A romantic moon as big as the screen
Eats dinner with a lovely, old tree
And its craters are holding the lemonade
And its branches are serving the soup
And their love is not bound to chains
For when the day brings dawn
The lovely, old tree is left without


-


The lovely, old tree sits quietly and waits
For the love of its life to return
And it droops its leaves with aching sadness
Until the pinks and the blues fade into the air
And the lover, the moon, is again standing there
And its craters are holding the lemonade


-


Black takes over the screen

And the room fills with standing applause.

Black bow ties and red gowns

Envious of the love they have witnessed.

How peaceful it is to fall asleep to the sound of rain
And to close my eyes with you in my brain

wind cutting through my hair
and my expressionless face is still
while nostalgia overcomes me.
what have we come to?
words of hatred once spoken to one another,
followed by kind, apologetic letters,
and pure innocence engraved on our faces
turned into hangovers,
excuses and more excuses.
the worries drag my eyebrows down
like bent, rubber arcs that have been straightened
and are moving slowly back into formation.
am i the only one?

am i the only one?

i grab a pen and paper and write
the words inflaming my throat,
the visions in my eyes.

everyone moves.
everyone moves on and grows
with intoxication in hand
and fire
burning through their sockets.
is this growing up?
to enjoy and to live;
is it necessary to poison one's self?
what have we come to?

why, a different location
will not change the way they act.
am i the only one?

it's peer pressure what they do,
it's peer pressure.

but i am left,
because i refuse.
does that make me wrong?

my friends; their love and trust
bestilled in my heart;
it's weakening, it's breaking.
i shouldn't feel this way.
what have we come to?

is a dream of sanity and beauty
not enough?
because that is all you need
in my book.
you step in my book and see
a bird soaring
a flower blooming
an idea growing.
it's beautiful.
you step out of my book,
you don't see.
you're trapped
in the fumes, in the heat
of the crowd, in the smell
of the liquor.
what have we come to?

love is not an object.
it cannot be thrown around
and pestered with whenever you
please. it cannot get
carried around to become
an STD.
it cannot.
why?
it is not love.
it's hurt, it's stupidity.
the love is the feeling,
the lights,
the faith.
where is it?
lost,
disease has taken its place.

what have we come to?

it's what is inside, it's in
your soul, not displayed
on your skin.
what you are is not a material
thing, so why don't they bother
to take
a
second
look?

all walk with a label
instead of a name.
what have we come to?

Although she was struck by material bling
She was enamored by a simple thing:
A lined court bouncing a ball hit by strings

And her favorite word, "ambition"
Shone in her eyes as she spoke
Proudly of the final she finally passed
In her difficult biology class

And at age 48
She smiled with great
Passion and energy as if
The hammers of mid-life could not leave her stiff

I'm tired.
I'm tired of hearing
words of acrimony
and disparagement.
I'm tired.

Peoples' lives
are at stake every
single day and I feel
we aren't doing enough.
Enough.
Enough with the unwillingness,
the idleness,
the dullness.

Get up.
Change the world
because you only have
so much time.
Others aren't acting,
so be the one to do.
Believe;
get rid of the skeptics.
Fight for your rights
and make sense
of the things
you could not once
understand.

Let bravery take you by the hand
This time and chase after it
Without hesitating.
Take the risk
And know that you can make
Change for the
Better.

Don't be the one to follow
the crowd or get trapped in the debris
of those who
did
not
try.

Act now.
Aid and love and cherish.
Appreciate the time given to you
and your loved ones.

Don't give up on love.
It's the one element
running through your veins
that's keeping that hole in your
heart covered.
It's taking away the emptiness.
It's keeping the world on its
feet but there is so much more
needed.

There are people without families,
food, or water.
People without hope,
faith, or will.

Who told you
that love was a waste?
Was it the one who
could not conquer it?
Because, after all,
love is man's toughest battle.

Love and care
And thought and feeling
Are the seed of
What can bloom.

Do.
Act.
Accomplish.
Never settle for less.
Because today
you are
the world's
greatest
hero.
Show us
what you can do.

Listen close, dear, lean in close.
Learn the song of the crackling fire.
Your eyelids are heavy;
Let them fall.
Breathe.
Slip away into the sweetest dreams
One could ever dream.
You can let go of my hand if you want to;
I'll still be here in the morning.
Lean your head on me, darling,
And allow your mind to travel
To all those places we wish to visit
Someday.
I'll lie here and do the same.
I'll close my eyes and
If we're lucky,
We'll see eachother soon.

