'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.

These birds of war that encircle the sky
painted dark by smoke from fires engulfing
events here: every one of them spawns
an illusion, spreading in all directions, until
no twig is untouched: everywhere only
the Mistletoe. Fragrances of the deep night
by the ford under the moon, silken hair
soft for touch under first rays of the golden
morn, images, return broken like imprints
on the ramparts; where now, those oaks
of love that sustained our passion for war?
Years sunk into the quicksands of greed,
After nine winters, now only the Mistletoe.

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams;
What seems is not always as it seems.

I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning,
And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning
Went sailing toward the East:
The first had sails like fire,
The next like glittering wire,
But sackcloth were the sails of the least;
And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.

The first choir breathed in flutes,
And fingered soft guitars;
The second won from lutes
Harmonious chords and jars,
With drums for stormy bars:
But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters;
Notes of triumph, then
An alarm again,
As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs,
Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.

The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings;
The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings;
The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings.
The first bore for freight gold and spice and down;
The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown;
The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown.
Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face;
Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place;
Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.

Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew,
Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro:
Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new;
Sighs, but scarce of woe;
All the sighing
Wooed such sweet replying;
All the sighing, sweet and low,
Used to come and go
For more pleasure, merely so.
Yet at intervals some one grew tired
Of everything desired,
And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight,
Out of sight.

The second crew seemed ever
Wider-visioned, graver,
More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will;
With heads ***** and proud,
And voices sometimes loud;
With endless tacking, counter-tacking,
All things grasping, all things lacking,
It would seem;
Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud,
Drifting on as in a dream.
Hoarding to their utmost bent,
Feasting to their fill,
Yet gnawed by discontent,
Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went.
Their freight was not a treasure,
Their music not a pleasure;
The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands,
Sceptre and crown changed hands.

The third crew as they went
Seemed mostly different;
They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary,
As all the world might see.
They labored at the oar,
While on their heads they bore
The fiery stress of sunshine more and more.
They labored at the oar hand-sore,
Till rain went splashing,
And spray went dashing,
Down on them, and up on them, more and more.
Their sails were patched and rent,
Their masts were bent,
In peril of their lives they worked and went.
For them no feast was spread,
No soft luxurious bed
Scented and white,
No crown or sceptre hung in sight;
In weariness and painfulness,
In thirst and sore distress,
They rowed and steered from left to right
With all their might.
Their trumpeters and harpers round about
Incessantly played out,
And sometimes they made answer with a shout;
But oftener they groaned or wept,
And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept.
I wept for pity watching them, but more
I wept heart-sore
Once and again to see
Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim
To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly:
And there all welcomed him.

The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other,
Yet all the crews were interchangeable;
Now one man, now another,
--Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,--
Changed openly, or changed by stealth,
Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well.
The most left Love ship, hauling wealth
Up Worm ship's side;
While some few hollow-eyed
Left either for the sack-sailed boat;
But this, though not remote,
Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once
Scarce ever came again,
But seemed to loathe his erst companions,
And wish and work them bane.

Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread,
Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed,
Whence a waterspout
Instantaneously leaped out,
Roaring as it reared its head.

Soon I spied a something dim,
Many-handed, grim,
That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship;
It puffed their sails full out
With puffs of smoky breath
From a smouldering lip,
And cleared the waterspout
Which reeled roaring round about
Threatening death.
With a ***** hand it steered,
And a horn appeared
On its sneering head upreared
Haughty and high
Against the blackening lowering sky.
With a hoof it swayed the waves;
They opened here and there,
Till I spied deep ocean graves
Full of skeletons
That were men and women once
Foul or fair;
Full of things that creep
And fester in the deep
And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.

The third bark held aloof
From the Monster with the hoof,
Despite his urgent beck,
And fraught with guile
Abominable his smile;
Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck.
Then full of awe,
With these same eyes I saw
His head incredible retract its horn
Rounding like babe's new born,
While silvery phosphorescence played
About his dis-horned head.
The sneer smoothed from his lip,
He beamed blandly on the ship;
All winds sank to a moan,
All waves to a monotone
(For all these seemed his realm),
While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.

