A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.

You sit daintily on her lap
And everything’s a frenzy
Not a sunset fiesta
But an angry cataclysm of molecules
Ricocheting into hysterical radioactivity
And I sit quietly
Warily
I watch mine become hers
During brief moments
Of searing mania and the pit
Of my core is unraveling
And my heart is two patters too quick
In the most sedated of ways
On days when the wrinkles of your hands
Match another’s
And when you are no longer my own.

White walls washed with winter
mingle with a breeze born from ocean spray
and wind sails.

There is a smell here. Familiar, unique.
It smells clean. There is a bugambilia tree
in the center with arms outstretched
like Moses a splash of pink
that pitter patters

through streets built by Dr. Seuss.
Delectable delights demand your senses
there is white on white, a deep white
of many coats with white doors and white
walls and white houses and white sand
and white wine and white people

next to the blue sea.

Laying in bed on my back.
My head resting on hands, cushioned.
The dark ceiling with a black asterisk in the middle.
My windows casting shadows of light across my room.
The rain outside silencing me with
shhhhhh
continuous
shhhhhhhhhhhh.
Listening closely I hear the lone pitters and single patters.
The nearly not noticeable rustling of branches.
Tempo of the rain quickening, slowing, quickening-
almost like a heartbeat.
A drip drip of droplets delving into a puddle.
The rushing of a shy, shallow, stream;
Its rare gurgles.
The ominous bass of thunder, deafening.
Natures own orchestra-
For me to fall asleep to.

what makes
the
sound of
lighthearted rain
flow
through me
once more
what
pitter-patters
in
the
heart
and
in
the brain
let
the
lighthearted rain
fall
gently
upon
the
window panes
in
spain
once more
i
am still sure
i
want more

.

*Music written to
the sound of the rain,
patters of notes upon
slick windowpanes
mesmerizing a day
of reminiscence,
when two hearts
danced between
the steady drizzle

Drenched in the key
of lost moments
playing over and over
in the saturated symphonies
of my mind’s
harmonic sadness
un-tuned melodies echo
through puddles collected
within a cappella fingers

It is both a beautiful instance when;
the sound of rains' beginning patters
softly on the roof
and the silence afterwards
in rains' demise

I tried to put my heart in the sink
but it just lapped up the water
and swam
It likes to move like wind
fluid in the water
It just gets bigger
not losing any big spots
traveling like a road
seated in all the areas
sitting in the sink
like a dish you can't scrub
because it is too old
It cried on the insistence toward itself
but it just loved all the new words it heard, clear water sloshing its own elbows
like everytime, it says this
adding a book to the shelf 'New Nonfiction'
and itself wrestled to freedom along a free Library
and it sings flat
without hearing itself
and when I tried to drop it where a mountain wouldn't use its arms to move into a torrent of rain
that only heavies a long area of ground
it tried to look away
because there is so much, always so much water where there is water
no drops as is on one bounced leaf
My heart does wear a necklace of a stream; it would rather be adorned
and it has such acute ears to the sound of the clear and blue
but leave's wetness can't spread into the depths of green and stay
a wet monster just patters the whole forest jungle like a drum
The leaves don't become like rags in the sink to wash the dirt on the ground
the dirt would just stick
so the water it just runs and runs
you can just tell by the sound
and since it can't get past the green
it sees the open land next to the large bush of trees and compares
why would it only water the grass to make the earth all plain like Kansas
it is something, it is drank, all of it, in eager swallows
the days even swallowing each other
and so the mind keeps living
Good information for the mind just happens to be like this
it gets from below and dirt and whatever wherever steady earth, and from the clearest above
'So wonderful the sky will come down and love on my ears
even though they don't remember
How I tire of the ground and its mutations
How I tire of the amount of blue things to drink
but they fall against me, my different lips
and I look as if I run with the water
because I think.
The blue runs with the green
and we are just painted like a book typing with rainy ink
and it is all that I can do
Carry the weight
until it lifts and I am left to myself
with a withering neverending need
At least it's not the air and spaces with ears
like a heart without shoulders
It's a forehead and wrists
that rest on the bed of the sky, upside down
because it is so hard to be a chronic rock
so heavy it needs to suspend with its head
away, to where rocks are fluid
How many stars are spread like water
still and concluded, like one neck looking down
saying my ears must be brave
my one pair of eyes against all those clear stars in the night
Good information makes my mind spin its wheels
back against the sky and back against the ground, walls
though left and right wheels keep spinning
hell and heaven my ears
The widest place inbetween
friendly space that carries them
held with hearing- those. Those sides of my head.
To-end to-end of my heart is how long the page must stretch
and how long it would take to roll the wheels in Finality up my brain and the sky
Much slower than the routine closing of a millionth eye I've broken open from the old

cool calm rain patters
wheels splash puddles soft in dark
old man walks happy

At night, when the sky is darkest,
just before the glow of dawn,
I think of you. Pitter patters
of memories, right down
to the curve of your smile,
the fluttering of lashes,
your refreshing curiosity, like a child;
reviving them before they turn to ashes.
Add daydreams to these memories.
With wishes and dreams,
love, humour and fantasies;
bursting at the seams.

