I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.

I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G.  Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who  wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly  B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with  Conan Doyle.

And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.

i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.

My Beloved,

I wonder where you rest your head tonight
I wonder the warmth of your skin
I wonder if you laughed, or cried today
I wonder what your hope lies in

I wonder if you have talent, or wittiness, or charm
I wonder if you wish to have me tucked beneath your arm

I wonder where you are tonight and why you're not with me
But I know soon enough, My Love, together we will be

I am Lisa*
Youth is a good thing I guess,
unless --
It becomes the lens
through which you are seen.

Then --
Your ambitious ideas are
youthful, not wise
Your wittiness is
immaturity, not humor
Your springy-step is
young bones, not joy in living.

Youth is a good thing I guess,
but better, *authenticity.

I am who I am, 20 or 60.
My age affects me,
but my age isn't me.
I am who I am.

I have a canvas.
It's filled with all kinds of pleasant colors.
I usually paint it with kindness.
A smile is meant to make people trust you.
Let's layer the canvas with a few nice words.
Some wittiness too.
Laughter is always appreciated.
Just don't add any undesirable colors.
It has to be bright and beautiful.
No dull colors.
Dull colors are hated.
Even if the dull colors are a part of you don't add them.
Keep it up.
Don't falter.
If you slip up they'll hate the canvas and everything it contains.
Each brush stroke will never be in vain, just keep it up.
Don't let them see the dull colors.
All that's needed is brilliance because no one appreciates a dull canvas.
Even though you sometimes love the dull colors don't ever reveal them.
Bury them under layers of color.
It's like this the painting is beautiful.
Everyone loves beauty.
Even if it's not the true colors of the canvas, all that matters is to be loved.

Always... Always, the contradiction with you. Why is that? Both ugly and beautiful, And so very human. Creating art one moment, then burning it the next. Fighting wars to forget what for.
What is the point?

Raised in wealth or in the slums. Both born on earth, but two from two separate worlds.
If you have the means dropping a grand for a one year olds handbag, is good training for an early fashion sense.
While out there, kids starve, who have never had even a drop of clean water.
And which do you think is blown up for the cover of your favorite magazine?
But it's all good. Fill your house with pretty things. As long as you don't have to wittiness the deforestation.
Pumping the earth dry of its resources to use without conservation.
Using animals to test the latest hair treatment without reservation.
It seems... It seems so meaningless.

That we can waste our cash on such petty things, diet pills and diamond rings.
That some will never learn to read, because another's deluded belief in a high power.
But we won't have to pay, not yet
But someday someone will.
Future generation would condemn us.
That we can have the capacity to love so deeply and to **** so needlessly.

Born to die,
in a world of contradictions.

With much pride, honor, and dignity,
We look back to our antiquity
We were once young seeds that cultivate
To become the best and ultimate

If we were once budding, blooming, and blossoming,
What more can you and I expect from what’s coming?
Paths are crossed once more to recognize and witness
The start from which we’re all of grace and wittiness

From Darwin, we have built the foundation of our dreams
Oh! Everything was exactly the way that it seems!
As I turned my vision to my left and to my right,
I saw a stunning sight which brought much joy and delight

Darwin is again number one!
A big banner read as I ran
It is a great honor for a Darwinian like me
For all these praises and recognitions I see

I clearly remember my best friend from the past
a woman with wisdom that is wide and vast
Anjealhet is now a famous disc jockey!
With outstanding skills, there’s no doubt she will be

She nurtured her skills in University of Santo Tomas
Graduated with flying colors and an A+
I knew that she will, I knew that she could
That in being a disc jockey, she would be good

Another guy, I know so well
In the field of medicine, he didn’t dwell
Instead, Henry became a computer engineer
His accolades gave him praises and cheer

He is now famous for his work
His love for computers does have a great perk
University of the Philippines helped him to achieve
He could be even greater, I believe

The best entrepreneur in town is Lance!
From University of Santo Tomas he received his diploma
He could market anything and everything
He is resilient from whatever the world can bring

He knows how to take risks and communicate well
Anything you give him, he could sell
He has a way with his words that is essential
And that is his biggest credential

Cyjay is a man with dignity and chivalry
And now, he is a medical doctor in military
In University of Santo Tomas, his skills were enhanced
From a doctor to a man of the country, he advanced

Being a military doctor shouldn’t be taken for granted
Because this is what he really wanted
His contribution to the community is significant
Because being in a war is a predicament

An entrepreneur is what Cheska decided to be
In Ateneo de Manila, she received her degree
She is known for the best market strategies
Methods, systems, and analogies