Then a cry well nigh of despair
Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer.
The harpers harped no more,
While the trumpeters sounded sore
An alarm to wake the dead from their bed:
To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never,
To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead,
Or no more help or hope for ever!--
The planks strained as though they must part asunder,
The masts bent as though they must dip under,
And the winds and the waves at length
Girt up their strength,
And the depths were laid bare,
And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder
Through the rain-choked air,
And sea and sky seemed to kiss
In the horror and the hiss
Of the whole world shuddering everywhere.

Lo! a Flyer swooping down
With wings to span the globe,
And splendor for his robe
And splendor for his crown.
He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire,
And spun the Monster overboard:
And that monstrous thing abhorred,
Gnashing with balked desire,
Wriggled like a worm infirm
Up the Worm
Of the loathly figurehead.
There he crouched and gnashed;
And his head re-horned, and gashed
From the other's grapple, dripped ****** red.

I saw that thing accurst
Wreak his worst
On the first and second crew:
Some with baited hook
He angled for and took,
Some dragged overboard in a net he threw,
Some he did to death
With hoof or horn or blasting breath.

I heard a voice of wailing
Where the ships went sailing,
A sorrowful voice prevailing
Above the sound of the sea,
Above the singers' voices,
And musical merry noises;
All songs had turned to sighing,
The light was failing,
The day was dying--
Ah me,
That such a sorrow should be!

There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand
To its grave in the bitter wave.
There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land
When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand,
And the bitter wave was its grave.
But land and sea waxed hoary
In whiteness of a glory
Never told in story
Nor seen by mortal eye,
When the third ship crossed the bar
Where whirls and breakers are,
And steered into the splendors of the sky;
That third bark and that least
Which had never seemed to feast,
Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.

Oh what comes over the sea,
  Shoals and quicksands past;
And what comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast?

A wind comes over the sea
  With a moan in its blast;
But nothing comes home to me,
  Sailing slow, sailing fast.

Let me be, let me be,
  For my lot is cast:
Land or sea all's one to me,
  And sail it slow or fast.

Crimson shades that hang on late
on cloudy mornings, cormorants
that carry tidings from afar
reeds that roll over slow in their measured nuances:
wind roars, noon bells, distant shorelights at night.
I sought glory with love in my heart
Midas-like, glory became my gold.
Every wave carries a new meaning
for one who sees life
from the window of death;
How many deaths for honour, how many
for glory, how many more for perfidy?
Ah blessed love, that
- when the glitter of glories descends
into quicksands of darkness -
from whom nothing can ever be snatched away,
the one love that shone before my birth
as Athene, who I loved as Penelope and
who loves me as Calypso, receptacle of worlds!

"Croak, croak, croak,"
Thus the Raven spoke,
Perched on his crooked tree
As hoarse as hoarse could be.
Shun him and fear him,
Lest the Bridegroom hear him;
Scout him and rout him
With his ominous eye about him.

Yet, "Croak, croak, croak,"
Still tolled from the oak;
From that fatal black bird,
Whether heard or unheard:
"O ship upon the high seas,
Freighted with lives and spices,
Sink, O ship," croaked the Raven:
"Let the Bride mount to heaven."

In a far foreign land
Upon the wave-edged sand,
Some friends gaze wistfully
Across the glittering sea.
"If we could clasp our sister,"
Three say, "now we have missed her!"
"If we could kiss our daughter!"
Two sigh across the water.

O, the ship sails fast,
With silken flags at the mast,
And the home-wind blows soft;
But a Raven sits aloft,
Chuckling and choking,
Croaking, croaking, croaking:--
Let the beacon-fire blaze higher;
Bridegroom, watch; the Bride draws nigher.

On a sloped sandy beach,
Which the spring-tide billows reach,
Stand a watchful throng
Who have hoped and waited long:
"Fie on this ship, that tarries
With the priceless freight it carries.
The time seems long and longer:
O languid wind, wax stronger";--

Whilst the Raven perched at ease
Still croaks and does not cease,
One monotonous note
Tolled from his iron throat:
"No father, no mother,
But I have a sable brother:
He sees where ocean flows to,
And he knows what he knows, too."

