I want my heart to feel like the great Salt Lakes, reaching towards each other, constantly suspended in the moment just before contact. I want to build this anticipation, but my patience is shorter than your last haircut, when we sat by the river to discuss model trains.

I want my mind to feel like a hummingbird when it finally lands to rest on the red plastic device filled with sugar water outside my mother’s kitchen window, but I’m quite a ways from home now and have been for a while.

I want my stomach to feel like the tree roots, the red oaks, the ones that dwarf me and that I know would let me get my favorite kind of lost in their home, the kind we planned on visiting after graduation, but I am usually stuck in maple sap.

I want my mouth to taste like strawberries, ripened scarlet in the sun, the kind my tall friend’s mother mashes up with sour rhubarb for the perfect jam to last us through winter, but more often than not, my teeth are coffee-stained and my tongue tends to be too sharp for delicate berries.

I want my skin to feel like satin ribbons, the kind that tie little girl sashes before holy events and parties where they dance on their father’s toes for the first time, and find it perfectly marvelous, but I am covered in scratches and marks from building enormities.

I am a patchwork from the most meaningless scraps. I was a junkyard doll with mismatch buttons eyes and melted cardboard shoes. My head is a garbage heap left out too long, my eyes are scooping all of it up, and my dress is made of someone else’s throwaway linen.  My aluminum can hands stretch out for anyone’s how-town while I think of shoestring revues and paper mache.

The real battle, actually has no views
Everyone startle; battlegrounds are no revues
It's hard to separate, when unseen or hidden
Battle of my thoughts, a fight within

I built a mansion, but I'm yet to move in
I built a jet for auction, but it's yet to move me
I'm a volcano, with no eruption
All end in the war within; ending in an option

To do it now, or some other time
Verb is no noun, i never made my action prime
The Battle is disastrous, it leaves my goals in shipwreck
Strolling now or later, I lose the ambitions in a cheap trek

Later is always the war victor, but it's grave
Never again will I take the tour; just doing it - is save
Tomorrow is another day, but it's a bait that annihilate
I will do it later; But I'm late now or I'm now late

- Pastorlee

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