What is it like, to be a part of you?
You are a godsend, a blessing.
My dear, nothing compares to you.
You are as smooth as a dark satin,
as precious as gems on a king's crown.
Oh my, more precious perhaps.
You are flowers blooming all year round,
as joyous as a baby's first few steps.
You are as eloquent as a scholar,
with looks blessed by Aphrodite,
as humorous as a jester,
and you are a star to me.

A life-long dream, manifested in a body.
Who would've thought it'd come true?
Your presence makes me
fearless, safe as being on a plateau.
I can conquer anything;
even my nightmares and insecurities.
The painful past I carry doesn't sting
as much when you're here, Achilles.
Perhaps it is a mistake
to adore you this much. But oh,
it is a risk I'm willing to take.
Especially when you give me this much hope.

I pray that one day,
our matched souls will meet
at the gates of heaven.
I will finally get to speak
these words of love I've written;
to unleash my undying thirst for you.
Maybe we'll get to dance among
the stars I've whispered to.
And we'll all shine brightly.
Our reunion will be rejoiced,
with me in your arms safely;
and close the book on our story.

-m.b

The weight of life is reduced to a cloud
As raindrops of lysergic acid run free.
Their pitters and patters equally loud
As all of the colours that melt around me.
The womb of the universe beating its drum
And setting a pace for the flowers to bloom.
A force with such strength that all nature succumbs
As peacefulness floats in kaleidoscope flumes.

Empathy blossoms, arousing a smile,
That creeps from my lips to the end of the room,
Searing itself on a cosmic denial
That beauty like this shouldn’t gestate from gloom.
Floating, not unlike a dandelions seed,
Thoughts of anxiety flee to the Earth.
They carry but vapidness with the sweet breeze.
In nebulous nebulas they are dispersed.

Now what remains as a warm neon cloud
Is beauty profound and purpose pristine.
Unwanted, the ego is left disavowed
Dancing in memories of amphetamines.
Left in its place was the beauty and I.
Climbing like vines as it forces the walls.
Pushing them down with an ******* sigh,
Revealing a cosmos that rhythmically calls:

‘Freedom is such a deplorable word.
It offers ambitions too fruitful to take.
Though comfort or not,
As with fictitious plot,
It’s only as real as it’s fake.’

I am the sword that splits the world in twain.
I am the shield upon which pain breaks.
I am the storm that rages in your heart.
I am the rain that patters softly across your cheeks.
I am the cheerful madman waltzing down your street.

Light drizzles gently brushing on my cheeks
Misty pitter-patters
A butterfly flutters
A solitary stroll in the orchard of mystique
The dewy grass glitters
I am Mother Nature’s daughter

I saunter in the womb of the cherry orchard
Light-hearted tip taps
The squirrels take their catnaps
Gaily skipping under the falling blossoms
Spinning with laughter
Time is not a factor

From a distance, a pianist plays a chirpy tune
The jazzy anthem
A tune of welcome
Arm with passion, I caper windward
One with the flowers and trees
The birds and the bees

Mild winds gently combing my tresses
Soft, rhythmic strokes
My senses they provoke
Then reality came in a soothing ring
My baby calls
Oh, my busy, silly goofball!

Skin,
Our protection.
A guardian we take for granted.
I was taught in
Science class how
 The skin is our
Barrier and protects us
From countless enemies.
A shield that is responsible
For keeping us healthy and safe.
But yet we abuse it,
We show it no gratitude.

When I was a kid
I allowed myself
To go roller skating without my
Knee pads,
Despite the infinite reprimands
My mother provided.
A scraped knee
Wasn’t anything a Band-Aid
And some time
Couldn’t fix.
I thought the band-aids in
The bathroom cupboard
Held some type of magic in the box
That I could not fathom
That patched up my skin
As if nothing ever happened.

But then I was taught in science class that
It was my skin performing
These magic tricks.
I remember those scolding hot
Summer days
Spent on the beach with my friends
Where the waves absorbed
Any sunscreen I had massaged on my body
And my face turned
Crimson from soaking in the rays.
But the burn always tempered
Down into a glowing tan
After the aloe soothed
The stinging.
In science class
I constantly overlooked
How our own flesh
Performed these illusions
To shield us from harms.

In science class
I studied how our skin
Interacted with the outside world.
How sensations were
Directed to the tips of my fingers
And goose bumps rose on
My arms.