A day and a night
They kept watch worn and white;
A night and a day
For the swift ship on its way:
For the Bride and her maidens,--
Clear chimes the bridal cadence,--
For the tall ship that never
Hove in sight forever.

On either shore, some
Stand in grief loud or dumb
As the dreadful dread
Grows certain though unsaid.
For laughter there is weeping,
And waking instead of sleeping,
And a desperate sorrow
Morrow after morrow.

O, who knows the truth,
How she perished in her youth,
And like a queen went down
Pale in her royal crown?
How she went up to glory
From the sea-foam chill and hoary,
From the sea-depth black and riven
To the calm that is in Heaven?

They went down, all the crew,
The silks and spices too,
The great ones and the small,
One and all, one and all.
Was it through stress of weather,
Quicksands, rocks, or all together?
Only the Raven knows this,
And he will not disclose this.--

After a day and a year
The bridal bells chime clear;
After a year and a day
The Bridegroom is brave and gay:
Love is sound, faith is rotten;
The old Bride is forgotten:--
Two ominous Ravens only
Remember, black and lonely.

Solitary, lie-back moments; of being in the coziest of places surrounded by the most mundane yet magical. Melancholy has a way of tinging itself with those little nuances of memory, and those little nuances of memory tinge themselves with shades of bittersweet and sad recollection over time. Silent reckonings, simplistically suppressing thoughts - all huge contradictions to the slow, natural motion of letting the waves wash over you.

Is this emotional maturity? Is this a step forward? Life is always full of too many intricacies to tell for sure.

The familiar scents of tearstains and revulsion being punctuated by the occasional flicker of light ahead; pain and perseverance, hope and the promise of heaven.

We are so full of contradictions - concrete, grounded beings yet with so many abstractions and complexities in our heads. A constant grapple, a relentless cycle. Coming back to places of washed up memories has this effect on you; but you pull through, you plough through quicksands, you pick up the small rationalities that have gone astray, and you move forward like you’ve always been doing before. It’s the only thing we know how to do.

Walk on our own, on our own two feet.

And pray that whatever knocks us down, will never be enough to sink us.

When I gave up, I pretty much just stopped, like two feet firmly planted into quicksand. I just stopped.
When I could no longer take a step, I just let my arms fall down to my side, fingers spread and just sighed.
Chin tucked to my chest, an even breath, then a scream that only echoed on the inside.
When I stopped screaming, I was still sinking and the crushing absence of movement made me bold. I struggled and I flailed but to no avail did I become free from the quicksands hold.
Within reach of my fingertips was a ghostly branch, from a tree that had weathered sicknesses untold. But still that tree reached out for me and as I took hold of it's ghastly brittle fingers, and even now in my mind it lingers, I took that tree out by the roots to sink in cahoots beside me, lingering in this quicksand.
I immediately apologised profusely to the tree that now sinks beside me.
The tree answered back, no, please it was I that lacked the fortitude to save thee.
Oh no! I thought, it was my troubled mind that led me to sink so deep, it was me who should weep quicksand tears for the tree who fell for me so blindly!
So me, and the tree, used each other, you see, one to stay afloat and the other to lay down finally,
to hold another up kindly.

Fleeting expressions culminate
in rich tapestries given a chance,
you , tripped over my shoe.
I , touched your arm
We tumbled into conversation , we tumbled out of bed , we tumbled in emotion
history unsaid

Cultures with the same mind , how we are running the game
Tourists who go by the same name a single sigh when words escape our minds

Reeling as the waves roll in.
In ,
In,
In,
The tide is coming out again , we  can walk across the quicksands with the chartered marks written by the corrosive tides , i'd whisper this to you , but there is no distance

Space but an illusion

The night holds secrets of hidden longing
Flamed circling desire til the break of day
Agony of conscious denial whispering
Wordless tales of thoughts coming to play

Depth bearing are the quicksands of lust
Arcadian sinking of silenced urges
Yearning of ferocious recurrent thrusts
Quick wave of desire submerges

Trembling, aching fingers, dried lips
Sentient drift with every passion
Hand craving the tender capture of hips
Fossilized moment of flowing emotion

Yet a barren field of frozen reflection
Forbidden path we like to borrow
Sweet devilish temptation
Filled with ecstacy but sorrow...

