Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant

The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth

The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive

The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately

The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak

The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating

The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach

The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides

The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass

The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them

Some things are simply understood
Without the need for spoken word
Others better said out loud
So they may be heard

Some thoughts are better unexposed
So not to harm the atmosphere
Others need to fly and soar
To land on lover's waiting ear

Hold the tongue, bite the lip
Let not insults from it trip
But compliments that smooth the way
Let them see the light of day

Sleepless nights
I wake up often
No reason to be seen
It just happens

I wake up in darkness
No sight to use
I feel panic rise
I know this experience well

I wake up in fear
The darkness scares
What could be there,
Scare me the most

I never got over it
The fear of darkness
The fear of what could be
The uncertainty of it all

Take deep breaths
Pull the sheets up
Cover my face and head
Keep feet unexposed

It doesn't help usually
Turn a light on
Make sure door is shut tight
Turn TV on for sound

Fall asleep
Wake up
Turn off light and TV
Go back to sleep.

The cycle starts again
Initially asleep
Wake up
Fear

I love the way it feels
To be barefooted
In the park,
The normally unexposed
Flesh of my feet
Brushing the blades of
Slightly browned grass
And dirt.

I hear the chirping
Of insect correspondence,
Croaking like frogs
In loud crescendos.
The lush green leaves
On the trees with fat wooden trunks,
They glow yellow under the
Fluorescent night lamps.
The leaves crinkle and crackle,
Shimmy in the wind,
Creating a summer staccato
Against the sounds
Emerging from those
Ever-chattering crickets.

A light breeze kisses my skin,
Twisting itself around
The darkness,
Morphing into a double helix,
DNA of the
breath
Of
Fresh air,
The summer
Heat
Briefly catching
A
Cold.

Today,
This tree was the very picture
Of a pair of birds
Who had a fight after mating.

You will never understand
The eagerness of this tree
In making every morning a new one
Or daily showing me a new movie,
However I try to describe it
One day
Leaves, that cry
“don’t go” “don’t leave”
To the wind
That passes by

Another day
Of shooing cats feasting in the shade,
On fish bone, from someone’s leftover meal,
After dribbling pigeon-droppings from a branch,

Another day
The tear-filled eyes
Of its own branch
That cries
And supplicates the sun
To heal its wound

Another day
Of its own sister branches
Or, in human parlance, wooden chairs
That have become prostitutes;
On which strange people sit casually.

One day
The Bihari
Who is scared stiff of his lord,
And who runs every time a wind blows
To sweep away the dried leaves
Which the wind has killed,
Having made violent love to them.

On yet another day,
The fruits that laugh their heads off
Along with the little blossoms that laughed once |
At the silver-blue sky

On still another day
The tap root
That suddenly burst into tears
Gazing at the dusk
That draped golden strands on boughs and twigs

On yet another day,
The aged middle-portion of the tree
That unveiled the hitherto unexposed
Moss-green nursling
And prayed that it be named
Another day before this,
Had made me sad
By asking
“Are you wont to see
the other tree-friends
Throughout the countryside ?”

Had made me heartsore
By asking me
“Would you forget me?”

Once, have asked
Whether I would point out
The mother-bird
Who sowed the seed after she ate the fruit
I have made myself broken-hearted  |
wondering
Where or how mother was.

At the moment
When the mind gets shaken up
And becomes even more fragile,
In the memory of
Some trees
That have helped some lives thrive,
Have given shade,
Given oxygen,
Crucified,

O tree,
I am hugging you,
Giving you
A frozen, but still very passionate kiss
With the Alloyed numbness of death and life :
A tree-kiss

