I fell in love with a piece of paper
and a picture of you. Now here you stand,
and I don't quite know what I am to do…

We were lonely souls, you and I; felt like
only each other heard our laughs and cry.

Yet here we are, miles apart yet inches
so close. All I can hear are the words on
the paper; acting like an overdose.

You're not a picture, and neither am I,
falling in love was short; destined to die.

Love we did, even though our time quickly
ticked away. But my love was true; it could
not be born, ravish, and cease in a day.

A question in my head, it must be said:
Will I be back, as our history read?

True, I can not stop the dreams, but these bad
habits are hard to break. I'd rather miss
you than have more of your love bruises ache.

You're a part of me, like a glove, I can't
rid this picture and paper of you, love.

I will keep you near, of course, so you can
perhaps watch me grow, in awe or hatred,
to one day let go of your heavy woe.

Scars left from the battle of heart and mind --
My choice is clear, though it left my mouth ****.

My heart breaks, the body recuperates,
this time I’ve had enough of these rust gates.

Goodbye to the man in front of me, and
everyday Good Morning to the picture
staring, eyes bright, with pain and painted glee.

If only pictures showed what was below
the skin, then maybe we wouldn’t have sinned?

you can do ever so little, and ever so much,
of what's worth in life, and still leave this world
a paced
              defunct of woman -
undernourished
                              scraping
along into old age with
deviating ideals that were never
there -
             happy are those who die
young, happiest of all are those prescribing
wisdom having only lived the belittling
set years, and
                       happiest
equating subjectivity with pessimism:
     the heaviest of tolls, craving the life
less lived, but otherwise engaging in a fulfilling life,
of that which is assured a comparison:
                                          ultimatum: live...
      the 11th commandment:
                       you shall live...
which debunks all the other alternatives,
as: well, a bit of anything can give you a bit of both;
hence beauty and the untouchables -
                     hence the concept of money
and chisel gold and readied stone -
           if ever a trans-valuation of things, then there...
and only there... terra limbo -
                    whereby xenophobia reaches
the approach en masse - and isn't skin deep,
but a soul's depth, when the answer is assimilated -
when the skin attacked rejoices with jazz
and blues... what can the embedded attack provision
to answer with? i suppose poetry,
the silent homicide - a cancerous growth -
or the rekindled pyramid, medicinal cataract -
because when the skin tone is attacked,
the soul recuperates and answers with glorification;
but when hue and hue match versus...
there's little to answer with... you just simply reply:
you sick *******... i hope your mother dies a painful
death. Pontius Pilate said as much...
and you keep repeating that phrase into what people
know best about aspiring to individual proclamation:
bat i disciplina! they know nothing more,
the west can glorify preaching individuality -
but look how many lives are at stake when the realisation comes
back and says: it was a shambles...
we failed... we only achieved a revenue of investing
in a Mozart under dictators... all we're getting
is a throng of amateurs! we will never get uniqueness
among men when we treat all men as being unique -
most plumbers are content with being simply plumbers,
if you rule them by the anticipatory suggestion of
being poets... a. you won't get any poets,
and b. you won't get any plumbers!
                     i'm writing from experience,
and you know what that does to your argument:
it doubles-up reducing the "intelligent" person to your
level of expertise - tease, not ties -
                                        i wish i could return to my
former level of health,
                              as a roofer -
                                   i'd give each and every one of these
poems the rite of passage of being ethnically clotting
              tomorrow - and simply eradicate them like vermin;
i swear to god, i would... which is why all my agony lies
within saying: but your society got robbed off
a competent construction worker, or a chemist..
but you did't want a poet... because you wanted some
middle-class shanty of a woman to provision Wren's
enterprise...
                       good luck, or Sanskrit 卐.

I guess I know everything about her
No one else understands her better
Her dreams, fears, her favourite colour
Her friends, passion, her every sweater

She keeps telling me her life is tragic
She wants me to work some magic
I ask her to keep calm and not panic
My words always heal her like tonic

Her guy went away, like the one before
To fix herself, she knocks at my door
I make her realise she deserves more
She thinks of me as some drugstore

When it is too hot and too sunny
I provide the shade, I am her tree
‎She recuperates and forgets me
‎I treat her, someone else gets the fee

Again she finds another special one
Being with him can be so much fun
He becomes her life's shining sun
He helps her get everything done

She is the poison who is acting slow
She is not good for me, that I know
She is my ultimate pain, my heart's foe
Before it's too late, I need to let her go

Under the blankets are marks of love and hate
For you and our never-ending struggle;
Claws marked under the skin, or swords of words

Still I talk to you in my head, tiny whispers lingering
For the beating that slowly recuperates with wild imaginings
Of healing and warmth of the faithful, forgiving,
Embracing the cold of the storm and the thundering

Blows that echoes deep in the night
In my momentary solitude, once ours.

Once hours of love, now marked, blighted.
The faithful, the living, leaving with scars.

Under the blankets are traces of you
Marred and married in my skin,
Wounded deep with pain
- The heat lost its flame.