You wanted me to see you
and you dripped in my stare
and I ended up here
surrounded by guests
waiting for you to announce
if you'll leave
or if you'll stay.

And what am I supposed to do with our story?
Throw it to the sea and watch from the pier
How fishes mistake it for plancton
and devour it piece by piece
until there's nothing left?

I would have followed you
to the end of the world
through the path of cactus and thorns
but tell your October Sun
next year, he won't see me here
I'll finally be free
I'll be free to leave

Far from its eden

Abyss over abyss
and my neck on quicksands
I created myself.
You could have leave me
for the power
of your own American continent

But what am I supposed to do with our lands?
let the plague **** anything is born?
and let the raven  polish off the harvest
just because we missed a scarecrow
in this botched feint?

You wanted me to see you,
and you dripped in my stare,
and I did.

And I did.

I was a person
I'm just a fossil
Into the quicksands of time
I'm slipping away
My face is losing color
I try to get warm
I bury myself under
In the middle of the winter
Walking through the desert

You wouldn't know,
what you didn't want to,
after a sweet osculation
of a cleaver.

There was blood
on grass, after witnessing
the afterlife of a future god.
The goddess still weeps.

A black moon hovers
in blue sky. Was there a
polite embrace after
a violent actuality?

Delicately you hold
back your tears. The most
important exit was to
remain reticent.

Unsaid ache was the
greatest bliss.

worries and fears
make for strange bedfellows -
they hold your hand,
as if to soothe you,
and then whisper into your ears
a long list of names
of the people who loathe you.

i try not to be bitter,
i try to escape mental quicksands.
but here's when i don't mind
being called a quitter,
at least i have time,
and my own heart in
my own hands.

when my bedfellows turn
to talk to me in the dead of night,
i turn too - a blind eye,
no indication of despair or delight.
it is better that they rest
in a bed together,
i'd like to run as far away as possible -
the less i know,
the better.

Money talks

Truth walks

Green paints a new world

Blood red stains the profit

of pain unfurled

From those who seek its power

Above life

A sick patient

On the operating table

Gets the treatment

Suffocation in quicksands of poverty

You bleed to death

Inspiration appears to only belong to the wealthy and their benefits

Both sides opened up the doors to their once-closed countrysides.
the intense light that shined into their once dark eyes
lit up their once grey skies
in result...
such color changes had changed their once heavy and drowning pride
once sinking into the despair of mistrustful quicksands
of each other
through long-range binoculars
The now once close-up and handshaking meeting
through the opening of these once closed doors
was nothing under "Spectacular."
******* from chains of Mind-Limited training from ancestors on how to lead their people
breaking into the freed world
for their wills to explore a freer
and ingenious means in which to advance a more obsolete and dying nation...
the voices of hunger and change had broken open the barrier of light
to those ideas vacating,
A fireworks level celebration.
As to arms leads to death
Hand in hand
Side by side alliance leads to strength and advancement of future
leads
our two  nations
to salvation
Ways to fuse the divided cuts of division like a medical suture.
Now, as we grow to know and to trust one another, both sides can learn
one another's bright cultures
while abandoning other notions
that was ill-founded by ideology and myth
and empower us with much more.
growth and change
prosperity
and even
Unity
New people ruled by a leader that saw the real world through his bare eyes
rather than through the machine
now can equal with us the means
in which to live a united life
Happy and to others in conflict
A better  a way to live
as brothers in the world
Large, happy, and clean.

I want to say "I'm sad"
In thirty-three different languages—
Whichever you prefer,
So long as you'd get what my message is.

They asked me to chase the "light" once again,
And I hope they meant "lightnings"
Because I've been wandering around outside
In hopes of getting struck by one.

In between my internal monologues
Are bottomless pits awaiting my next mistake.
And behind my play-pretends
Are quicksands awaiting my heart to ache.

I have been blaming my own reflection.

I guess you can't wish for “a happily ever after"
When you were born to be a monster.
And I guess you need not to be kind
When you are meant to be out of your mind.