Her dedication for work is incomparable
Her conviction and determination is admirable
All around the world, she is known for being a tycoon
Surely she’ll become better, we’ll stay in tune

Jason is a man with fervor enthusiasm and eloquence
Who advocates that peace is the world’s essence
He is a strong individual who seeks for justice and integrity
Which drove him to become an ambassador who fights for equality

He graduated from Ateneo with multiple degrees
He’ll become even greater, I foresee
His dream of becoming the head of the UN General Assembly
Is a fantasy turned to reality

With my eagerness to become even greater
De La Salle University helped me to become better
I, Angeline, am now an accountant
In terms of money, I can become your consultant

With my skills in literature and finance,
Being an accountant and a writer, I have to balance
Now, I want to venture into teaching
For in my life, I want to find more meaning

Wait is the word
heard,
sensed, is, perhaps, the better way to say
wait is the thought

the sign, signal initial init,
to wit,

you, you wit this by your wittiness, as you
wish
you could crawl from the cave

Imagine it were you, bred and fed in dark,
flicker lit shadows on the rocks

name them, name these things you see in
flicker lit shadows on the rocks


Send the hunters now to find them, gift them
fire to see their way,
good light,
gluck, gut gluck

Between the rivers of Babylon, we wept
not for the city, but
for the peace.

Words with out, out with words,
mean meant words, anger, hate

what thought is this in this word hate,
evil, in a word.
taste and see, sweet. Venge again,
love it, love it love it
oops.

Dopamagic
rewarded
safe, senseless, sleep. Wait.

Waiting is, suffer it to be so.
waiting brings no pain,
waiting is watching

Time is spent
perceiving
receiving
conceiving
conceit
deceipitic deception revere

the be guiled named the beguiler
hell is imagined

Satan, the Great Shatan, the deceiver,
the poets who prospered
while lying

and adding lies to the canon included
in the fruit of the tree of knowledge

The unconscienced demi-urge, oh Jah,
in a word
hmmmm in Polynesian POV

Imaginary hells work, why then,
should no trials imagining
heaven work as well?

The old man at the back, raises one digit,
he bids us wait, and
slowly rises

full height, he is not bent with care,
flicted with spotty doubt nor
wavering aim.

You, also know,
Christ had no mythology.

you know that. You know that.
you know
absolute knowledge

you trust that's known, right.
you trust that's known right.

No, you don't.
I do.

You must wait to prove me wrong.
Meanwhile,
watch and see.

to that cheerful girl that I love the most,
a friend that is always happy and full of jokes,
but all you can see is just a peak,
there is more when you continue the seek.

see, that girl with two faces,
one with a smile and one with a frown,
under those masks are tears of her realities,
the pain of rejection and judgements of this world,
she chose to be isolated,
fearing the rising oblivion around her.

see, her mind clouded by her deepest thoughts,
many she have fought,
to attain freedom against the circling storms,
and for her to assess her greatest confusions

see, deep down into her soul,
the resonating sounds of her cries and remorse,
waiting to explode ,
crawling into infinitive darkness,
every second counts as if it's not endless.

see, her heart being a prey to fools,
doing everything,
and breaking borders and rules,
but the saddest is after all of that,
her heart was left broken too,
no one to comfort,
for she's just hiding it's pain.

keep her, treasure her,
she's a person to keep with a side of wittiness to spare,
love her the way she loves the world,
show to her that she's important too,
make her the happiest person.

if you are like her,
thank you for being a part of this world,
people who sacrifice things for others to be satisfied,
i know how many times you cried,
but don't worry,
there will come a time that fate itself will bring you someone,
someone that will give the same importance as you did.

I wrote you a poem,
I wrote you into a poem,
I wrapped your name around every letter,
And engraved my heart upon the title.
I inked your eyes into the bark of a pine,
And your hair I turned into raven’s wings.
Your laugh was the rain cloud-spattered blue sky,
Then I molded your touch into the petals of a rose.
On the points of the brambles that adorned the meadow floor,
I hung your wittiness,
And your mind I carved into the antlers of a stag.
Then when I made night fall upon the pages
Where I wrote the poem that was you,
I made the mystery of the dark your presence,
And let the moonbeams become your smile.
Every star in the sky was made to be a sparkle in your eyes.
I wrote the weather to be as unpredictable as you,
And I rhymed your heart into the deepest recesses of the darkest cave,
Out of sight, out of reach.
I wrote you into a poem,
Where I buried all my unsaid feelings
Below the roots of the largest pine tree,
Beneath the earth that held the verses.