the i.q. (intelligence quotient) is hardly representative,
you can bishop-streak as a tourist to Giza and get
the same result... quotient etymologically speaking
is simply a quote, statistically represented -
meaning it only gathered answers from
the μ - median, mean, and meridian, also
a fond mention of mode: we all wish to sleep as peacefully
as the dead, necromancy with the pepper & salt shakers
for the fancy... stirrup hunch to giddy up,
and that makes two of us qualm bitter with
                                                    the grey matter
unexposed in chess tournaments.
i.q. (intelligence quotient) v. i.i. (intelligence inclusiveness):
that too.. statistics means a lot of autism
and many tiger mommies... preferably with surname Chang....
bright kid / always the dummies -
make that five years after the the show,
show them bullied... n'ah, you wont.
meaning the only thing included is
a pyramid and competitiveness, rather than shared
genius - which is hard to come by -
yes, the inclusiveness bit of the Rubik's cube solved
like Pavlov's tongue and the palette of a dog
given Sumerian cuisine to slobber over
when ingesting a tablespoon of cinnamon as the
other educated guess: the educated joke, universities
are famous for them being practised.
thus μ and the statistician's consonant... constant...
three tiers of synonymous bishops making up one
cardinal - intelligence is well enough quotient's worth
and the pyramid for a competitive streak of further events...
but such intelligence performed as example among
children doesn't qualify others to share the oncoming demise...
we need intelligence of an inclusive nature,
not a statistical correspondence with economists dodging
hard questions with quick investment answers...
we need people to tell the difference between
inclusiveness on the plural scaling of being a part of,
rather than an exclusiveness on the plural scaling of not being
a part of (alter: an exclusiveness on the solipsistic slave-scaling
of simply da sein - i.e. being there) -
i get the pronoun ambiguity, whenever there's no i involved
and it's purely a thing, everyone in the factory asks for the
Schindler's List - whether or not people are organic or
prosthetic(s) extending into a network of parasite or host
economy projects, and people ask those questions;
meaning? people are more likely to dismiss the idea of
a soul (an indestructible part of themselves, whether
contemporary or far fetched in terms of: ahead - Kant lives on
from the 18th century, plastic surgery will make others like you
take up the augmentation many decades later... there is always
something indestructible about you... it's called recycling
in the transference of physics, or metaphysics, the soul is like
an atom... it's indestructible... but your ego isn't... your ego
has no correlative support of the soul - your soul is an
indestructible unit, prone to gravity e.g., but your ego is prone
to the more pervasive moral force, which gravity isn't
a part of in term of monotheist glue... namely conscience...
the indestructible part of your isn't a self-conscious Jungian
jargon bit watered with control that you're aware of...
the soul, the unit of indestructibility is the unconscious bit...
which is why we continue to have actors, poets, plumbers,
bus drivers... you can't destroy the soul in the collective
unconscious sense of things... the indestructible element of
your being continues regardless of your wish to sell
out and profit or take an overly conscious case of
being aware of conning the selfish gene stipend on Wall Street...
it still bites back at your **** for showing off your yacht
rather than your Mongolian yurt.
the soul is real... not in an individualised sense of things...
the individual is completely destroyed... constantly revised
via recycling... a lot of Hinduism makes his plainer but
more mythical and less hoarse in its reality of death -
the soul is a continuum, the indestructible capacity of
preservation, preservation rather than evolution -
anti-Darwinism? the preservationists... apply poetic rhyming
to ideas and the truth is ******* boring - poetry can decipher
GRAND PLATINUM ORNATE GALAS OF STATE AFFAIRS
by looking at the suffixes... and rhyming them together
getting the toad's ******* of October Fest's burps...
it is time to learn how to write poetry outside of poetry...
it's time to write testaments, it's time to write biblical accounts
of our lives... there's not time for pretty verse...
it's at this precise moment when poetry has become too
technical in theory and mundane in practice...
use this zenith moment to read language across all genres...
and never applying it for a poetic expression...
look! the paupers are numerous! but these paupers are
octopus handy in picking your ten pockets!
to have reached the plateau of Darwinism as having to preserve...
to have reached the penultimate affair of the prone
destructibility of identity, personality, character (Thesaurus Rex's
RA! or the complete synonymous archive of ego) - meaning
that the soul was a plumber you never were given
the Saturday of the appointment, and your chronology being
that of a Ford Automobile salesman in some showroom in Peckham.