Even so, send in the clowns.

Christina was an angel.
A miracle which was extinguished way before it's time.
I expressed to her, my last message, sadly.
"You lit my fire to fuel my soul. you cared for my music and heart
I Love you and shall be your rock.. your wall of deep and respectful support."
I heard the ending of her miraculous invention , brought to life, "Which was her soul and music."
I felt my once huge and loving heart, break into a thousand pieces. It is still hurting, quite badly.
I felt a needle of emotional medicine from Christina's fall, it had stabbed me in the chest, and it has numbed my feelings that were awe inspired by her.
Just as I had admitted to her that I was falling in love with her beautiful heart, friendship, and sweet music.
The evil reaper
took this "part of me" that she had been in addition to, away.
My heart was, then too burried with her still beating heart.
My clock stopped. I felt the best, of me, sink with her last breaths, in quicksands of the oppressors.
such sank my creative spirit to depressive and unfeeling depths, in thes sands of lost time, quite still deeper.
i have cried inside rains of shock.
i felt the winds cease and the sonic boom of defeat's  sounds
of the winds of ill fated  changes
stop my creative and artistic heart
from beating.
My care and inspiration from Christina Grimmie, the kindness that drew me from my own near self suicidal demise..
her kind and uplifting hand that lifted my spirits from dark depths...
Such love to me, a newly met stranger, saved my own artistic soul.
It was a destructive and hateful nuclear bomb of destructive mass
that now has no measurable size.
I shall honor the beautiful and gentle soul, which still talks and sends love to me, at my darkest of times....
Such saved myself from defeating her truer propose
of higher and kinder purposes...
and her angel wings swooped down from above.
She saved me from my own ruin as I honored her true name.
"The sweet Bird of A winged Pure Heart"
That flies and watches over all she truly loved and cherished
In eternal life after the physical realm , which we assume is our ends of our existence in life, she showed her oppressors that her demise was her extended beginning.
She shall be within my heart..
Worth more than gold and fame.
As her spirit shall forever love and guide me
to a more beautiful song and dance in my life
She still is my roaring and burning loving flame.

A couple jogging in the park
Can't seem to schedule in ***,
They pass the plight
Of an overwhelmed trashcan
With indifference.
Some have too much,
Others not enough.

A young mom
Pushing the pram,
A young snail
Pulling its shell,
A bird on a wire
Watching both intently,
The call of his stomach
Shall prevail.

Love and doubt,
Apathy and duty.
A checklist of options
Lost in the quicksands of time.
Pick one to share,
As if metering off infinity
With a yardstick.
******* the hour.
Confuse the day.
Create exotica by building
Interest in offshore drilling.

The well run dry,
What's left to strike
Rests inside the mind.
The second hand cannot remember why
She must constantly move like a shark,
And so she settles to sleep,
Forgetting who she is.

The couple in the park may run
home to make love in the shower.
The trashcan may finally
Be relieved of its anxiety.
And young mom, snail and bird
May find continued purpose.
But when asked what time it is,
The clocks with amnesia
Will only be able to say,
"I don't know."

I can no longer see past the smoke.
Life is a heartbeat
Inside a cage of fear.
What we don't know is terrifying.
What we do know is even more so.

So,
you want to try amphetamine?
methylated Ketamine?

have you seen the stat's?
that's a bad movie in which to
play a role.

Give me acetylene to set fire
to the dormant dream,
let's wake the sleeping
there's
not much point in them keeping
their eyes closed
when they never see
anything anyway.

I've seen them drinking gasoline,
eating boot polish because it contained
morphine
syphoning paraffin to get their fixes in,
it's some serious **** when you'll die
for a hit or
**** for a spliff.

These are the quicksands
the tightening wrist bands
the end of the good times
the start of the bad lands

hands up who still wants to try.