Wished me away
Guess what I'm here to stay
You'll never change me
You can embrace me and hate
Knocked down but bouncing back up
Head held high you say I'm stuck up
Judge me but you'll never destroy
My charm my Wittiness
Left town came back
Rejuevenated pure turn to the heart
Stay true that's a start
Take on the world make it your own
Get in the zone in the mind your grown

*****

how would you like it

the bartender
sighs the lord’s name in vain
understood the slurred wittiness

wobble onto stool
****** over
joining the rest of the line

sweet

the sound
system jests that one song
about a breakup
puke on the sofa next to your carpet

it’s yellow
swayed hips
shoulders give way

diluted In and Out closed
turn over

moist

to the Devil’s dance floor
where a pretty ugly Frenchie took your wrist
foot strikes a patch of ice
popped cherry on a yellow wheel stop

get up dizzy
scrape on forearm
the impassionate spring fever

wrapped around neck
constrains body against

*****

hands stroked rock hard back

she asks if she could have a stick

reached into baggies
pulled out a yellow
she takes halo
you took halo

got into the convertible

a silent triumph when you insert your key

twist


---
by Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)

Stands tall around me are walls I built.
A protection from thorny hands I seek.
Numbness and wittiness I picked.
To survive world of treachery and trick.

I jolt on the wall that loudly crackling.
They waggled in continuous pounding.
Crooked long veins sudden witnessing.
Having these walls crumpled is frightening.

Like every king's gate, I put faith in it.
Believing could make it strong a bit.
I prepare myself through fear I met.
Must face anything my fate would get.

Few monents passed, the pounding has stopped.
Leaves my mind with question why sudden nap.
Curiosity drove me to wall to tap.
Bricks fall down to earth with loud thundering clap.

Blinded by light, my eyes try to open.
Finds laying on ocean of buds a maiden.
Her tired blooded hands made my heart broken.
Tears fell out of my eyes, felt the pain.

I caress her while I moan.
Wishing the walls had never shown.
Looking back at my life I created and own.
Learning my life is like a stone.

The angels from the above cry,
making her body clean and spirit fly.
Having me touched, she doesn't deserve to die.
"Give us another chance!" my eyes won't dry.

I wonder if I’m too ****** up to ever get my ending
Tattered and torn to shiny and new
If Cinderella walked past me would I even notice her shoes?
Do I act like I’m in love with you?
Because I’m really trying hard
Is this just how we do this now?
Wipe modern love’s sweat from my modest brow

It’s really hot out today
Can you send me any nudes?
Baby please be a cool girl
I promise I won’t be ghosting you
And moms, well they all love me
Some ***** named Kiki loves me too
Please buy all the ******* I’m selling you
My wittiness and charisma is just all a clever ruse
All of these matches couldn’t light a single fuse

I wonder what the greatest generation would have to say to me and you?
Cause there’s no more ******* foot pops
No more dear John I love you’s
Let me get out of this whirlpool before I drown in all the hearts
Everyone says theirs is broken but you’d have to find it first
Starter husband, starter home, starter ****, and starter wife
Someone smarter shouldn’t bother with my stupid ******* life

Where the **** have we gotten to
Where heys and how are yous
Are so mundane and you complain
When an emoji doesn’t follow suit
I think I’ll stay down here in loneliness
And maybe my dream it will appear
She’ll be tall and she’ll be funny
I’ll say everything she wants to hear

It’s really hot out today
Can you send me any nudes?
Baby please be a cool girl
I promise I won’t be ghosting you
And moms, well they all love me
Some ***** named Kiki loves me too
Please buy all the ******* I’m selling you
My wittiness and charisma is just all a clever ruse
All of these matches cant light my fuse

I remember being next to you
No matter which one was you
The lights were dim and we were close
I remember being next to you

It was late and warm, there was rain on the windows
It was a new feeling because you weren’t him
It was an old feeling because I’ve been here before
I remember being next to you

I remember the first time you touched me
A sly smile because we’ve both been waiting
Each one soft and then surprising
Uniquely
I remember being next to you

I had the giddiness of a small child
Barely able to get out my words before laughing with nerves
A silliness that only presents itself in new situations
A wittiness that is limited time only
I remember being next to you

But it wasn’t him
With him there was winter
And the walls were white because of the sun and the snow
And we weren’t in a bed or lying on the floor
We were on the couch and we always woke up too early
His eggs were cooked in oil and it always left a crispy rim
I didn’t like it all that much but it was familiar
The shower was always cold and the walls were in need of washing
He’d then kiss me romantically but there was never enough room
We’d end up laughing for the attempt at trying to be ****