But I was never taught
How to experience them.
I never questioned it though;
Unitl I met him.
Everything I was taught

Got lost,
As I had in his presence.
The way he gazed at me,
The way he talked to me,
The way he stroked my skin.
It gave me all those sensations
They had talked about in science class.

Everything happened so fast,
Everything happened too fast.
Intoxicated hands held me too close
And my intoxicated heart let them.

I forgot what science class burned
Into my brain and
I gave him my skin.
I let him become my armor.
I let him corrupt my flesh
Just as I had so many times before.
His finger nails
And teeth
Sunk deep into me
Leaving patters of desire in each layer
That soon soaked into my veins.
Our rib cages pressed together,
Both our hearts rattling
Within our chests,
Stimulating our brains to send signals
Allowing serotonin and oxytocin
To spill out,
Premising his lips to outline my body.

No science class ever
Taught me how to react
To my blood pressure rising,
To my sweat glands heating up.
No science class ever taught me
Why I wanted more,
Why the marks he left on my skin
Didn’t ache like a
Sunburn or scraped knee.

I trusted him,
With his hands full
Of my skin,
And the way that he
Made me feel;
I felt safe.

No science class taught me
That I could feel so
Alive,
And I loved it.

But when he was done with me,
My skin felt wrinkled
And used.
When he gave it back,
It was no longer mine,
He took it with him.
My skin cells lingered
Next to his nail beds
As he dressed himself.

No science class taught me
Why I felt so desolate
As he walked out the door,
With simple goodbyes,
That did not need to be spoken,
And no amenity in his eyes.
No science class taught me
The feeling of numbness found
As my heart rate decomposed
In my hallow chest,
Knowing I let him take my
Shield and watched him destroy it
Right in front of me.
No science class taught me
The bite marks and scratches he left
Would always be sore
Even after they have healed.

No Band-Aid or magic trick
Could fix the damage
He left for me to patch up
By myself.
No science class taught me
I would feel
The sensations of
Love and loss
Aching through my bones.
No amount of horomones
Could change his mind,
Or tug on his heart strings.
So why I thought I was
Invincible when I was with him,
I can’t understand.

But it is my fault
For not memorizing my
Notes from science class and
Sticking to the known facts
Of my own anatomy.
But I do know
After years and years of
Being lectured in school,
No science class could teach me
What my own damaged skin could.

Love and science will never coincide
And love cannot be found
In the physicality of
A one night stand.

how can my own home feel like jail?

the windows are always open but i
can see the bars that trap me inside
my own mind, hold my lungs tight
to stop me breathing,
there's always fresh air entering
but when it comes near me it becomes
rancid and putrid, choking me
and tearing me up but i will always
end up inhaling the matter or else
i won't survive

the rooms are filled with ornaments
from different countries,
little souvenirs that we were there
but even with the furniture
i feel secluded, my bed is not
only my resting place, but it
sobs as i rest my tired eyes,
hoping that even in this darkness
of my room, where i can hear the
shallow breaths fill the air,
perhaps the light that escapes
between these walls could
guide me and send me a halo

the clothes that hang solitary
waiting to be reached towards,
they only cover me from this
world that i live in,
these clothes do not liberate me
but they protect me from
anything worse than this jail
in which i know i shall rot
ever so slowly but until then
i shall pray that it won't be
due to my sadness or the fact
that i can't stop worrying and
stressing about the future

if only these walls, this jail,
stopped my mind from wandering
into a state of freedom,
aching to be heard,
screaming at whatever chance they have
but this voice will never escape
as i am made of steel,
my bones are my cage and
this body is half-alive

hold-me, could i dare to ask?
hold-me, in this jail as i
fall into deep sleep,
pray that i won't wake up
hold-me as i soften my breath,
i'd finally feel the rain
as it patters onto my face
but i'd look up and see no sky,
no clouds and no heaven

One moment can last forever,
suspended in the air.
It can disappear in the blink of an eye,
a puff of smoke that may or may not have ever been there
at all.

It all started with a moment.

He brushed aside my auburn hair
with cold hands,
sent a shiver down my spine
and electricity coursing through my veins.

I could feel his breath on my ear,
warm and sweet,
could feel the scratch of his chin,
unshaven against my cheek.

His heart beat through his shirt,
light pitter-patters against the cotton,
and he shook as if every nerve
was about to explode, every
expectation about to shatter.

His nose glided against mine,
breath hot on my face as he
knelt his head towards mine and stared,
our eyes locked in a
beautiful magical terrifying
gaze.

And we knew that this was it,
it was our turn to make the rules and
our turn to chase the night and
our turn to understand and
our turn to -

It all ended with a moment.

I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.