Christina was an angel.
A miracle which was extinguished way before it's time.
I expressed to her, my last message, sadly.
"You lit my fire to fuel my soul. you cared for my music and heart
I Love you and shall be your rock.. your wall of deep and respectful support."
I heard the ending of her miraculous invention , brought to life, "Which was her soul and music."
I felt my once huge and loving heart, break into a thousand pieces. It is still hurting, quite badly.
I felt a needle of emotional medicine from Christina's fall, it had stabbed me in the chest, and it has numbed my feelings that were awe inspired by her.
Just as I had admitted to her that I was falling in love with her beautiful heart, friendship, and sweet music.
The evil reaper
took this "part of me" that she had been in addition to, away.
My heart was, then too burried with her still beating heart.
My clock stopped. I felt the best, of me, sink with her last breaths, in quicksands of the oppressors.
such sank my creative spirit to depressive and unfeeling depths, in thes sands of lost time, quite still deeper.
i have cried inside rains of shock.
i felt the winds cease and the sonic boom of defeat's  sounds
of the winds of ill fated  changes
stop my creative and artistic heart
from beating.
My care and inspiration from Christina Grimmie, the kindness that drew me from my own near self suicidal demise..
her kind and uplifting hand that lifted my spirits from dark depths...
Such love to me, a newly met stranger, saved my own artistic soul.
It was a destructive and hateful nuclear bomb of destructive mass
that now has no measurable size.
I shall honor the beautiful and gentle soul, which still talks and sends love to me, at my darkest of times....
Such saved myself from defeating her truer propose
of higher and kinder purposes...
and her angel wings swooped down from above.
She saved me from my own ruin as I honored her true name.
"The sweet Bird of A winged Pure Heart"
That flies and watches over all she truly loved and cherished
In eternal life after the physical realm , which we assume is our ends of our existence in life, she showed her oppressors that her demise was her extended beginning.
She shall be within my heart..
Worth more than gold and fame.
As her spirit shall forever love and guide me
to a more beautiful song and dance in my life
She still is my roaring and burning loving flame.

I noticed that I only write poems
Whenever I get to lose my courage to vent,
Fail to escape from the clutch of rock bottom,
And have no one else to comfortably talk to.

And with the quicksands of changes
That I have never opted to be stuck in,
I guess I am bound to exhaust my hand
Writing poems till the end of my days.

Every night I feel the cold breeze

Being alone, in the quiet, with memories replaying..

An energy that almost downs me to my knees.

Days are filled trying to find another way

In which to be able to finish what I had started

Finding the other hidden heart

To complete this unfinished soul.

I work my creative magic…

The emptiness starts to chew at my imagination

Shards of dread, doubt, and question stab my being like swords

A moment quiet and tragic.

When will these wheels that hold me in the place I’m at

Finally break free from the quicksands of limit and invisibility

Enabling the launch of my message, soul, and ventures

To newer heights of lighted up Electric Visual abilities?

Teach me a new rout that this older ship must sail

the path to a brighter future and calmer waters….

Allow the bonds of circumstance to break and allow this captive soul, freedom.

Before the sands of sorrow drown him on weakened knees that shall falter?

Dying inside, alone.
Unable to sleep.
As questions of "why?"
Eat my Soul's flesh to it's bones.
Older and more uglier.
Where have I gone?
In life?
Spinning my wheels, drowning.
In quicksands as I stare at the blade of a knife.
I fight my impulses to end the struggling of the soul's pain.
It seems as if I only get to talk at myself.
Nobody has stayed around me
Enough during these days
I have been fed up.
Enough to bleed.
My heart lies sick of being dusty on the shelf.
Always putting myself and my light on the "back burner"
in order to warm up some one else's left overs.
This ghost of the soul shall be all that will be left
After being this "invisible ghost"
Unsought after or summoned
I freeze to the cold of more time
In this "prison"
Locked up. Never to fore fill my potential.
Or to finish this "Bucket List."
The end of this misery needs to end
Before the end of my living visions.

There is a point unavoidably found
when although the view grows ever fonder
the dirt under your soles turns to stone
and the road promises splits no longer.

You're compelled to turn over heels to peek:
There is no way back yet extends on end;
You recognize each tree from root to peak
for the solace of shade they'd extend.

You can still count the rocks of tougher climb,
shiny ponds you filled with sweat, blood or salt,
or breezes that eased the steamiest time,
through those bulky barks that you groomed from sprout.

Either fills of treasure your breathing chest
or quicksands you into a hollowed step.