Busy, busy, we were always busy
There was an innocent bitterness under my breath
Upset because he did not cancel the day’s priorities
Always feeling like we never had enough time
Yet remembering my time with him the most
Remembering my being next to him

there is an angel on the couch
a special kind of sacred
I am afraid to touch for the risk of breaking
a soul as wise as it aching
I will tread slow and safely
with myself on my sleeve
I can only hope she comes to me

there is an angel on the couch
I can see her spirit vibrating through her skin
she is squirming
hoping no one will notice
but earlier
outside
one of her feathers took off with the wind
and I am the only one who seen it

there is an angel on the couch
and I am a man too shy to open my mouth
failing to display my wittiness and sincerity
the vessels I use to send my love out
but I am floating, vulnerable in the sea
with the over whelming fear that I might drown

there is an angel on the couch
with a stereo and collection of cds
of people I know about
I chose a song
and as it song started
I sat back down unnoticed

"I hear a voice..."

there is angel on the couch
with her eyes closed and moving around
with her hands in the air
disrupting the sloth like clouds
she is in perfect sync with the sound

I am staring down at my knees
just wandering
around in my head
trying to remember to breathe
I am high beyond all reasoning
and the angel gives me an unfamiliar feeling
just sitting there on the couch
still not sure she can see completely see me
I am just a simple mortal peasant
and she has earned beautiful white wings
then without hesitation
I leave
and still, to this day
the reason escapes me

I feel the ease,
Like wind blowing freely in the ocean.
My fingers and these words
Belonging as the words to the mouth.
Time stops as I sit here with you
That you always show me the taste of my own being.
And if I would have to go through once more the ride of life train,
I would go through you like I did again and again.

Grazing at you while you walk in front me;
Staring at your green eyes when filled with the aroma of fondness;
Falling deeper at your wittiness and burst of laughter;
Dragging me down again to the pits of your sweetness and warmth,
You are here and you are there,
I will always remember you wherever you are.

I felt the ease,
Like wind blowing freely in the ocean.
My fingers uninterrupted with these words,
Time storms like hurricanes, fast and destructive
Leaving a scar deep,
That you just showed up
That you already had messed me up then
And here you are leaving me like you always do again and again.

We tend to extract the- 
complexity out of the mouth of simplicity,
counting till 10 is a necessity. 
But remains a struggle
in times of words nascency.
Trust me it's not a matter of literacy. 

You lack the visibility of our daily-
neurological battlefields
at the front line, we remain helpless and shieldless.

We're not pulling the triggers.
once shot at, can't be taken back
don't blame our mouths for shooting opinions -
blame an intuition that knows all the facts 

Wittiness comes at a price. 
Friend, I am sorry that you have to pay the bills, sometimes

The color of the rainbow makes no sense.
I say this like I'm color blind.
parents are weird ya know?
clinging to their baby to the very end?
but what if they were never there?
like what if it was all a lie just to make you feel better?
I can't really talk about it much but through this poem I say:

No one ever loves you till your vulnerable.
They don't love till your on your knees begging for their love.
I've never felt loved by my parents.
mom hates me cause I want to "leave" her.
dad hates me cause I exist.
I don't know what to do with my life atm.
But I do know one thing.

I will always love your smile.
Your laugh.
Your wittiness
Our heartfelt moments.
Our desire to be who we are together or alone.
the connection we have
even when you think we don't

I love you mom and dad.
I just wish you did the same.

i'm restles§ & laZy
& wirəd & tired
& not ⁿ°ⁿuncraZy
& antiadmired

a little bit manic
& chillaxed as a maniac
i picnic with Panic
& retardədly brainiac

& God as my wittiness
i'm ●ver herə tryin'
to c○pe with the shittiness
of livin' while dyin'

You struggle to say three inane words
To proclaim your unwavering devotion to me
You don't know how often I hear them
I don't want to listen to another lie

Prove it to me.

Paint me.
Capture my essence in hues of blue
Highlight the delicate curves and rises
Put great effort and immense detail into
My deep browns and shades of pink

Write me.
Make me a beautiful, glowing heroine
Scribble about my wittiness and allure
Compose lovely poems that address
My impossibly obtainable heart

Play me.
Construct symphonies with sweet harmonies
Flutter through major and minor scales
As complex as the thoughts in my mind
Turn my soul into music

Adore me.
Brush your vivid colors over my body
Scrawl the elegant lines of words into my skin
Quietly hum your angelic songs in my ear
Make me immortal with art, words, and songs

Then you will have proven it.