I recall the feel of our bodies pressed tightly in the backseat. The freedom of letting my fingers linger over your palm and up your arm, around your neck, and adams apple. I’d always wanted to know a body, not just the unexposed places between our thighs. Because everything is forbidden. The cool feel of placing my cheek to chest. The intimacy of hearing a heart beat on a quiet night in the summer. The way it will murmur secret love and secret shame. My hands, making a map of the placement of your face, will draw along your cheekbones, high and freckled slightly, down to the lips which part and tell me to never stop. Skin stretching over muscle and bone. Timid virility. Reaching and searching for validation in my touch. This is what we give each other.

And when you told me about all the things you love,
With mad passion in your eyes,
I fell in love with you

And when you shared your thoughts,
Too private for small talk,
I fell in love with you

And when you placed your responsibilities over your self,
Too demanding for anyone to fulfil,
I fell in love with you

And when you loved,
Loved a stray dog, affectionately working your fingers on his neck,
I fell in love with you

And when you hid your pain,
Masked brilliantly in your laugh, for no naked eye to suspect,
I fell in love with you

And when you sang Chasing Cars,
Humming, unconcerned with the passing traffic,
I fell in love with you

And when you told me about your day,
From the big accomplishments, to the tiny, gorgeous observations,
I fell in love with you

And when Ed Sheeran sang All of the Stars,
Thinking all I wanted was nothing more, than to see you walking in that door,
I fell in love with you

And when they told me how amazing you are,
People unexposed to even a fifth of your brilliance;
Privileged,
I fell in love with you

And a million other times,
In a thousand other moments,
Irrespective of intent,
Forever more,
I fell in love with you

Starting out so young and free
No troubles in the world
Pure, clear skin for all to see.
Not a sign of hurt

Bright, young eyes and light pink lips
Innocence at best
Unexposed and unaware of God's most painful test

Wandering lost and all alone, no one there to trust
Voices laughing, hidden deep within the prickly brush

Eternal darkness cascading down from a clouded sky
Frightened, cornered with one question, and that one word is why?

There's no life that's left to live
There's no more need for breath
Succumbing to the evil force
And wishing only death.

As we get older, we forget
all the things we cherished.
The further away we grow,
the more we forget
to remember
Remember to hold those things close
Remember to never let go.
I wish I could know
what a child knows.

What they know
without the slightest hint
of the doubt
that overwhelms me now.
I want to remember
what it feels like
to love without restraint
to love without fear
and love without pain
The love only a child knows.

I want to know a Jesus
who resides in my heart
and protects me from the hurt.
I want to know a Jesus
who is my own peaceful warrior
who doesn't create evil.
I want to know what a child knows.

Take me back
to when my daddy knew everything
for me
To the place where base
was the only safety I considered
To when I knew all I needed
about God
To a place where I believe wholeheartedly
in something crazy
Take  me to the place
only a child knows

Where there is good
that is genuine
Where brokenness
is the start
The altar
is the healing
And hope
is redemption
Help me to know
what a child knows

Can anyone but the innocent and unexposed
truly know these things?
Is it possible for someone
to feel the pain
to see the hurt
to bear the load
and still believe?
Can we honestly believe
with the passion of a child?

I have seen
the good in people.
I have experienced
the hurt, and felt
the healing
I have been let down
thrown down
shut down
I have yet
to be broken down.

Deep within me
there is a place
Where the truth will prevail
the sincere will overcome
the place
only a child knows.

Time to Get Serious: In the Poet's Nook
Originally posted here on
June 9th 2013

Yes it is verifiable, just as prior alluded to,
a few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs,
wizened gray, like occupant, all seen better days,
overlooking the Peconic Bay,
where inspiration glazes over the water

Despite prodigious production o'er past weeks,
ditties, love laughing tributes, silliness aplenty,
these works of dishes washed, Paul Simon,
what to wear to your funeral, knuckle kissing, etcetera...
Though some contained soft shelled, mints of juleps hints,
little sundries, items for sale re suicidal thoughts,

no one takes-tales you serious

Be it tormented rain, intemperate gusts
whipping lashes of sand
excuses real, manufactured and yet,
despite opportunities always existed,
but you answered the question unasked,
you're unready, more likely, fearful.
to pen in the Inner Temple, in the nook.