Anxious, perplexed, insomniatic and imaginative
Forever questioning the positive and negative

These late nights attack your mind
Turn you into a different kind

Monsters, ghouls, witches and claws
The night infested with thoughts and thoughts

The light in the room is too bright in this darkness
Eyes are squinting, but the mind is relentless

Blowing steam
Bubbled surface
In the still of the evening
The tea kettle sings-

A song of warmth
And tranquility
As it pours
Into a tea cup
And the tea bag sinks
Into an ocean of sighs
Before the closing of the eyes
And sweet dreams
To guide a night's journey

A figment of imagination
crawling through
night
day
and evening.

Frisking through meadows
of stiff hands
and painted numbers,
this concept so lightly known as time,
has lived to contrive the clockwork
behind the functioning world.

It doesn't stand still; for it plans
escapes as swiftly as radio-waves.

Melting clocks tick away
at the hourglass of our fate.

Grain by grain...
time escapes the void we call life
and deceases us through the midst of anamnesis
and ideation.

It is all in our minds.

Sitting in class
A mind in a room
It's my mind.

Murmurs and scribbles
Have the room in a vibration
scribble, scribble

My pencil is an open door
And while everything
Surrounding me is in a blur,
My pencil takes me away

Deep into a different world,
A parallel universe,
And everything around me is white.
My voice announces each word trancedly
As it appears on my page.

My poem is written on the skies,
On the floor, and in the air.
A pure, plain land of black and white
Where there are no uncertainties.

The complexities of my thoughts untangle
And I am exposed to a simplicity
I have never known.

The vibrating room is now inconsiderate
Of my writing
And my poem
And my silence is shattered by
A loud voice.
"Are you finished?"

His whiskey-stained breath poetically reciting his thoughts.
"Everything has a beginning and everything has an end."

A little bird flies and sits momentarily on a branch.
"If that isn't a beautiful omen, then I don't know what is."

The shadow marking the betrayal of the sun disappears on the mountains.
"Now people are waking up to the sun's rays on another side of the world."

A sunset. A goodbye here

-

A hello somewhere else.

Closed windows, pretty flowers,
Beeping machines, no loose threads.
TVs running, nurses waiting,
Painted rooms, well-made beds.

The atmosphere is clean and open,
Yet stuffy and enclosed.
And the nurses here are smiling
While patients grasp their crosses close.

The temporary homes are painted
With animals and desert view.
Anxiously waiting to see if the
Person will go soon.

The hallways: long and deafening.
The rooms: screaming with fear.
The walls are closed in, watching firmly,
For miracles also happen here.

A child sees his first glimpse of the world;
A cancer survivor leaves happily after the fight;
A lucky person lies relieved after surgery;
A suffering man closes his eyes.

-

Artificial home-like furniture, hands sanitized.
A life is lost and tears appear from words they wish they'd said.
Luck or blessing, yours to name, and flower scent in the air.

But once a body leaves or fails to give away a breath,
Nothing is changed.
The life that lay upon the mattress now ceases to exist,
And the chamber stays a chamber;
For all they are are painted, lurking, killing, curing rooms
And tucked-in-well-made beds.

A wool-knit sweater to keep out the chills
And a hot cup of tea to swallow the pills

A blank television sits atop a wooden shelf
And a quiet nightstand stands all for himself

Hunched and unlimber, he walks to the window
The pale moon stares as the stars hang low

With his wrinkled hands, he covers his face

The moon shines bright on better days
The moon shines bright on better days

who are you?
i believe i've seen you before.

your anger ignited the monstruous volcanoes
that set lava down the roads
your teardrops flooded the canyons
and the valleys
your passion burned down trees
and plants and homes

i remember you had this fire,
this fire in your eyes
because you knew what you wanted
and when
and how

you struck life like lightning
and you were set on your journey.

you were so powerful
and intelligent

and you held purpose.

it was like the earth knew you
inhabited it,
as if everything that lived was waiting
for you.

i remember your fire.
i remember you.

i was born sturdy;
infused with different elements
fixed and molded to a perfect shine.
unlike others,
i was made with a dream
to go far, to travel, to mean something.
but i couldn't.
because
i'm
me.
you see,
my type and i,
we're all made to go
in the same path
because
we're no different
from
one another.

i once laid sound asleep in my room
until i heard a
BANG
that sent me soaring.
i ran and i flew
excitedly seeing the world
like a baby bird whose wings
had carried him through the sky
for the very first time.
majestic and unstoppable;
i flew.
until suddenly,
the world shifted.

terrified,
i looked around desperately
while i broke through the air
like a hammer through glass
like a shoe on a chip
like a fist through a wall.
and my heart sunk.
i could see the clouds above
then
the ground below.
they were watching me,
pressuring me.
but i couldn't stop.
the skies had turned black
and red
and i
pounded through skin
and i
panicked.

questions overwhelming
my ****** core
is this all i am?
is this all i could be?


and i had to face,
right then and there,
that this is what i was made for;
to ****
to hurt
to destroy.

my deed is done.