In the nook, the poems float by, you need only extend arm and
grab them whole, ripened by the delivering breezes,
If you unmask pretense, and wear a seat belt

But here I am, and the welcome I receive is the one
deserved, for one who has joined the ranks of deniers

Favorable prevailing breezes service the sailboats pleasantly,
turn surly and unmanageable from neglect and disuse poetically,
they mock this coward, taunting:

We have waited, fall and spring, for you, our sacrificial lamb.
Your return we smelled, the odor of barbecue and suntan oil,
We observed your beach touring, your eyes upon the moonlight
Highflying, highlighting the path you follow when walking upon the
Water when nobody knows, nobody sees

You scarce provided the deep reveal that is our woeful provenance,
So, having returned, unleash or leave,  expose your La Mancha countenance,
Fulfill your daddy's curse,#
Portray the siren shriek of our gulls insistent,
the blood cold words, as of now, yet unfastened, un-cast,
the forge lit and fired,
Are you ready, self-appointed, poetry smithy, wright-man?%

On knees bent you should have approached,
For the inspiration, years rendered, unpaid, and unacknowledged
But most of all because of these interlopers attached to you,
So many children, green shoots, babes visiting the bay,
New friends hoisted upon us without permission!

Do they understand despite the solemn serenity
of the place you attend,
This is the observatory
where the stars and scars,
undiscovered and unexposed,
become our property to carry-cross the ocean?

Do they comprehend that black is the only color permitted and the
sunshine coverlet is meant to keep the unmotivated, the uninitiated,
who think that writing poetry is easy,
unaware, and far away from us, the truth purveyors

Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.


June 9th
2013
Late afternoon.
#What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

You're a murderer you know,
and you've gotten away with it.

No witnesses to testify against you,

No alibi needed to strengthen your case.

No evidence strong enough to unmask you.

Just an unidentified victim,
with no open wounds or visible markings
to give away its' subject-

For all the bloodshed is within.

CHOKED!
RIPPED!
*****!
STABBED!
BEAT!
STRIPPED!

It is all secretly covered,
unexposed.

A beautiful mirage-

Painted lips and crystal eyes,
velvet skin,
draped, in golden, satin hair.

A flawed mirage-

With bleeding lips, and crying eyes.
Diseased skin,
smothered in, dull, lifeless hair.

Yet still, the inside reveals nothing.
A murderer you remain,

but what a lovely victim I make.

Loneliness is the manila color which enchants paper as it ages.
It grows old and musky regardless of how many eyes look upon its texture.
It reaches the air of abandonment more quickly when exposed to the atmosphere and light.

An unexposed paper will stay pristine longer.
It doesn't know vacancy and longing.
It never had someone in the first place.

amidst the loud noise
& the sweat that drips from heated foreheads
your hands slip from a new friend to a red cup
& for the rest of the night you’ll idly stand
maybe concerned with tomorrows homework
trying to catch a feeling
of the way peoples arms look without weight

you weren’t going to even go out tonight
but your friends said you’d regret it
even though you knew you wouldn’t if you did go
you went anyways, worried this time was different
but now that your here
and they’re playing fetty wap for the second time
this time isn’t different

what is different is the artwork
someones failed attempt at collaging girls *****
tasteful side **** to full exposed kardashian
the only thing unexposed is the exposed brick they covered
ironically and sadistically
you remember frat boys don’t do metaphores

you manage to get your hands on some chips
as your eyes meet some guys across the room
awkwardly and unobviously locking in place
you step away from his line of vision
moving backwards towards kate
who can’t remember your name from film class
so you have to hint at chanelle for input
stumbling to call your name through liquored breathe

lost in thought, but somehow forming sentences to kate
someone nudges your side
Alex
He was the guy across the room
the lighting must have been weird or something
you talk for a bit about middle school
he hugs you uncomfortably
wondering if there was some broken rule
about accepting hugs from people that aren’t your boyfriend

He tells you about his skate board
attempting sarcasm at every turn
his voice burning into the air
soon the conversation swoops to music
he asks about your taste
you say you don’t have any
and you’re arms start to feel weightless too

You say bye to Alex (and to Kate)
Chanelle mouths “where the hell are you going”
before you know it your on line 2
drifting to bloor and younge
writing about a party
that you weren’t even suppose to be at

you're writing about a party that never really happened
but somehow that night still really ****** you off

I
I sat on a bench in the park,
Talking to death,
People staring and whispering,

I didn’t care I laughed at them,
And kept talking to him,
I loved the way he talked,

Always offering a great bargain
I would gladly accept it,
And say good bye, see you tomorrow.

We
We always laughed together,
Talking on that park bench,
Stealing pieces of each other,

We never gave them back,
Keeping them for only us,
Knowing unexposed secrets,

We deteriorated each other ,
Until we would come down,
All at once falling down,

You
You were watching us,
Standing in the crowd whispering,
To the other people around you,

You were interested but confused,
Wondering why,
But there was no answer,

You wanted to find an answer,
But were scared to say anything,
Now you are stuck wondering forever.
~Zalea

Eros has claimed another victim…

This I must admit, this sin.

This time it’s you, struck in the crossfire.

It must drain you much like a vampire.

I've seen your wretched purity.

I've seen your disconnected reality.

Mind like a lacrimosa, unexposed…

You wouldn't show it, but it floats,

fragile, sad, empty ghost.

You match my dreams…

you attract my screams.

For love and for hate…

It’s much too late.

You, angel with the tattered wings…

You, devil on my shoulder, enjoying and destroying me…

You’re the source of my euphoria…

You’re the source of my melancholia.

You’re a drunken kiss and a broken bliss.

What shall I do with this? Why has this all gone amiss?

A disciple cannot be antisocial. Or introverted. How can we when our command is to reach out to those who for so long we've tried to avoid? Tried to protect unexposed insecurities instead of overcoming them. How do I get ME out of the way so I can see you? And every thing your going through. Your soul is more important than my feelings, and as I die out, I must first take the 'I' out.

I know from the first time
I saw her she's different.
She sees the world differently,
She lives her world differently.

Every time I stare at her brown eyes,
I know there's something going on inside her mind--
Her imagination,
Her creativity,
Is flowing up and down through the skies.

She has her own world,
Trapped inside her mind,
Unexposed and pure.

I love her,
I love to read her,
Like how she carefully read her books;
I love to caress her,
Like how she gently
Turn the pages of her old books.

The more I look into her eyes
The more I get lost,
From trying to see a glimpse
Of her own world buried deep behind her eyes,
But all I can see is the reflection
Of the world behind us.

today, I was asked,
by a machine,
"what's the best thing
that happened to you this week?"
and, it followed up with,
"don't be afraid to brag."

I spent awhile wondering
how you might
compute and crunch
just what it means
to receive your first hug
from a third grader
who you're harder on
than most
because you know
behind the lack of focus
lies genius left unexposed,

but I'm pretty sure
that's made every
sloppy, sludgy, snowy
trek this month
more than worth
my while

The mask over his face hides away his true expression
His eyes depict that I should be aware and have cation
Leaving the nature of his thoughts unexposed
Makes me wonder what his actions will dispose
The temptation of his own reaction appeals to me
The question of my slight gestures to be worthy

Every time our eyes cross...within every glance I get lost
Time diminishes and one minute feels endless
Bounded...entwined...I can read into you mind
My heart is aching  and I know what you're thinking
I only conceal it from you because I don't have the strength to tell you how I feel.

He comes to me and he grabs me by the hand
Holds me in his arms and dances till we can't stand
Whispering forbidden words inside my ear of his own decree
My self conscious imposes and disagrees
My body reverts in it's own defense and starts to shake
Another glimpse inside his eyes I retake

"I can see it in your eyes and I know whats on your mind,
But I don't have the strength to tell you how I feel."