Silence.
Button pushed.
Curtains drag.
Flash.
Lights are on.
Step.
Step.
Aphoristic audience.
Spotlight is on you.
Breathe.
Look up.
Breathe.
Heart pumps.
The music begins.
You don't even think.
You move.
Sway with the beats.
It seems they're already
entwined with your skin
the way you carry yourself
across that stage.
And here it comes;
the grand finale.
You end with your gentle arms
in the air and your head faced
to the right.
The music stops with a thump.
The crowd develops a gradual
but loud clap and cheer.
Rose petals gather at your feet.
Slowly but surely, the curtains
make their way back to center-stage;
taking all the attention it seems.
The spotlight fades black
and you're left with nothing
but a memory of what you
just experienced.
A memory and a dozen red roses.
Flash.

how strange the ways to fall into a dream
when the roudiest of sounds become a lullaby
and you feel weightless
you're floating
and everything's ringing
yet there is only silence

your eyelids are petals
while your eyes bloom
into the back of your mind
creating the most
unorthodox world

and it resides in your thoughts
through the ticking minutes
of the day and awaits you-

you and your flower eyes
for your garden mind
to bloom once again...

A word with enough letters
To keep you reopening the envelopes.

There was grass, I recall,
and music.
A lot of music.
Instruments and
wise words spinning
in thoughts held exclusively for the
chosen ones.
The only ones who knew his secrets.
They stood silently at the foot of a
grand, wooden door.
It creaked, and opened
with a slight push.
Inside, an overwhelming and
heavy heat caught your
body like a web.
The music turned to a sudden slow and
unfortunate tune.
And there were waves
swaying and crashing in
a wide, wide ocean.
The sadness, so fierce and unpleasant
seemed to break your heart.
The only thing was,
there was no reason.
No reason for his
dwelling pain.
His eyes were a journey.
I made them my journey.
And I have yet to discover
what else lies beneath
the sight of
his wandering eyes.

A pain not chosen
Yet lain at your fingertips.
And the thing is,
You're not told how to handle this pain.
You're not told what to do with it.
And so you let it attack you
And let it conquer your head
And your heart
And you wilt.
Your petals weaken at the feeling caused by
Heavy thoughts and
Heavy sentiment.

puffy eyes, salty tears.
a thought run wild
lead her mind through fears


painted stars show
through the window,
the only light coming in
from the moon aglow


alone inside
alone she feels
she tries to walk upright,
yet kneels


her breaths gradually getting
slower with seconds
she gasps for air
but sinks while she beckons


her heart is heavy
why, what is wrong?







*she's living her life in my terrible song

Not all that glitters is gold
And not all gold glitters
For you must find the glitter
The shine
Or the spark
Deep inside
Something that might not appear so

Gold glitters when you find its glitter

You left me hallow in the night
And I've learned to absorb the light

The stars taught me to shine
Even when you know you're dead

"There's a ring around the moon,"
I said,
"It's so beautiful."
He stood next to me,
his eyes fixed on the same sky above.
"That means the weather is going to change.
It's a big phenomenon; I never really understood
it.
It is beautiful, isn't it?"
These moments,
Although just moments,
Sew patterns of time into my body.
That way when I grow old and lean,
I can look at these fascinating patterns
And remember
My father.
And his ways
Even though this moment can't tell much,
it can tell everything.
For he is
My flower swaying to the tune of the
rock-and-roll breeze.
My star in the library sky.
Each star a book, I mean.
My father is a book in the sky.
He tells his own story.
He's a wonder.
An amazing individual
who I just so luckily
am able to call 'Dad'.

little one,
with your smile so bright and grand,
never let anyone make you feel
like less than you are
you are greater than
the greatest
but you are only this way
if you believe so.

and i know you're bad
with change
because i've lived to see
what it can do to you.

your eyes are unique
for they see things
many cannot.
never let one's thoughts
ruin your vision
of this world
and what it can become.

you'll find that the beauty you once knew
will turn to disaster.
but you will
also find,
in disaster,
beauty.

Happy weather
Happy people

Comfortable atmosphere
comfortable scene

Sweet aroma
Sweet ideas

Happy weather
happy people

Happy you
Happy me

The sky isn't just a sky
And the stars aren't just stars.

A poem isn't just a poem
And a word isn't just a word.

A smile isn't just a smile
And a dream isn't just a dream.

There's more to everything;
You just have to have the ability
To see past the visible aspect.

Explain to me how someone so crowded can feel so alone.