Mirrors are the throat of time
Devouring all in their path
Leaving nothing not even bones
Relentless in their wrath

Mirrors are the throat of time
Taking all with nil to give
Leaving only the profound loss
So deep we can never forgive

Mirrors are the throat of time
Stealing from each of us all
Leaving no corner unexposed
Silent witness to our downfall

I'm at the edge.
behind, open
clear
free space, green in all directions. Blue skies
that I've met before, become acquainted with,
and have become my dearest friends. They
stand tall behind me, pushing forward,
encouraging
when fatigue becomes too much.
They are my sword, my shield.
in front, closed
full
just unknown. Trees piled high, no sky seen. No blue, still green looks down from above. This time,
though,
it's dark. It looks on, expectant.
Of what, I'm not exactly sure.
in front, there is thick brush
built of brambles, raspberry bushes, and dense, low
branches. They cut,
scrape skin and burrow deep for the
unexposed. They have no aim,
no end goal, but
they keep on growing, pushing up,
spreading, acre after acre,
demolishing what I aim
for myself to be. They swallow
me whole, or try, but . . .
Still, there is only one direction
I can go
from here.

The dreary grey portrays this state
this state of contentment
the contentment however
is troubling
because lack of inspiration
is troubling in the sense that
I don't know what to do or what to write or how to write
and because it's my "art",
I'm angry that I cannot articulate these nonexistent thoughts
To think that creativity stems from suffering
is to think that pleasure is contingent on pain
still, this contentment is leading to mania and confusion
confusion as to why my writing isn't what it used to be
and I ask myself to weigh the costs and benefits
of suffering versus peace of mind
and I don't know
so here I am,
unexposed
left in between two fragile states of
emotion,
that cannot be described

Misery
dressed up in her favorite shade
Curled to perfection
and drowning within raw unexposed beauty

How my mind loves to surprise me
Ripping away at my hopes, while
flirting with happiness
and ticking away at my sanity

Madness?
To which do you address?
Countless blessings lay unwanted
Torn from one thought to another

Emptiness remains, always.
To experience, never to forget
Burning eternally within
infinite faces lay without name

We each have our moment
within the sour beam of light
and with this absolute clarity
see us more about them than ourselves

Forgive me, oh mistake-less brothers
banish all my foul sins
Keep me from the water
and shower me in flame

For I am a believer
that everything has a consequence
But why are you to decide
who possesses the gleaming innocence

Fear once covered me
and sheltered me like a blanket
How it held me down
but protected me from the colds of the storm

With the two lights of my life
in endless conflict
For guidance, I can't help
but look towards the shadow

what she told me,
by accident, laying there late at night in a bed not mine or hers
is too horrific to pen, the kind of grisly detail
that is sacred and ****** in a breath,
a red-stained skeleton, the reason for all I had believed was true,
but it has been disproved,
I will hold this intention in the silence of my heart
in between privacy and freedom
unexposed, sealed by the scars
a slit-like layer of muscle that writhes uncomfortably under the surface
I am wrong but I am right,
it is over, but how shall I go home
what kind of secret can I not write, or tell to my dearest friends?
what kind of secret demands to be buried and hidden,
for it must be; only Hell can contain this- it is not for earthy eyes
it is the only thing that must remain unwritten, the
only word that must remain unspoken,
even when all else fails and all truth comes to light,
I will retain one thing,
in the happiest of moments and most intimate of conversations,
I will not be completely there,
even in the poems that write out my heart,
they will trace every tendon and pulse every vein but they will not,
they cannot trespass into this realm,
it is forbidden, locked in the deepest cave of my soul,
never to be acknowledged or even comprehended
but I do not know how to live like this
and I do not know how will I ever be able to face him again.

Washed up on the beach
barely breathing
she had travelled far
beyond the Andes
north of the equator
into cooler waters

At seven-feet-wide
it was hard to comprehend
how she'd gone so long unexposed
So they called her Hoodwinker
for often she deceived
those who tried
to get under her skin

Found too late,
and far from home
they assumed she took a wrong turn
"How lonely, strange"
they said
unaware that she just sought
her own path instead

Later they'd learn some things
from her sturdy skeleton
but they'd never know her side
of the life that she so staunchly chose

Respiratory chambers inhale the frigid air
And distorts its inner peace
Visions flounder and loud noises
As the water carresses its surface

The water retracts yet the peace remained violated
Simultaneously being unexposed to the change

I exhale but frail air merely makes me meek
To the fumes of an alternate similarity